All things considered, I emerge from the shower with far less burns than usual. I clasp my hands in front of me carefully as I enter the kitchen where both Winchesters wait with guns clearly on display.

Yes, I know you left me in a far different situation. Forced downstairs at gunpoint, I think? That's how things were going, until I begged for a shower. No one, especially Sam it seems, can say no to a girl small in stature and drenched in watery blood and grime. So, I got a shower, some loose clothes that kept me insanely warm, and the promise of a bit of food, since I hadn't gotten a chance to finish my pie.

I use the fluffy, blue towel to ring out my hair, letting its curls scrunch up a bit so I at least look a little bit presentable. I shake my wet locks out of my face and shoot them my best smile, hoping for at least one in return. Nothing. Perfect.

"So...are my gloves dry, or..." I trail off, clasping my hands behind my back, seeing as that seems to be all they can focus on. Sam is the first to register that I've said something.

"Well...they were dry-"

"Were? Sam, I heard the dryer go off!" Dean says with exasperation.

"It did, but-"

"Sam. You are literally killing me right now. Literally."

There is a moment of tense silence between the brothers, and they do little but glare at each other for that time. I can see Sam's jaw clenching and unclenching with sass unsaid, and Dean's eyes boring into Sam with a serious warning glance. I briefly consider going to explore the rest of the bunker while they're having eyeball to eyeball communication. Before I can act on the, admittedly, bad impulse, Sam rolls his eyes at his brother and turns his attention to me.

"The blood wasn't coming out. So I tried washing them again with bleach. Hopefully, at least more of it will come out this time," Sam explains apologetically.

"You're too kind," I say, slathering on the flattery. Turning to Dean, who's been watching me like I'm some sort of snake waiting to strike, I say, "Since I've got some time before I can sleep, how about some food?" With the question, I take a step forward and proceed to trip over the ridiculous length of pajama leg I've got in front of me. When I go careening towards the hardwood floor, Dean's first instinct is to reach out and catch me, which he does. The only problem is that my hands slap onto the arms of his leather jacket and he recoils like he's been bitten, leaving me to hit the floor face first. I lay with my nose crushed into the floor for a bit, contemplating the life decisions that have brought me to this point, while Sam yells at Dean and rushes to my side to help. I raise a hand to stop him, the avoidance of which sends him reeling backwards into the table. I glare at him out of the corner of my eye.

"I'm fine, thank you," I assure him. Rising to my feet, I pull out a chair at the dining table for myself and pat the table beside me, looking at each Winchester in turn. "Sit," I say simply, pointing at the two chairs beside me. Sam obliges, but keeps his distance, while Dean remains standing and, well, glaring at me. Determined not to be intimidated, I point harder at the table, and when he doesn't respond, I threaten, "If you don't sit down right now, I will touch you and leave the ugliest freckle you've ever had, I swear to God."

Whoops. I ruffled his feathers. "Is that a threat?" he asks dangerously, reaching for the small of his back. Outnumbered and defeated in the "my penis is bigger than yours" contest we're apparently having, I sigh.

"Dean, please just sit down. If I'm going to stay here as a prisoner or otherwise, there are things you both need to understand about me to avoid things like, well, this," I explain, gesturing to the present situation. "Please? Just hear me out."

With a sigh, Sam comes to my rescue. "Come on, Dean."

"Dude, stop. You're being ridiculous," Dean scolds. "I don't know if it's her boobs or her tiny-ness, but something about her is making you stupid, and I need it to stop," he commands, pointing an accusing finger at his brother before turning it to me. "As for you, if you're emitting some weird kind of pheromone that I can't smell, stop it. Now."

I scoff. "You...you can't smell pheromones. That's sort of the point."

Dean is silent for a moment. "Shut up," he says, yanking the chair beside me out from under the table and making a point to make himself extra comfortable before settling into the seat.

I groan quietly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. It's like I'm babysitting.

After a moment of awkward silence, I speak up. "Allow me to do a demonstration." I proceed to poke the table. I poke it, prod it, slap it, and run my hands all over its surface in an almost invasive fashion, looking from Sam to Dean and back again as I do so. Once I've thoroughly made my point, I take one finger, showing that it's the same finger for showmanship, and touch it to my chest briefly, wincing as I feel and hear my skin crisp. It strikes me as a bit satisfying to hear both of them gasp. Ignoring the stink of burning flesh, I lace my fingers on the table in front of me.

"Now. What did we learn?" I ask calmly, though I'm on the verge of tears from pain.

"You can touch wood without killing it," Dean says, crossing his arms. I wave my hand, waiting for more elaboration.

"But you can't touch people, not even yourself," Sam adds.

I sigh. "Yes, that's the basic point I made. Let me explain. I can touch clothes," I demonstrate, grabbing my shirt gingerly and moving it around, "furniture, objects, etc. I cannot touch anything living. So I can water a flower, but I can't hold a bouquet. I can feed a dog, but I can't pet it. I know these things from experience, and no, I won't tell you about it."

"So when you touched my jacket..." Dean trails off, clearly uncomfortable.

"You were in no danger. I grabbed your jacket on purpose so I wouldn't accidentally grab your hands," I confirm.

Sam shoots his brother the worst look, and Dean squirms beneath it. Finally, his pouty frown gives way to a sheepish expression.

"Oh. Sorry," he says softly, unable to meet my eyes. I accept his apology with a smile and a nod, and we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Satisfied with his gesture, Dean rises to his feet and crosses the kitchen to the refrigerator.

"So you're hungry, right?"

"Well, my pie ended up on the floor in a pool of blood, so..."

Dean shoots me a look over his shoulder. "Just yes would have worked, you know."

I grin. "I know."

With food in my stomach and gloves on my hands, I let myself stretch and yawn, clueing the boys in to my exhaustion. "Do you have any rubber bands?" I ask sleepily, grasping the empty air for effect.

"I don't know," Dean answers. "Why? I don't get what this-" He mimics my gestures. "Is supposed to mean."

I scoff. "It means I need something to secure these because sleeping with them unsecured tends to result in burns," I explain, adjusting one of the gloves so it doesn't fall off. "Trust me, you don't want to see the consequences of that."

"I kind of do."

"Dean!" Sam scolds as he pushes his chair back under the table.

"What?"

I shake my head. "Forget it. Where am I sleeping tonight?"

The brothers share a knowing glance and Sam nods with a sigh.

Dean claps his hands together with a satisfied smile. "Alright then. Follow me, Ava."

Dean leads and Sam follows me through a series of rooms and down into a sizeable library. I skim titles as I walk past, excited for a number of reading options. Unfortunately, by the time we dead end at an odd shelf, my main concern is no longer books. I squint at the shelf suspiciously before Dean blocks my view of it. When I become curious enough to ask about it, he swings the section of shelf aside like a door, revealing a dark space beyond. With the flip of a switch, he illuminates a seemingly normal desk in the dark.

"Sit," he commands, pointing towards the desk. The demanding tone catches me off guard and I recoil from it, clearly offended.

"Excuse me?"
My tone (and the hand on my cocked hip) catches Dean off guard and he backpedals, stuttering a couple of words before covering his eyes with one hand. "Please sit?"

I smile graciously in response and walk around the desk to the other side, where I begin to sit before shooting straight up.

"Whoa no!" I exclaim, hopping away from the chair. "What the?! What?! No!" Garbling words and half sentences, I point in alarm at the cast iron manacles and collar chained to the underside of the desk. Finally, my jumbled thoughts come together enough to form a single sentence.

"What the fuck, guys?!"

Dean glares at Sam, who's trying to hold in a fit of giggles. The giggles slip out every now and again, but once Sam can keep a straight face, he addresses Dean.

"So she's clearly not a demon," he assesses, waving a hand in my direction. The comment strikes me as odd.

"Do demons have an old school handcuff fetish?" I ask with growing concern. "I'm beginning to worry about your impression of me."

Dean looks to Sam helplessly, who bites off a burst of laughter and points down. "Look at the floor," he says gently.

I oblige, and move off the edge of a circle to see the whole picture better. "What...is this?"

Pulling the desk away from the marking, Dean explains, "It's a devil's trap."

I squat to the ground and run my fingers over the faint image. "What are all of these symbols? I mean, it looks like a pentagram, but it's really detailed. How much time did you spend on it?"

Dean's brow creases in thought and he crosses his arms. "Not important, sort of, and not important. The important thing is that it traps demons and it couldn't trap you."

"Which means..." Sam trails off, giving Dean an elbow nudge.

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs. "Which means that you're not a demon. That doesn't mean she's not dangerous," he insists to Sam.

"But it does mean that most of our weapons won't do anything to her," Sam retorts.

"What about a gun?" Dean snaps back. "Pretty sure a gun would do something."

"HELlo. I'm still here," I remind them. "Right here. Within earshot and very uncomfortable. Can we get out of the torture dungeon now? Please?"

"Well..." Sam finds himself unsure of how to answer. He doesn't have to.

I get the point. "NO."

"Ava-"

"No! Are you nuts?!" I ask in a voice that's very nearly a shout. "No way am I staying down here! It's creepy! And dark!" I whine pathetically.

Dean crosses his arms and his brow furrows in annoyance. "What are you, twelve? You're sleeping down here. End of story," he says firmly.

"Is that you putting your foot down?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, this is me putting my foot down."

"But why?" I ask in irritation. "Why put me down here when you know I'm not bad? I didn't do anything to hurt you!"

My attention is drawn by Sam clearing his throat. He wordlessly points to his nose, still crusted with blood.

I roll my eyes. "Okay...I didn't do anything to hurt you, Dean. Sam, I only did that because I was scared. I said I was sorry. I think I did. Didn't I?"

"That doesn't matter," Dean replies. "Look, you don't know us and we don't know you. Right now, this is the safest option." Before I can argue the point, he adds, "For all three of us."

"Ava, the less you fight it, the easier it'll be," Sam coaxes. "At least you're not on the streets."

I try to see Sam's side of it. I really do. I picture myself through their eyes, a stranger with powers they don't understand and invulnerable to the majority of their weapons, which, incidentally, isn't true, but I let them think so. I try sympathizing and understanding their position, but I can't fully process it.

"No. No, don't do that. Don't-Aw make her stop, Sammy!"

"You're the one that made her start!"

"You're the one that wanted to bring her here!"

I watch the brothers bicker through a film of tears, sniffling back great globs of snot. My chin trembles and my shoulders heave with soft sobs, but I don't hide my face. I let them see what I feel, and it causes them to bicker and fight.

It could almost be considered a separate gift, I think to myself as I creep through the shelf door and shut it behind me. The sound of the lock clicking into place jerks both brothers from their fight and I hear nothing for a moment.

"Ava," Dean warns. "Open the door."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask, pressing my ear to the shelf.

"Ava." Dean throws his weight against the door, making me jump. "Open it!"

I consider the proposition briefly. "No, I don't think I will. What I will do is go upstairs, find the most comfortable bed, and have myself the best night's sleep of my life."
He throws his weight against the wall again. "Ava!"

"Ava, come on. This isn't funny!" Sam adds.

"I'm not going for funny," I retort. "It was rude of you to try and lock me in that creepy room, and, let's all be honest here, it was stupid of you to fall for the tears more than once. Night!"

"Ava!" they call in unison, fighting the door with all their might.

"The less you fight it, the easier it'll be!" I call over my shoulder before heading upstairs. I explore the upper levels for a few minutes before settling on a room with a king sized bed and little else. Though sparsely decorated, the bed is comfortable and has a familiar, comforting musk to it.

Must be Dean's bed, I decide, peering beneath the covers to see if it's gross or not. Surprisingly clean. A box is on the nightstand beside the bed, and I sit on the bed, pulling it into my lap. Can't help curiosity. I run a hand over the smooth, black lid before pulling it off and peering at what lay inside.

With a squeal of disgust, I nearly drop the box before slapping the lid shut. I question my mind for a moment and take a second glance only to confirm what I've seen. I shudder and hold the box at arms length as I carry it across the room to the closet, where I hide it away on the top shelf, out of sight.

"Gross. Disgusting. Creepy. I guess I have to deal with that no matter where I sleep tonight," I say to myself as I crawl beneath the covers and make myself comfortable. Dreams come easily and quickly, and I sleep soundly over the faint yelling coming from the basement.