Disclaimer: Last one for the night! Chapters in the future may be a tad more longer, just so that I can stuff more in each without it all being broken up. Now that I'm posting to here, it'll be easier to accomplish that. I own nothing; Enjoy! :)


"You ordered soup?" Dean asked with a chuckle after the waiter left. "Why is it that women always order the lightest thing on the menu?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Because soup is easy and quick to finish, which will in turn end the date sooner."

"My dates are never quick to finish," he said with a wink. Emma rose an unimpressed brow as he began to shake his head. "Aww, come on. The date has just started! Besides, I ordered a steak. And the date doesn't end until we both finish our meals. And dessert, remember? We have to celebrate your birthday somehow. Maybe if I tell them it's my birthday too, we'll get extra!"

"It's not January yet," she found herself saying before she could stop herself.

Dean took a deep breath, pursing his lips together as he leaned back in his chair. He scratched his forehead before he looked back up at Emma, then he smirked. "Someone's done their homework. Come on, what else do you know about me?"

Emma knew everything; all the dirty deeds. But for some reason, she felt like he was almost ashamed of his record. Like she was judging him unfairly – crazy, she kept reminding herself. So instead, she decided to go a different direction. "Well, I know you like sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women."

He laughed – a genuine throw-your-head-back, hand-clutching-chest laugh. She looked around and noticed the eyes of the tables around them. At first she was worried, she was on a job after all. But they were all smiling at the couple; to them Emma was just a woman who had made her date laugh so loud he forgot he was in a fancy restaurant. And for the second time that night, she couldn't shut down the flush in her cheeks as she tried to contain her own smile.

"Alright," he finally said once he caught his breath, "well played. So, you've seen my confession video. How was the picture?"

"It was good," Emma played along. "The lighting was a little unflattering, but you know how it can be in those interrogation rooms. I must say though, you looked much younger than you do now – but I guess dying multiple times can do that to a person."

Dean nodded, a humored smile still on his lips. "So that's what we're starting with?"

"Well, when a person dies three times and then makes a comeback, it's a little hard to concentrate on much else."

"Actually, I've only technically died twice," he said with a shrug. "And they had nothing to do with those reported deaths."

Emma felt herself inhale sharply. He was still being facetious, but he wasn't lying. Whether it was true or not, he genuinely believed that he had actually died and come back to life twice. Regardless of his sanity, she wanted to know something. "How did you come back to life then?"

"Angels," he said simply as he grabbed another roll of bread and began to butter it.

"Right," she said sarcastically. "So angels are real, too?"

Dean shook his head, swallowing his bite. "You already asked your question, now it's my turn." Emma opened her mouth to retort, but he rose his brow and gave her a pointed look. She rolled her eyes, sighing as she leaned forward in her chair and grabbed her glass, taking a sip before she gestured for him to continue. "Are you a religious person?"

The question caught her of guard, it wasn't one she got or talked about often. "Sure," she said with a shrug.

Dean sighed. "Come on, Emma. You promised it was going to be mutual honesty. Don't hold back on me now."

She took a deep breath, "Fine. I guess, technically, no. If there is some kind of God, I think He abandoned us long ago. I don't believe in some master plan by a mighty being. I think shit just happens; to some more than others. And if He is up there, I don't think he gives a damn about me."

Emma had kept her head down as she gave her answer, pulling at the deepest corner of her mind for that response. It was true; that's how she honestly felt about it. With her life, it was hard to feel like she was loved by this mystical magical being who was supposed to be a guiding light for all His children. When she looked up, she immediately felt like her words had made her vulnerable. Dean was looking at her with an empathetic look on his face that could have made the faintest heart weep. Not pity, just understanding.

"What happened that made you think that way?" he asked finally.

She cocked her head, raising an eye brow. "I thought it was one question at a time."

He smirked. "Yes, angels are real. But they're major dicks. Your turn."

With a deep, annoyed sigh, she continued. "Growing up I'd always been told about how great the church was. How God was looking over me and the children like me. How I was never truly alone, because I had the love of God. So, when I was thirteen, and things had gotten really bad, I ran away. I ran to this huge, beautiful Catholic church a couple blocks over. It always looked like a castle to me when we'd drive by it; I always felt like if there was ever going to be something divine happening, it would be there." She took a minute to run her fingers through her hair as Dean just continued to watch and listen. "It was the middle of the night, I was soaked from the rain – and I get smacked by an old nun who thought I was breaking in and causing a mess on their shiny marble floors and satin cushions. I was nothing but a worthless child to this woman who didn't want anything to do with me and called me a disappointment to my parents and that I would never be holy in the eyes of the Lord if I continued on my path."

"What a bitch," Dean said, breaking the small spell Emma seemed to be under as she went on with her story. She looked up, somewhat shocked until he realized his own interruption. "I'm sorry."

Emma chuckled, remembering the similar name she'd called the old hag after the incident. "It's okay. She was. The other kids and I found ways of torturing her later on."

Dean laughed, "I'd like to hear some of those stories."

"Too bad it's my turn," she said in her authoritative voice, sitting up a little straighter. She could have asked about the murders, about the torture, about how he managed to fake his death. But he had asked her something personal; made her tell a story she'd never told anyone before. And she wanted him to feel the same sense of vulnerability. "Why haven't you had an official place of residence since 1979?"

Dean took a large gulp from his drink, making a face as the wine ran down his throat. "God, this stuff is awful. Next time I'm gonna get us a bottle of whiskey instead of this crap."

Emma laughed lightly, shaking her head. Wine was a good dinner drink, especially at a restaurant like this. But a bottle of whiskey was her poison of choice on nights when the nightmares were really bad; in fact, she had just restocked this morning. It was going to be her bitter treat for catching the Winchester.

Although she could still feel the small smile lingering on, she kept a stern gaze fixated on him. She wasn't gonna let him out of the question. He stirred his glass, watching as the liquid swirled around before he set it back down on the table. She could tell she'd hit a sensitive spot, and she secretly felt her pride level rise. He looked up and saw her waiting on him to continue. He sighed, then ran his hand across his face.

That's when the waiter brought them their meal: her soup, his steak and vegetables.

He pulled out his fork and knife when Emma remembered that with this guy's record, he could probably turn even the dullest steak knife in to a serious weapon. She leaned forward and pulled his plate towards her.

"Wha-" he began, wondering why she was taking away his food. She gestured for him to pass her his silverware. Reluctantly, he pushed it across the table. "You can't be serious. What are the people around us gonna think? It's not exactly common for the date to cut her boyfriend's meal."

"One, you're not my boyfriend," she corrected, pointing the knife at him before she started cutting his steak into bite sized pieces. "Two, this is considered a weapon. You did agree to cooperate, but I don't exactly trust you. And three, everyone will just think you've got some kind of brain deficiency and you need help cutting your food," she gave a sarcastic grin.

"I feel like a child," he wined, folding his arms as he pouted. "I'd rather just pick it up and eat it with my hands."

She chuckled, "This is an upscale restaurant, Dean." He huffed as she passed him his plate back. "So, you were saying."

"Well," he began, and she could tell he wasn't really sure how to start. He took his fork and speared a square of meat, inspecting it before popping it into his mouth. "Technically, it was my last real home. We traveled around a lot, as I'm sure you read in my file." Her face softened, knowing all too well what it felt like to be moved around, never having a solid place to call home. She pretended not to harp on it, blowing on a spoonful of her soup as he continued. "I guess dad just never found a place that was worthy of calling home if our mom wasn't with us. The closest thing I had after that was with this family friend who let us crash with him often. He was more of a father figure to me and my brother than our own dad sometimes. Not that dad didn't try, he was just sort of… broken after mom died." Dean was fidgeting with his food as he talked.

He was trying to make his story sound dull, but his voice was giving away how deep and personal this subject really was. She began to wonder how many times exactly he'd talked about this; she guessed less than a handful. And especially not with a stranger.

"There came a point in my life where I began to think that I'd never get that: a home. A normal, safe, place of my own. Somewhere I could actually put things in a dresser or drawers without worrying about having to leave unexpectedly. Having a mattress that was more comfortable than the bench seat in my car." He smiled, a fond almost dreamy-like look on his face. "It took almost 30 years," a small chuckle of disbelief leaving his lungs, "but we found it, my brother and me. Can you believe it? I even have one of those beds that forms to your body," he smirked, "it remembers me."

She couldn't help her own genuine smile. He was being sincere with her, completely honest from start to finish. So he hadn't lived anywhere after 1979 because that's when his mother had died, and his father moved them around their whole life. Doing what, he hadn't said. But now he had a home, and from the sound of it, a really nice one. Emma almost felt guilty when she realized that she would be the one that would be taking him away from that home – something she herself had never truly had. She wanted to know more about it, but it wasn't her turn.

Dean cleared his throat as he tilted his head slightly, "You said and children like me earlier. And you implied that you didn't know who your family was. What happened?"

Emma could feel her body stiffen; she hadn't meant to give away anything like that and she was scolding herself for giving him that opportunity. It wasn't like her situation was exactly a secret, although most of the personal details regarding it were usually kept close to her chest. You just weren't supposed to be sharing such personal information with a guy you were supposed to be bringing in to jail. Although, she'd already sort of broken that principle, so rules be damned.

Emma took a long gulp of her drink before shrugging, mirroring his attempt to make what she was saying sound less important than it really was. "I'm an orphan; it's really that simple."

"That sounds anything but simple," he said softly.

She sighed. "What do you want me to say? That I was left on the side of the road when I was less than a day old? That I lived in the foster care system for my entire childhood? That I never had a real family and I still don't know why I was abandoned? That I've been taking care of myself since I was sixteen years old after I ran away?" She scoffed, "Is that enough of a sob story for you?"

He nodded, rising his brow as he continued eating. He was more than half way done with his steak; she was just a few spoonfuls away from hitting the bottom of her bowl.

"And you've never come close to having your own family?" he asked.

She felt her heart start to beat faster, blood rushing to her face. Her back straightened in an attempt to make herself taller as her expression hardened. She was rebuilding the wall, pushing Dean away and reminding herself that she was on a job.

"Emma?" he said, concerned with her sudden mood shift.

She shook her head, pulling out her purse and throwing a sufficient amount of money on the table to cover their meal and tip. Standing up, she leaned against the table next to him. "The time for games is over, Mr. Winchester. We're going to the station, and you will come willingly."

"So, no dessert?" he asked, scrunching his brow.

"Let's go. Now."