When I woke up that next morning, I was really, really disoriented for a good five minutes, because I was still mentally half-asleep, so I didn't bother opening my eyes. My thought process was pretty much this; Oh, my word, this is the nicest bed I've ever slept in. Wait. Wait wait. Bed. Why am I in a bed? Where am I that even has a bed? Bed? What? It's nice. Feels clean. Not a motel – what – And so I opened my eyes and shrieked quietly in surprise.

There was a dog sleeping two inches from my face, which I was not expecting, since Bobby never mentioned he had a dog, and I never saw a dog last night. I actually had never been that close to a dog before, so I wasn't completely sure what it was, until his tail hit me in the face, making me smile a little bit. Something also bit at the back of my mind. Hadn't I locked the door?

I sat up a bit and whispered, "Hey, buddy, how'd you get in here?" The dog's head shot up and his tail wagged happily and I rolled my eyes, but I ended up smiling despite myself. I rubbed his back a minute. Throwing the covers back, I walked over to the door, and found it unlocked and ajar. But the lock was only on the inside so…

Feeling foolish, but not wanting to admit to myself I didn't lock the door, I crept back to the dog, who was still on the bed, watching me curiously. I looked that dog in his big, brown eyes and I whispered, "Cristo." Yeah, nothing happened. And don't laugh; I was a really cautious person. So once I made sure the dog wasn't possessed by a demon – which sounds ridiculous now, and I knew it was ridiculous then. Possessing something that could not talk or wield a weapon was sort of pointless – I sat on the bed and pondered. I was pretty sure I had locked the… no, wait. I hadn't locked the door, had I? I couldn't remember actually going to the door and locking it. I remember Bobby shutting it, but I never actually locked it.

That terrified me. The fact that I had spent the night in a house with two strange men and I hadn't even locked the door, which meant they could have come in and… I shivered. I shut my eyes and told myself firmly, Stop. Just stop. Nothing happened. A small, scared voice in the back of my head protested, But what if –? And I physically shook my head and said quietly, "No. No. They're good men, for Hunters. They aren't going to hurt me. So just shut up."

To distract myself, I went and took another shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, the dog was still on the bed, looking at me intently, and I sighed. "Come on," I said. The dog wagged his tail and bounced off the bed.

What do you mean, what kind of dog was he? I don't know. A dog. A lab or something. No, I do not know what kind of dog he was, I am sorry. And don't say I should know because I'm smart. I was only knowledgeable on things like nuclear weapons and world history because I needed to know those things to stay alive on a day-to-day basis. I did not need to know the different breeds of dogs. End of discussion.

I walked out into the hall and glanced around, listening. I could hear John and Bobby in the kitchen, so that's where I went, despite my inner-hesitancy. The dog followed behind me, but went right over to Bobby once we had reached the door to the kitchen. Bobby looked up from the book he was reading at the table and nodded at me, "I see you've met Garth."

I was confused. "Garth?"

He patted the dog's back and said, "My dog. Garth."

I nodded, "Right. Yes. He's nice."

Bobby looked at me a little funny. I thought then it was because I was really uptight for a teenager, like had said the night before. Not that I could help that. Looking back, I realized that I sounded really formal around him and John. Also, sort of cold. And mean. Basically, I sounded like a normal teenager, just with more… supernatural street-knowledge. I mean, I suppose I was polite. Put it was a cold politeness. A non-trustworthy politeness. I meant it every time I said 'thank you', but I realized that it probably wasn't being conveyed emotionally, and I sort of realized that, so I thought maybe I needed to work on showing my gratitude a little more. I twisted the ring on my right hand, a nervous habit, and said sincerely, "Thank you for the books. If you would like to see which ones I've chosen, I can bring them out here."

Bobby thought about that a moment, then nodded, agreeing, "That may be a good idea. Would you mind?" I shook my head, and returned a few minutes later with all the books, one stacked on top of another, and Bobby jumped up and looked like he wanted to help, since the stack of books was taller than I could see around, but I was fine. I set them down on the table in three piles, and he sat down, and reached for the book closest to him. It was the Ancient Greek one. He opened it and immediately asked, "Can you read this?"

He looked up at me, and I nodded and said quietly, "Yep."

He blinked and opened his mouth to say something when John walked in and announced, "I need to go." I started to ask where he was going but he added quickly, "It's not Azazel, Eden. I just have an obligation that I need to go fulfill."

I nodded, not asking, not wanting to ask, but still curious deep down somewhere. John didn't elaborate though, and I didn't want to press him, but I asked, "Will you be coming back at least?"

John nodded, not saying anything, but it was Bobby who understood what I meant and he said, "Eden, you're welcome to stay here while John goes off on his little sabbatical. If you wouldn't mind, you could translate that Ancient Greek book for me."

I inwardly felt almost excited, because if I could stay inside in a house with someone I could maybe trust AND I could translate things for them as a kind of payment then I would feel safe, and my debt to that person would be paid… and I could maybe be happy. Outwardly, though, I nodded and supplied modestly, "Sure. If you want me to translate anything else, I will, if it's in a language I know. I know about nine."

Bobby shrugged, "Sure, kiddo. That'd be great." I think if someone else had called me 'kiddo' I would have winced at the familiarity, but there was something… fatherly in his tone, and so I just nodded and nervously asked if he wanted me to make breakfast. He looks surprised, and so did John, but Bobby said that it'd be great if someone made breakfast, since all he was planning on having was a bottle of beer. I made a face which made him laugh and say somewhat defensively, "I live by myself, kid. I'm not particularly interested in the culinary arts."

I shrugged, accepting his answer. John asked Bobby if they could talk alone in the next room, which I was actually sort of relieved to hear, because I didn't want to cook with them in the kitchen. I was self-conscious about people watching me.

I hadn't cooked pancakes for a few years, but I still knew how to make them. Cooking is really relaxing, actually. Very calming. I had to locate everything that I needed first, which took about ten minutes. Half an hour later, I had made two dozen pancakes, some bacon, a big bowl of scrambled eggs, and had set the table. I was actually feeling kind of happy, for the first time in forever, being alone and cooking, but the happiness sort slipped back into the depths of my heart once John and Bobby came back in. Garth had left a while ago, and was sleeping somewhere, I was assuming. Or whatever dogs did. I wasn't sure.

May I just say I was pretty proud of myself for not completely crumbling around them? They were men, after all. And I hadn't been around men for about five years. When I was in the hospital, I specifically asked for the doctor who took care of Danny to be a woman, and that the nurses were women. I was questioned as to why that was, of course, and after some blushing and courage-building, I finally was able to tell them, and they, thankfully, respected my request. Consequently, I didn't have to interact with men for pretty much that whole span of time.

So the fact I had held somewhat successful conversations with two fully-grown men, managed not to run away screaming from them and had cooked them breakfast without being too tempted to poison them was a pretty big feat for me. I watched them take in what I had made, slightly nervous as to what their reactions were going to be. Bobby looked gratified, but John's response was a bit more muted; more… mixed. He seemed like he appreciated it, but he also sort of looked sad, and with an inward jolt, I realized that he may not have had any home-cooked meals since his wife, Mary, had died. I didn't have to focus on that too long, however, because Bobby broke the silence with, "That sure is a heck of a lot of food."

I shrugged and John nodded at me in thanks. I flourished the spatula I was holding over to the table and instructed, "Eat before it gets cold. I don't want all that money going to waste."

John and Bobby sat down and started pulling copious amounts of food onto their plates and a minute or two later, Bobby looked at me curiously. He asked, "What d'you mean, money?"

I looked at him like he was crazy and said somewhat uncertainly, "Well, you have to have food to eat, and you have to have money to have food. And Hunters aren't particularly known for their vast amounts of wealth."

Bobby looked at me, considering what I had just said. A second later, he nodded and agreed, "I suppose that's true. You don't need to worry about my money, though, Eden. I'm well-off, for an old guy."

I blushed slightly and muttered, "Sorry. That was just me talking. I'm used to not having a lot of money to go off. Habit, I guess."

John looked up from his pancakes, which I was relieved to see were at least good enough for him to eat, and he inquired, "Where have you been getting your money?" He paused and included as an afterthought, "Do I want to know?"

I don't think the question meant to imply indecency, but I certainly perceived it that way. Thankfully, I didn't get upset. I just got embarrassed. I blushed and retorted, "I got my money from a perfectly acceptable and honorable source. When I was with Danny, I was able to live off funds that my aunt from Ireland provided me with, and I lived at the hospital. And after that, I traveled to my parents' old home, which legally belongs to me, so it's not been sold to anyone else, and I retrieved what funds they had in the house. I have plenty, but understandably, I have to be conscientious of how much I spend."

John raised an eyebrow and merely said, "Wise of you." He stood up, with his now-empty plate and brought it over to the sink. He clapped me on the shoulder in thanks, making me wince. He quickly withdrew his hand and said gently, "Thank you. I'll be back in a few days. I'll keep in touch."

I nodded and he walked out the door. A moment later, he came back in, and I looked up from the floor, where I was leaning against the counter while Bobby ate. He said to me, inquiring, "Would you look up some information on demons while I'm gone?"

I quirked an eyebrow and asked, "Any ones in particular?"

John just shook his head and said, "No. Anything and everything you can dig up."

I nodded and replied agreeably, "I can do that."

He nodded at me once, then over to Bobby and said, "See you soon, Bobby."

Bobby answered with a 'see you around', then went back to eating his second stack of pancakes. The door shut, and John was gone. I awkwardly stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, looking at the ground, playing with the ring on my right hand, middle finger. It was my mom's. Bobby ate for a minute then looked up at me questioningly. I noticed him staring at me and I asked, "Something wrong?"

He looked at me funnily – he was doing that a lot and it was starting to put me on edge a little – and he stressed, "Yeah, there is. You're just standing there. You gonna eat something?" I blinked a moment. That thought literally hadn't occurred to me. I shook my head and Bobby frowned, "Why not? You didn't eat anything last night and now you're not eating anything today. This is some great food here, kid. You need to keep your energy up."

I bit my lip and he continued to stare at me with a look that demanded an answer. After a moment, I mumbled, "I don't like eating in front of people all that much, if I can help it."

Bobby made a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a choke, which made me feel slightly gratified. At least he was attempting to not laugh me straight in the face. I wasn't sure how to respond to his choking, since it didn't sound life-threatening, so I remained stationed where I was. After a bit, Bobby finally cleared his throat, and deadpanned, "You are one of the weirdest kids I've ever met. And that's meant with all due respect."

I shrugged and accepted, "Well, I'm my own person. Of course I'm weird."

He chuckled at that and amended, "True, though not quite what I meant."

Curious, I appealed to him, "What did you mean, then?"

He rubbed his beard a moment, looking at me. Finally, he responded, "You're formal. Almost too formal for a teenager. The way you talk reminds me of someone who speaks English as a second language -" I opened my mouth to interject, but he held a hand up, so I remained silent, and he continued, "-but I can tell from your accent and your name that you're about as American as I am. Also, the way you cleaned that truck yesterday was very professional, and I'm impressed." I smiled a bit at that, surprising myself; I hardly ever smiled anymore. Bobby wasn't don't talking though, "You apparently know at least nine languages. Where'd you even go to school?"

"I didn't," I admitted. But just because I never had what you may call a formal education doesn't mean-"

Bobby's voice broke over mine, surprised, "Never? I am further impressed. I'm also slightly concerned by your lack of emotion."

Man, was he blunt and straight-forward with things. I had only met him about twelve hours prior, and he was already lecturing me. I sort of seemed glued to the tile on which I was standing on, because although I tensed up and wanted to run, I didn't. I was interested in what he had to say. No one had ever really… evaluated my personality before, and I was curious. I wanted to know. So I asked, slightly wary, "What do you mean?"

He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and regarded me with a slightly incredulous air as he said, "Kid, you are one of the most distant people I've met. And that's saying a lot, given my 'friends' are pretty much psychotic serial killers for their day jobs. The only time I've seen you act remotely like a human, no offense, was when you were with all them books last night."

I silently reflected on all the conversations I had had with him since last night. First off, I had pointed my gun at him. Hunter. Next, true to my teenager, I had reported I could take care of myself; I had ignored his sympathetic apology about the passing of my parents. Shame burned my cheeks and I apologized sincerely, "I'm sorry. Men make me really nervous. I apologize if I acted rude, I didn't mean it. I was simply trying not to full-out panic."

Bobby looked surprised and acknowledged, "Well, that was some human right there. And you don't need to apologize, kid. I don't know what your story is, but I'm willing to listen, if you need someone to talk to." He paused then added, "Though don't be looking for therapy from me. I'm not a psychiatrist."

I actually smiled at that, which made Bobby raise an eyebrow. I said, "Thank you, Bobby."

He looked at me, and I realized he was waiting for me to tell him whether I would talk to him about my past or not. Sighing, I lifted myself onto the counter, and ran through my hair, not sure what to say, where to begin. I paused a moment and thought to myself, You're really going to tell him your life story? Then another moment later, I replied to myself, Yes. Yes. I have to tell someone. So I took a deep breath, and talked; talked more than I had for a very long time. Here's what I told Bobby:

Well, I grew up with my mother and father in a small town in Michigan. They were nice, very caring, very kind. Then, when I was six, my mother was killed by Azazel, in the same way Mary Winchester was killed. My father… well, he was understandably upset, but three weeks after my mother was killed… he shot himself in the head. I was sent to my maternal grandparents' home in Illinois, where I lived with them for the next few years, until I was about ten, by which time they had both passed from old age. I ran, and was running for nearly a year, when a pair of vampires by the names of Clara and Andrew found me, and they took me in. I didn't know what they were almost half a year. I was merely glad that they treated me kindly; as one of their own. It was after I had been with them for about six months when I discovered that they were vampires, and that they planned to turn me when I was seventeen or eighteen. I was not particularly distraught, not knowing how bloodthirsty they truly were. It wasn't until four months later I discovered that, when I saw them kill a man. I was plotting to escape when John came bursting onto the scene, rescuing me and killing Andrew in the process. What happened next was my fault. I told John that my parents were nearby and that he didn't need to take me home, that I knew exactly where we were, and I knew how to get home. So he left me. I was in New York City, and had no idea where I was. I was twelve. So I wandered the alleys of the city, staying away from anyone and everyone. To be honest, I'm not quite sure how I managed to survive, but I do know that… that in early February of 2002, my life… took a nosedive. It was night, and I was huddled up by myself in an alley and all of a sudden there was just… this man. And he saw me all by myself, and he grabbed me and pinned me to the ground and started hitting me and I was terrified. He hit my head against the ground, and I blacked out. And I awoke to pain and… I had paused here, my mind whirling with the memories I had tried so very hard to forget. I wasn't sure how much I should say, how much I wanted to say, but there was something about Bobby, an air of honesty and earnest sympathy, that made me want to keep talking. So I did. …and it hurt. It hurt really badly. The bastard that raped me left soon afterwards, leaving me lying on the ground, hurt and bleeding. Somehow, I managed to get myself to a hospital. I don't really remember the next few weeks. Or months. Basically, I had a boy I named Daniel. He was really small, because I was really small, so we both spent five or six months in the hospital. I also didn't have a house that I could live in, and being only thirteen, I couldn't really go live somewhere, so I just sort of lived there, at the hospital, which was sort of fine, but not really, because when Danny was almost three, he was diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia, and he spent the next year and a half in the hospital. I stopped at that point, sort of crying, and I wasn't looking at Bobby. I told the floor monotonously, I would sing to him a lot. He really liked cheesy songs like 'Carry on My Wayward Son' and 'You Are My Sunshine'. He was fascinated with angels and God. And the sky. But what he really loved were the stars. We'd watch them out his window every night, and he told me that when he got to be big he wanted to go see them, but only if it was with me. I said that of course we could go see the stars. And then he fell into a coma and… My voice was hollow; and he died. On the 13th of April, 2007. And then I had to bury him – what do you do when a four-year-old dies? What can you possibly do? I sighed and finished wearily, And I was filled with hate and rage. I bought an old truck after hitch-hiking back to my old house and finding money and hunting clothes. And I went on a supernatural killing spree. And I still am. That's it. That's my story.

I sighed and looked at Bobby, and saw that he had a tear on his cheek, which I had not been expecting. He was shaking his head and he wiped his eyes. A silence fell on the kitchen, and finally he said, "There aren't words that I could possibly say that would express how much pain listening to that caused me."

I wiped my eyes and said quietly, "That's fine. Thanks for listening."

Bobby nodded and said nothing, because really, what else was there to say?

I spent the next few days translating that Ancient Greek book for Bobby, the length of which was not nearly as long as he thought it was, because it was a diary, and only three-fourths of the actual book had writing, and Ancient Greek is a far more intricate language than English, so the Greek writing took up a lot more room than the English translation did. Also, the man who wrote the book, Anakletos, had a large script. The whole thing overall, was actually really interesting. Anakletos was writing in Ancient Greek, you found out fairly quickly, because hardly anyone spoke it at that time. He was living in Egypt, and only high officials spoke the language, and he was a very poor person by Egyptian standards, so he did not have to worry about his colleagues reading up on his entries. That was probably for the best, too, as all he really wrote about was the jobs that he went on, the things he killed, how he killed them, and so on. I have to say it; Anakletos was pretty fantastic. I could probably tell you a good half of the entries, but that's not the point of why I'm telling you this.

John, true to his word, called every night. I told him that first night that I was going to translate the book for Bobby first, and then I'd compile the demon information for him, and he was a bit reluctant about that at first, but I eventually persuaded him by saying that there was only one copy of this Ancient Greek text, and there were innumerable books on demons. After a bit of talking, he finally, grudgingly agreed. I finished translating the book by the evening of the second full day that I was there, which was a lot sooner than I had originally anticipated. I, obviously, had not had a need to read or write or speak Ancient Greek on a day-to-day basis, so I was afraid that it would be a struggle for me to translate, but the language came flowing back to me really quite immediately, which was nice

So by the third night of John calling, I had already compiled some basic information on a plethora of demons. He told me to wait until he called the next day, because then he would have some colleagues there with him, and I could just tell them all at once. I was a little annoyed by that, but I told him that that was fine, and that I'd talk to him the next night.

And talk to him the next night, I did. I had a list of eighteen demons that I had been researching. When John called, I cut right to the chase. "I've got a list of over sixty demons and their various differentiating tasks and powers. I can read off a few, if you'd like."

"Sure. That'd be great," John's answering voice sounded farther away than usual, so I figured he was on speaker.

"Well, first we have Abbadon, who is sometimes called Apollyon," I reported, "She's the king of the demons of hell."

I heard an unfamiliar male voice, "Wait. She's the king of hell?"

I stiffened at his voice. It sounded like the kind of voice that belonged to someone who was used to sweet-talking people. He was at least five years older than me, I thought. Maybe closer to ten, and that made me really uncomfortable. But I knew he wasn't actually there with me and I managed to make my voice sound normal when I replied somewhat testily, "She's the king of the demons of hell. Demons aren't sexist. She's also a knight to the actual King of Hell, who is a demon named Crowley."

"Wait, so, a demon is the King of Hell? Shouldn't that be Lucifer?" Yet another male voice asked. This one's voice though, wasn't nearly as incredulous or harsh. He sounded younger, maybe only a couple of years older than me. For some reason, that made me even more nervous, but he sounded genuinely interested as to what my answer might be, so I didn't pause before I answered.

"As far as I can tell, titles like 'king' and 'knight' don't have the same denotation as they do here on earth. In hell, the higher your 'rank', the more powerful you are, but not in a ruling sense; but in a 'strength' way. Crowley is theoretically the most powerful demon in hell, and he sort of runs things, I believe. And Lucifer actually owns hell, and all the souls in it, including the demons and whatever ese is down there." The second voice seemed satisfied with that, and stated his thanks. John cut in then, not talking to me, but to the other voices, telling them to be quiet and listen to me. I swallowed hard, and relayed my gathered information to them;

"Next there is a demon called Xa-Mul, who likes to swallow people whole, and Karau, who is a Panamanian demon whose only wish is death to the world –"

Despite John's request that he stay quiet, the first voice was back, much to my irritation. "Death to the world? Like, the people or the whole freaking world?"

I inwardly sighed and stated aloud, "To the world, as in, everything on this planet; people, plants, animals, major landforms, buildings, civilization in general, dust bunnies, graphite. What would make him happiest is if the world spontaneously combusted and everything on Earth, and the Earth itself, was ripped to pieces."

He muttered, "He got up on the wrong side of the bed."

I ignored him and continued, "There is also Xic, who is a Guatemalan demon who brings sudden death to men."

"D'you bring sudden death to men, sweetheart?" The first voice asked. I closed my eyes, and didn't say anything, but smiled a bit when I heard what sounded like someone being whacked upside the head.

The second voice said, "She might, if you don't shut up, jerk." There was a few moments pause as the first voice mumbled something indistinguishable, but it sounded an awful lot like 'bitch'. I wasn't sure if that was directed at me or not, but I continued, coolly,

"And a Panamanian demon of illness named Ikwaokinyapippilele."

"Oh, my God," the second, nicer voice said in disbelief, "Who?"

I smiled a bit and repeated, "Ikwaokinyapippilele."

"I can't even begin to spell that. How do you spell that?" he said, sounding resigned.

Patiently, I stated, "I-K-W-A-O-K-I-N-Y-A-P-I-P-P-I-L-E-L-E."

There was a moment's silence, and I heard someone typing on a keyboard, so I assumed he had been typing all that I had said down. The voice said, "Thanks."

"And there are more?"John asked.

I agreed, "Right. About sixty. I've taken rather extensive notes about each one."

John had another question, "So you finally got that Ancient Greek book translated?"

"Yes. It really didn't take that long, considering," I replied.

The less-than-appealing male voice was back with a snarky, "Considering what?"

The second voice sounded in disbelief, "Considering she translated an Ancient Greek text into English, Dean! Nobody reads Greek!"

Dean. Dean Winchester? Was that who the first voice was? That rude, conceited, full-of-himself voice? Did that mean the other voice, the nicer one, was Sam Winchester? I pushed that aside for a moment and paid attention to what Dean was saying, "Yeah, except for Greeks."

"Wow. Good logic there," I said sarcastically rolling my eyes, "but he's right; Ancient Greek is called 'Ancient' for a reason. It is a dead language, like Latin."

Dean sounded disgusted and John said something to him, I don't know what, but Dean stopped. The other boy, Sam, I thought, asked me, "So how many languages do you speak?"

Somewhat nervously, I answered, "Nine; English, Latin, German, Italian, Spanish, French, Welsh, Portuguese, Ancient Greek…" I trailed off as Sam stayed silent.

A few seconds later, he said incredulous and amazed, "Nine. You speak nine languages. How in the world do you speak nine languages?"

I bit my lip and said tentatively, "Well, English is my first language. My mother and father taught me Latin, German, and Italian when I was young. And I've taught myself the rest since then."

Sam sounded absolutely skeptical at this point. He repeated, "You taught the rest to yourself."

I sighed, "Yes, I did."

"That is really freaking awesome. But that's also really nerdy," came Dean's voice.

I paused then said, "Thanks. I think."

"How old are you, anyway?" He said, interested.

I closed my eyes and said somewhat reluctantly, "Eighteen." I was pretty sure Dean whispered she's legal, but Sam overrode him and asked,

"So did you go to a school somewhere for a while, or –?" He left the question hanging.

I really, really, did not want to get into the details of my life with these two boys. Sam seemed okay, for a guy, but Dean was enough to make me cringe, even though he wasn't remotely anywhere near me, because John said that they were in Missouri. But I answered him, warily, "My mother and father home-schooled me until I was almost seven. When they died, I went to live with my grandparents, and they taught me until I was ten, when they both passed. And I've taught myself everything else since then." There was silence on the other end. I didn't know what kind of a reaction to expect. Certainly not the one I got, though.

It was Dean: "I'm sorry."

I was silent a moment, slightly surprised to hear him express sympathy – or could it have even been empathy? – to me, then I replied, "Thank you. It was a long time ago. I've gotten used to the fact."

Sam's voice sounded somewhat more hesitant as he asked, "So what's your name? Dad didn't tell us. He left a bit ago."

"How do you even know him? Do we want to know?" Dean added quickly.

So it was the Winchester boys. I wasn't sure if that was particularly reassuring or not. And I wasn't sure that I wanted to tell them my name, but I figured John would just tell them, and besides, I was annoyed at everyone assuming that I was a prostitute or something.

"My name," I said nettled, "is Eden Parker. And I know your father because when I was eleven, he saved me from a nest of vampires. And we happened to run into each other by chance the other day."

Dean muttered something about chance meetings and I said heatedly into the phone, "You need to stop assuming that every male and female relationship is one that is sexually involved. Life is not about sex." Sam laughed, though I hadn't meant to be funny. I was really mad. Men. Always sexualizing things.

Dean sarcastically shot back, "It is if you want it to be. Sex and violence is how I like it."

I quipped, "Well, if we ever meet, you can be assured that you will more readily get the latter out of me."

Sam sounded amused, "That's got to be the first time a girl's turned you down, Dean."

"It will not be the last," I muttered. Sam laughed and Dean made a scathing noise in the background. I was surprised that I was actually carrying on a conversation with two boys who were kind of sort of near my age. But I was on the edge of cracking. I needed to get off the phone and go calm down. I said into the phone, "Alright. I need to go back to work. Tell your father that I will continue to compile the information that he requested."

"Okay," Sam agreed. He paused and added, "It was nice talking to you, Eden."

I said politely, "Thank you. It was a pleasure. Take care."

I hung up the phone. That's when I realized I had sweat clean through my shirt. That's when I realized that I was shaking like mad, and my stomach was churning. That's when I stumbled to the bathroom and got sick. And that's when I passed out.

'Ow' was my first conscious thought. My head hurt like hell, and I felt awful. I slowly opened my eyes and blinked under the glaring florescent lights of the bathroom. I slowly sat up, a wave of dizziness hitting me like a ton of bricks. My stomach wasn't roiling any longer, but it felt sore, as well did every other part of my body. I had spent that entire phone conversation so taut that I hadn't even noticed until I had hung up the phone. I sat in the bathroom for about half an hour, trying to calm the fast beating of my heart. Eventually, I was able to stand up steadily, and I ventured out of the bathroom to find Bobby sitting in the kitchen, with Garth sleeping at his feet. Bobby looked up when I entered and he asked worriedly, "You okay?"

I nodded certainly, my head pounding. I assured him, "I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

I'm fairly positive he didn't believe me, but he let it pass. Bobby stood up and told me, "I'm going out for a bit. Need to get some groceries."

I said, "Okay," in a rather pained way, and Bobby looked concerned for a moment, but he left me alone.

As soon as he was out the door, I stumbled back to the room I was staying in and fell on the bed, clutching my head. My headache had seemingly become a migraine, which I thought strange, my head just hurt earlier where I had hit it against the bathroom floor. Pain building behind my eyes, I squeezed them shut, hoping the pain would pass. But it didn't. The pain kept building and building until I literally thought my head would explode. There was a ringing in my ears, an ungodly noise that sounded like a high-pitched scream that kept getting louder and louder and louder and LOUDER AND LOUDER AND-

And the windows shattered, sending glass ricocheting everywhere, including into my arms and face. I screamed and shielded myself as best I could, and all at once the noise stopped and silence descended upon the house. Sobbing in pain, I slowly got up off the bed, cutting my bare feet on the glass that had landed on the floor in the process. I somehow managed to get to the bathroom and I sat heavily down on the edge of the bathtub. I spent the next two and a half hours tweezing out pieces of glass from my feet, arms, and face. Thankfully, the cuts on my face weren't deep at all; mostly scratches. My arms were another story, however. I was still pulling out huge shards of glass when Bobby knocked on my door.

I told him to come in and he blinked, looking around the room, and asked urgently, "What happened?"

Depositing a huge chunk of glass that I had just removed from my lower left arm into the garbage, I groaned, "I don't know. There was this awful noise that just kept getting higher in pitch and louder until the windows broke."

"And got you pretty nastily," Bobby observed.

I glanced down at my arms and feet, which were covered in blood and I nodded, my headache thankfully gone. "Yeah," I said vaguely, "I guess."

Bobby sighed and told me there was ointment in the medicine cabinet, along with bandages. I nodded that I understood, and he left, going to make a few calls, he said.

I got bandaged up, wrapping my arms wrist-to-shoulder in gauze. I encased my feet in the stuff, too. I managed to get my boots from the bedroom and pull them onto my feet. I winced as I walked down the hall to the kitchen, where I heard Bobby talking on the phone. I hesitated, not sure if I should walk in on him talking or not. But then I heard him say my name, Eden, and I couldn't resist. I had to eavesdrop. Thankfully, years of wishing to go unnoticed provided me with a smooth and soundless gait. I creeped up to the door, and listened. Bobby was talking low and insistent;

"You said, John, that she's gone through the same treatment that you and your sons have. She's as much of a victim of that damned demon as you and your boys are! So why are you using her?" My blood froze. Using me? Using me for what? Bobby continued, "She's 18, John. You can't use her as a piece of meat! You really think Azazel would fall for that?" I was ready to up and out of there, but Bobby seemed to be on my side, which I thought was kind of him, so I stayed and listened some more. I sort of caught on to what John's plans seemed to be, because I could faintly hear his voice on the other end of the phone. John, it seemed, was leaving Sam and Dean out of the way, making sure they were safe. And he only wanted to hunt with me because he knew I had been another of Azazel's targets, and he wanted Azazel to come out of hiding because of me and he wanted Azazel to attack me so that he, John, could kill him, Azazel.

He wanted that son-of-a-bitch to attack me, and probably kill me, so that he, in turn could kill Azazel. Well, that was nice. Nice, John. Using an eighteen-year-old girl as bait.

Real fatherly.

I had heard enough. John was using me. That was it. I was out of there. Fuming, I hobbled back to the room I was staying in, and threw everything into my bag. Using me. That's when I decided;

You couldn't trust anyone.