~Ten Years Later~

Eugene, Oregon

"She's my cherry pie! Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise…!"

The tinkling of the little bell above the door is almost drowned out by the music being blasted from the concert-level speakers near the pool table. People were milling around in the dim light, either buzzed or flat-out hammered. It wasn't that late, really, but it was a Friday night in a bar at the edge of town where no one ever came anyways.

I let out a deep breath, trying not to choke on the smell of cigar smoke that hung in the air and take a seat at the bar, signaling for my usual.

As I was being served, I take a good look at the people around me. In the back of the room, there were the usual make out sessions; then you had your pool players – I couldn't tell who was winning, as they all looked like they were failing miserably; there was a group of men at a table a few feet away, caught in the throes of an energetic story; just down the bar, there was an off-duty waitress chatting with a bartender.

And then there was me.

"Hey, pretty lady, what're you drinking?"

And that guy, apparently.

I swivel around in my seat and nearly choke on my drink, my eyebrows raising into my hairline as I put a face to the voice – and recognize it.

"What are you doing here?" I ask cautiously. "Why are you looking for me?"

"Hey, now," Dean Winchester raises his hands. "Don't get all hostile on me, Lexi. I just want to chat with an old friend. Is that a crime now?"

I give him a careful look before waving a hand towards the empty stool next to me. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." He gives me a million-watt grin that seems to light up the room a little. "What're you drinking?"

"A virgin rum and coke on the rocks," I deadpan, taking a sip of the bubbly liquid.

"Pansy," Dean sighs, waving the bartender – Jerry – over. "I'll take a bottle of whatever's popular, please. Thanks."

I wait until he's been served to turn to face him fully. "Cut the crap, Winchester. Why. Are. You. Here?"

"Straight to business, huh?" he teases, but I shoot him down with an arched eyebrow. "Alright, alright, fine. What says I'm here for a reason? Can't I just stop in and see a friend?"

"I knew you once, for a week and a half, ten years ago," I remind him. "And you could've, I don't know, picked up the phone if you wanted to talk to me that badly," I continue. "Instead, you came all the way out to Oregon, and to a bar that you wouldn't have found if you weren't looking for it. You want something."

He takes a long swig out of his bottle and gives me a smirk. "Good to see you're still sharp as ever."

"That's just instincts," I retort. "Are you on a job?"

"It's…complicated. Are you?"

"I am," I nod. "Or, I was. There was a family of spirits killing people in town."

"That's cheery," he snorts. "And so you showed up and…?"

"And the spirits are no more," I shrug. "It was fairly easy. I haven't really encountered anything major in a few years, to be honest."

"Do you want something major?" Dean asks in a casual tone, like he was just asking if I wanted that new promotion at work, but I could tell there was something more to it.

"Depends," I narrow my eyes at him. "What is 'major'? And if it's major, why are you here alone?"

Dean sighs and closes his eyes briefly, sipping his beer before answering me. "That's why I'm here, actually. You remember my dad?"

I bite my lip, eyes falling to the bar top as I cast my mind back to 1995. "Uh, yeah. John. He was…interesting."

"He gets that a lot," Dean admits, chuckling. "So, about a week ago, Dad and I were in Jericho, California. We were going after a spirit – a woman in white. It wasn't a big thing, so Dad headed out to check on some stuff regarding the chick while I stayed behind to canvas the town and chat up some people. Dad was only supposed to be gone for a night – said he'd call if it was gonna be longer. I mean, I'm twenty-six years old, I should be able to handle myself for a few days, right? So-"

"Dean." I wave a hand in front of his face. "Focus. So a few days ago, your dad leaves to go shank this chick."

Dean takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Right. The day passes, and he doesn't come back. At first, I thought maybe his car ran out of gas or broke down, or something small like that. And then he didn't call, but I figured he was in a dead spot or something. But then..."

"But then some more days passed, and you realized that you suck at lying to yourself," I suggest.

"Basically, yeah," Dean sighs, taking another swig from his bottle. "I looked around for a few more days, but I couldn't find anything. I even tried some of Dad's old contacts, but they didn't have anything."

"So you decided to get ahold of your own contacts," I surmise, rolling an ice cube on my tongue. "Why, may I ask, was your first instinct to come to me?"

"I...uh," his eyes flick down to the bar and then back to me. "I need your help. To find Dad, yeah, but also...do remember my brother?"

"Yeah," I give a half-grin. "Sammy, right?"

"He prefers 'Sam' nowadays," Dean corrects. "If you aren't up to date on the latest in Winchester World News, he...left a few years ago. Left me, left Dad, left this life. He applied to Stanford. Got accepted – full ride and everything." Dean gives me a proud grin, the undeniable light of a big brother shining in his eyes.

I return the grin and chuckle lightly before frowning again. "So how does this include me?"

Dean grimaces and tightens his grip on his beer bottle. "Well, I do need your help with Dad. But I also need Sam's help. And maybe – maybe if it isn't just me, he'll be more open to the idea, y'know?"

I tilt my head. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to help you find your dad, who has disappeared without any rhyme, reason, or leads as to where he is. But before I do that, you want me to step into the middle of a familial dispute that isn't mine and has nothing to do with me. Do I have that right?"

Dean grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I – I get it, if you don't like me, for whatever reason. Hell, I get it if you don't like my dad – half the time, I wouldn't blame you. But..." his Adam's apple bobs and Dean fixes me with a pleading gaze. "You're one of the best hunters I know. And I need your help...Alexandria."

I hold his gaze before looking down into my glass. "How hard was that for you?"

"Very."

I bite my lip and sigh - that seemed to be a theme here. "Alright. You've pleaded your case. Quit the puppy-dog eyes routine, please. You're killing me."

He straightens up with a smirk. "Well, they don't call me a lady killer for nothin'."

"And you're so modest, too," I tell him. "Okay. I'll help you out, but I need to tie up a few things first."

Dean's face falls slightly, but he nods. "Sure. Need any help?"

"Nah," I shake my head, taking out my wallet and slapping a wad of bills onto the counter before I get up. "I just need to pack and make a few calls, then we can get moving."

"Great." Dean falls into step behind me as we exit the bar, following me over to where I'd parked earlier.

I smirk as we round the corner and he lets out a low whistle of appreciation. "Like it?"

"Like it?" he gives me an incredulous look. "This is a badass car. I'd forgotten you drove one."

"Yep," I nod with a proud smile, running a hand over the hood. "She's a beauty."

I drove a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 302, with 350 horsepower, a top speed of 115 miles per hour, and the ability to go from zero to sixty in about seven seconds. The car itself was gunmetal gray, gleaming in the sun and glinting under the streetlights at night.

It's the only car I'd ever driven, since I was sixteen until now, and it probably was one of my most prized possessions. It wasn't even bought illegally, a fact that I was extremely proud of.

I look up at Dean. "Where are you parked?"

"Over there." He points just down the street to where a familiar '67 Chevy Impala was parked. "I followed you in."

"Stalker," I snort, unlocking my car and ducking in. "Just follow me, alright?"

"You got it," he nods, stepping away from the curb as I turn the key and smirk as the engine purrs to life.

We were on the road not long after that, and I lead the Impala to where I'd been sleeping for the past week – a shady little no-tell motel named "Lucky's" where at least half the residents had to be drug dealers, and the rest were most likely hookers.

You don't need luxury, I remind myself as I park in front of room 14 and climb out. You just need a bed.

I watch as Dean parks the Impala and meets me by the door. "Charming place."

"Isn't it?" I ask as I unlock the door and step inside. The room itself was a bit of a mess – there was a pile of bloody clothes in the middle of the floor, piles of books and papers on the rickety little table in the corner, and the twin bed was a mess of moth-eaten blankets.

"I restate my point," Dean declares from the doorway.

"Er…" I duck my head as I start gathering the stuff on the table together. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't exactly expecting company."

"Oh, no, it's not a problem," he says with a dismissive wave. He enters the room, nudging the blood-stained clothes with the toe of his boot. "Is this your blood?"

"Why?" I look up from folding the creases out of a local newspaper. "You concerned?"

He just shrugs, and I roll my eyes. "Some of it is, yes. The spirits preferred method of killing was dismemberment, which was…messy." I wrinkle my nose slightly at the memory, and Dean laughs.

"I bet. Do you need any help with that?"

I glance down at the stack of books on the table - dusty, heavy, old books. "If you're willing to do my grunt work, sure. I need these put in here," I instruct, tossing a faded green duffle bag at him. "And be careful, they aren't mine."

"Who's are they?" he asks, flipping through one of the books.

"Their last official owner was the Louisiana State University library."

"And unofficially?"

"I've had them for a few months," I admit with a slight smirk.

"Whoa," Dean laughs. "We've got a badass on our hands. Book theft - I'm so scared."

I roll my eyes at him and finish packing my clothes, zipping my backpack up and slinging it over my shoulder.

"Whatever. Come on, we need to get going. Where are we headed, again?"

"Palo Alto, California. Woodland Arms Apartments, unit 4C."

I stop halfway between the door and my car. "That's, like, eight hours away."

"Is it?"

I shoot a glare at the back of Dean's head. "You want to make that in one night?"

"I've done worse," he calls over his shoulder.

I don't have a response to that, because I know that he knows that I've pulled later nights and longer drives than this one. All hunters do - that was life. Sleep was a luxury.

Quietly cursing my luck, Dean Winchester, and all the deities ever, I climb into my car and start it up, pulling out behind the Impala and turning on the radio to a local classic's station.

"Life is a highway...I want to ride it all night long! If you're going my way, I want to drive it all night long..."

I glare at the radio and shut it off, plunging the car into silence.

This was shaping up to be a long drive - and it hadn't even been five minutes.

.

Eight and a half hours later, a '69 Mustang and a '67 Impala pull to a stop on a quiet street, just across the road from Woodland Arms Apartments.

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" I ask, getting out of the car. "Dean, it's the middle of the night."

"Sam will be awake," the elder hunter assures me. "Trust me."

"Awake before or after we break into his apartment?" I ask, following him across the street. "And what's to say he won't just shoot you?"

"Because he won't, alright?" Dean sighs. "What's with the Twenty Questions?"

"You're the one that wanted my help," I huff at him as we approach the front door.

Dean makes swift work of the lock, and I follow him inside the dark, empty lobby and up the first flight of stairs.

"2A, 2B, 2C..." I watch the unit numbers go up. "Which one are we looking for again?"

"This one," Dean announces, stopping in front of a door marked 4C. He looks over at me. "Cover me, okay?"

I nod and open my mouth to protest, one more time, that this was an extremely bad idea, but Dean just nods, picks the lock, and charges inside, leaving me to follow if only to make sure the idiot didn't do anything stupid.

Like, for instance, knock over a lamp. Which then meant that the element of surprise had been lost, as was evident by the heavy footsteps in the hallway.

I jump back in surprise as, suddenly, Dean is tackled by something big, heavy, and pissed off.

He's shoved against the wall, held just a few inches off the ground.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" Sam Winchester growls. "And what do you-"

He breaks off suddenly, eyes going wide.

"Dean?"

Quick disclaimer, since I've forgotten it thus far: I don't own Supernatural, only my own characters and plots. If you recognize it, it belongs to Kripke.

Thanks to csilla (Guest) and kherbstrittwriting for reviewing the last chapter, as well as anyone who favorited and followed this story.

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