Author's note: Hey, everyone! I know, I know, it's been two weeks or so but my life is really a bit too crazy now, what with looking for a new job and some other major changes. Thanks for being patient, really :))

Summer hiatus is a disaster for me, but I still keep my fingers crossed for Bela to be back in Season 5. I know, there was no info and there probably won't be *sighs*

But anyway, here is new chap and I hope you'll like it :))

Chapter 4

It was a long shot, and maybe a pretty bad idea too, especially without having Sam around to cover his sorry ass, and Dean knew it. And it definitely was something that his brother would call unnecessary stupid risk, something that Sam probably had in mind when he'd told Dean to stay out of trouble. Well, risk or not, but it was the only choice that Dean had, whether he liked it or not. And anyway, after all these years with Dad, and then with Sam, fighting evil bastards and doing his best to make this crappy world a little better he could hardly imagine himself hiding under the blanket only because one of said bastards was soon going to get his hands on him. Devil might as well go to hell with his plans. Oh, wait a moment, he already was there. Well, less trouble then.

The thrill of his cell phone broke into the flow of Dean's thoughts. He groped for it keeping his eyes on the road and then, after a short hesitation, turned it off instead of answering when he saw Bela's name on the caller ID. From now on he was working alone, out of wish to get the work done as fast as possible more than anything, especially after what Sam told him earlier today. There was no way to check his theory with Bela sticking around and making I-know-it-all comments in her usual charming style. Maybe. He didn't know for sure. Hell, he didn't even know if this bloody theory was anything but a big pile of shit.

Dean threw quick glance at the electronic clock blinking on the dashboard. Several hours earlier he dropped Bela and that Mark boy off at the hospital and let her deal with this Big Daddy business on her own, not that she minded anyway. Back then she seemed to be sort of relieved to get rid of him, probably liking the idea of keeping him away from her business. At this point he considered their team work over and now it was his turn to find out what the hell was going on in the damned woods and preferably make it stop. On his own.

The hex bag turned out to be of a summoning kind, not of a protection one like he half hoped – oh, right, like any of his hopes ever were justified! – and with Mark's story, not that he said much, about something chasing him followed by Bela's I-told-you-so-you-moron glare, and Sam's information it was making a rather screwed situation that even the best, or worst Halloween pranks couldn't beat.

So, whatever Bela wanted to say, Dean wasn't up to another fight at the moment. Not when he had other things on his mind. And since the fight was inevitable... He didn't have to keep her informed on his every step, for God's sake! Not that it was his idea of working together anyway. Not that such idea could ever occur to him.

Dean left the car at the clearance not far from where Ron Jenkins was killed less than 24 hours ago, once again happy about the fact that the love of his life was black, which worked so well for conspiracy. The place was completely deserted once again, but then again, Dean couldn't blame them. Apparently, even police didn't want to stick around here, what with all the inexplicable deaths that took place lately and shady reputation of the entire area. But who was he to complain? Dean chuckled softly to himself.

The night was clear and the air was chilly and his breath was puffing out in small clouds as he was making his way pretty much into nowhere doing nothing to keep his whereabouts secret. Holding flashlight in one hand, he tucked his shotgun into the waistband of his jeans and retrieved EMF from the pocket of his jacket. The thing creaked once, without any enthusiasm, and then died out, not at all interested in helping Dean in his search.

"Huh?" He gave EMF a slight shake and then shook his head. "Terrific." Everything was clear. No paranormal activity. So, now what? "Hey, ghosty, ghosty, ghosty!" He called out as though the spirit was a lost puppy and looked around checking EMF once again. Nothing. Not even one bloody squeal. "Aw, come on! Show up already! I don't want to freeze my ass here only because you're not in a chatty mood, dude!"

No one seemed to be caring for his comfort much though, which was insulting, or so Dean took it. Dying man deserved to have some privileges, no? Even people sentenced to death had their last wish (and Dean always wondered if any of them ever wished to stay alive and been granted that). He? He only got all sorts of trouble so far.

Dean sighed and looked up at the full moon casting its pale light at everything below and giving it silver-bluish shades. Well, at least there was no need for the flashlight this time. The silence was eerie and yet somewhat comforting. He took several deep breaths before continuing his walk feeling his lungs with fresh air.

Okay, maybe he picked the wrong time or the wrong day or… Wait a minute! Maybe after Bela removed the hex bag the summoning was no longer working? Now that was just great! And what was he supposed to do now? Put it back? Gee, awesome!

"Just tell me it isn't anything personal, man," Dean chuckled surprised by how far his voice seemed to go when there were no other sounds, and then added under his breath, "Because if it is, believe me, I'm going to hold it against you." Since talking to myself is kinda mental at any rate anyway.

He was about to turn around and head back to the motel, to cable TV and beer – because, firstly, this wild goose chase wasn't exactly his idea of fun and it probably was a good idea to make a better research first, maybe talk to Mark again and see if he could recall any other details beside "big, black and scary", and secondly, freezing to his bones for the second night in a row wasn't anywhere in his plans either – when the sound that Dean least expected to hear broke through the rest of other noises making him go completely still.

The hoofs. No doubt about that. And heavy breath mixed with random snorts.

Dean span around and took a step back, shocked and not expecting the damned thing to be so close, barely five feet away and so perfectly visible in the moonlight that it made goose-bumps crawl up Dean's spine.

The horse was tall and muscular. He was no expert but it seemed to be quite bigger than any other horse he'd ever come across in his life. It stood there snorting softly and stamping impatiently on the frozen earth with the front leg. On top of it Dean saw a man, all in black, his gloved hands holding the rein. It took him a second to register the picture and realize what was not right. Mesmerized, he tore his gaze away from the metal stirrups gleaming in the dim light and then traced his eyes up the man's legs and broad chest to the place where the head was supposed to be, and then swallowed hard.

The horseman didn't have a head.

Slowly, Dean stuffed dead EMF back into the pocket – and what use was of it anyway? – and reached for the shotgun loaded with rock-salt rounds. The very idea of using something like that against the Horseman and his pet seemed ridiculous to the core. And why wouldn't EMF detect the ghost? And, for God's sake, how could it get so close without him noticing? Oh, yeah, the ghost. And still, why wouldn't EMF detect it?!

The horse jerked its head up and down making Dean shake off his numbness.

"Whoa, man! Easy there. Are you Goth or what?" Backing slowly, Dean chuckled nervously all not so sure the Horseman could hear him at all, what with him not having ears. The threat coming from it was almost tangible in the air rolling on Dean like huge waves. "No wonder you're so gloomy. You need to so something with that style of yours and stop hanging out only at night."

He was trying to sound casual, playing cool as best he could and knowing way too well that he wasn't pulling it because okay, he could admit it to himself – and to himself only – that he DID NOT expect to see the bloody Headless Horseman when he was planning this little night trip. Well, not really. A bit thick-headed here, yeah? But his only witnesses were a professional liar and a teen with far too rich imagination. And, oh yeah, someone with Alzheimer perhaps. Gee, why wouldn't he trust any one them?

When the horse made a small step forward Dean finally concentrated enough to see that its eyes were indeed gleaming with eerie red glow, not to obvious in the moonlight like they'd probably be in complete darkness. Momentarily he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The echo of deafening shot scattered across the woods and died in the distance. Yet, the load went right through the ghost without any significant damage. The Headless Horseman did not blow off like a balloon pinched with a needle – the way his kind normally did. He remained where he was, looking solid as rock, with the only exception that Dean saw with his own eyes how he was hit with the rock salt. That was so not good!

Still, it seemed to be enough to piss the guy off pretty badly. The horse buckle kicking the air with its front legs and before Dean had time to blink, the Horseman drew out a sword, its blade winked at Dean teasingly reflecting the moonlight, and raised it above his head. Or at least above where the head was supposed to be.

"Oh, crap," Dean muttered to himself taking another small step back and wishing he could simply dissolve in the air. "Listen, man, I'm sorry," he said a bit louder. "Let's not be twelve and get over it, okay? You go your way, I go mine. What'd you say?"

The horse huffed and jerked its head up and down, as if saying, "Yeah, rrrright!" And this was the moment when Dean realized that the trick didn't work and the fun was over. If Sam was right – and unfortunately geek boy had a tendency to be right – then Dean was in a big trouble, what with the rock salt not working, to begin with.

Dean turned around and started to run fully aware of his more than low chances to win this race. Statistically speaking, it was hardly possible for a man to outrun the horse, physically. Leave alone outraged ghost horse, and frustrated snorting behind his back and undoubtedly quickened pace of their run left no questions about animal's mood.

So, what was plan B now, Dean thought absently concentrated mostly on not tripping. His lungs were burning by this time and striving for air badly, not quite satisfied with small sharp intakes of breath he was taking. His legs hurt, and although the moonlight was enough to make his earlier walk safe, it was far too dim for the cross. Strange that his eyes still were where they belonged, he decided grimly; he had all chances to have them poked out with the branches.

The horse was closing in, Dean could feel it, and also he could have sworn that the movement of the air above his head every now and then was a result of the sword being swung in his direction. Damn! The last time was a bit too close for comfort.

Dean turned to the right abruptly, barely missing yet another trunk of the tree as he figured out that for a horse carrying a man it would not be as easy to do the same thing, and that could probably win him a moment or two. It was all he needed, just to gulp some air. But still, the problem remained. He didn't know where to run and with rock salt being useless – what a tease! – he had no idea how else to deal with all this shit. Of course, right at the moment, the only option was to keep running until he collapsed, exhausted. Meaning, he was only putting off the inevitable. And wasn't it the best realization he had ever had? Oh, one more – it wasn't like the ghost could ever get tired.

Another turn, to the left now, when he started to feel hot breath of the animal falling on the back of his head. Yet, he didn't risk to look over his shoulder to check if his followers really were that close scared to run into the tree and put and end to everything right there and then.

It was probably the spell, Dean guessed. The summoning spell was keeping the ghost safe from the rock salt, like a shield. Not exactly the most comforting thought as well.

He tripped but managed not to fall, his arms threw up into the air awkwardly. And since when the bloody shotgun had got so heavy? His strength was quickly running out, and the worst thing was that Dean was fully aware of it. As well as of what would follow. How long was this wild chase going anyway? Five minutes? Ten? An hour? Felt pretty much like forever. And how much time did he have? More than a moment or less?

Being run over by the horse or chopped into confetti by its owner wasn't quite Dean's idea of dying, truth be told. Not that going to hell was any better either, he had to admin, but come on! This was almost shameful!

Another turn – he didn't care where he was running anymore since he had no idea where he was anyway – and suddenly big black figure was right in front of him, apparently sick and tired of this cat and mouse game. Bad thing about ghosts was that they didn't exactly need to run. Dean skidded to a halt almost stumbling into the heavy-breathing horse, heart racing in his chest so fast that he was pretty sure it had very good chances of jumping out of his throat had he dared to open his mouth wide enough.

He was tired and oxygen-thirsty brain refused to start thinking. The long-desired break felt almost like a relief.

Dean watched the Headless Horseman standing right before him as he kept gasping hungrily for air. He needed a plan. Now. Before he was turned into spaghetti. A decapitated spaghetti, speaking of that. Bloody hell, it was so not cool! Almost like having his ass kicked by the girl or something. Yet, nothing good came to his mind, and some part of him stopped caring at some point.

It was like a game now, not a cat and mouse anymore, but the one where the participants had to overlook one another. The one who breaks eye contacts first loses. With the only exception that Dean had to eyes to look into, if only those of the horse. And still, he didn't feel like moving or looking away, his mind strangely blank, as though hypnotized by the reddish glow. Distractedly, he wondered whether this color – so unnatural and surreal – was an indication of blood thirst. Or maybe he could see hellfire.

Hellfire. Yeah, soon he'd find out how it would feel to be in the middle of it…

Dean jerked back at the thought fighting the panic that started to rise inside of him and feeling a strong urge to be anywhere but this damned place. He needed to start running again, needed more than anything to shake off this odd indifference and…

A glint of a sword that whistled through the air brought Dean back to reality on an instant as soon as his mind registered the danger. The sword that was supposed to cut his head off, to end his whole life, everything he ever did, everything he was, and leave only emptiness behind.

"Look, dude, you of all people… um, ghosts, wouldn't like to know what I have in my mind right at the moment, and believe me, if you try my head on, I swear my curse will be your curse. Not that I really mind passing it down, but I prefer to do it staying in one piece."

Damn it, Winchester, it isn't the worst situation you'd ever been in, so why wouldn't you just wiggle out of it like you did before? But it was different now. The deal was pressing in on him, making him weaker, less determined, less willing to keep fighting, physically or emotionally. He only wished it was over at last, one way or another.

But his body reacted faster than that, and when the Horseman aimed its sword at Dean once again, he raised his right hand up instinctively to protect his head, forced out of his trans when white-hot pain struck his arm as the blade sliced it effortlessly cutting through the layers of his clothes.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed feeling warm sticky blood streaming through the cut, soaking the sleeve of his shirt and the jacket. He looked down at the long wound and then up at his attacker who was drawing the deadly weapon up again for the new strike as the horse stepped forward.

Even knowing the effortlessness of his attempt, Dean cocked the gun up and pulled the trigger. The effect was the same – meaning, no effect at all – but before the smoke caused by the shot faded away, Dean was running again, weak like never before but grateful for these precious minutes of rest all the same.

Think, Dean! Think! You know the damned story, been reading it over and over again as a kid. You know that an answer is somewhere there perhaps. A hint. A clue. Why else would the legends exist in the first place?

The horse was approaching quickly, and Dean's tricks were not working anymore. Either he stopped being unpredictable, too drained by this moment, or the damned thing was learning too fast. Not that he wanted this hunt to become his last one but…

His ears caught some sounds that Dean knew wasn't there moments ago. At first he thought that the rain started again – the fact of the sky being cloudless and the moon still where he last saw her somehow left his mind – until he realized that he was running along the river. Meaning, no turning right unless he wanted…

Oh, God! Of course! The river! The ghosts couldn't cross the running water, that's why when being followed by the Headless Horseman, the victims were running to the bridge which was their only chance to be saved. Dean had no idea if it was true, or if it was just a legend, and if it was going to work after he failed to take the thing down with the rock salt, but right at the moment he had no other ideas. So, he turned to the right feeling momentarily that it became easier to run now that he was running down towards the bank.

Dean couldn't see the river in the fog rising from the water and crawling along the ground. Not even the moonlight reflecting in the surface. Yet, he was led by the sound of, not quite sure if it was coming closer with his approach, what with the fog making everything muffled. He was relieved to find out that his follower slowed down a little, probably out of fear to run too fast down the slope but he was still right at Dean's heels and unless the river appeared soon…

It appeared sooner than Dean expected, practically out of nowhere. He didn't even register what exactly had happened when the ground suddenly went from under his feet and the next moment he was flying head-forward somewhere into the darkness until his hand that he reached out on instinct to cushion his fall hit freezing cold water. Sharp pain shot through his injured arm. Still breathing hard after long and exhausting run, Dean gasped and the very next moment he had tow lungs full of cold water.

It took him a couple of moments to understand where the bottom and surface were before he started pushing himself up working mainly with his legs, one of his arms wasn't quite functional and another one was still holding the shotgun in tight grip.

Everything around was black when he came out, coughing and spitting, his lungs burning twice nastier now that he added one more feeling of discomfort to his list. He couldn't see the bank at first – couldn't even understand from which side of the river he got into the river, more like it. Another wave of panic rolled on him burying him under a million of horrible prospects as he realized that by picking the wrong direction he might come right back to the thing that he was so eager to avoid. The damned fight was worth winning, for Christ's sake! He hadn't nearly got half of his arm cut off for nothing! But he was too tired, and the current was too strong, and the water was so cold that he could barely feel his fingers and toes. Dean knew that if he didn't get out soon, he'd send all his attempts to survive right to hell by stupid drowning.

And that was exactly when he saw him, the Headless Horseman. Well, seeing him was rather problematic at night but the dance of the moonlight on the mirror-like blade of the sword was impossible to miss.

Dean jerked back almost sure for one very long moment that the ghost was going to follow him into the water. But it didn't, and when the thought finally occurred to Dean, he started making his way towards the opposite bank as quickly as possible getting splashes of water into the face every now and then, fighting with the current and small whirlpools and trying to keep up whatever was left of his ability to breathe.

He nearly groaned with relief when his feet grazed against the bottom of the river and his progress became more efficient. In the end Dean nearly crouched onto the bank, his fingers grasping at the grass and low bushes until he finally fell awkwardly, rolled onto his back and closed his eyes gulping the air but never getting enough. His heart was thumping crazily and his brain was definitely not getting enough oxygen to think straight but somewhere in the back of his mind Dean knew that he escaped this time. Cheated on Death once again, or so he assumed since the whole ten seconds had passed and he was still alive and in one piece.

He was wet and cold – what the hell was wrong with this forest if he always ended up like this every time he dared to come here?! – and he had absolutely no idea where he was or how to get back to town but he could hardly remember the last time he felt so good. Alive.

It was close this time, a bit too close maybe.

For a very long time Dean stayed motionless listening to his own breath and making sure he had no major injures, but then the rush of the wind sent shivers down his entire body reminding him that it was a very good idea to try and figure out how to get back to the Impala before his blood froze in his veins. Son of a bitch wasn't going to steal any of his priceless days. That Dean wasn't going to let happen.

Moaning – and who was there to judge anyway? – he propped himself on the elbow of his more or less unharmed arm and looked around, confused. Okay, where was his car now? He had absolutely no clue how far he got into the forest, and in what direction he was moving anyway. Natural sense of navigation, huh? Well, he only knew that under any circumstances he should not cross the river again. The rest? He decided he'd figure out the rest along the way… as soon as he got to his feet or something.

Dean shook his head causing a fountain of water drops from his hair and realized that he was still holding his shotgun tight. He chuckled. Who would have thought it was such a lousy weapon against some… things?

"Dean!"

The voice gave him a start and made him snap his head up. everything inside of him twisted into a tight knot. Wait a sec! How could…? What was she doing there? And so close, too. Right behind… Was it another trick or…?

Clumsily, Dean hoisted himself up on his feet feeling the earth swaying slightly beneath his feet, his legs trembling a bit. Yet, it was by any means a lot less embarrassing then lying on the ground when Bela suddenly appeared from behind the trees, looking rather frantic and with the flashlight clutched in her hand.

"Jeez, this place is way too crowded at this time of the day," Dean chuckled and then coughed. Yep, there definitely was too much water in his lungs for comfort.

"Dean?"

"Hey," his voice was hoarse and he wished he could wave at her, or at least say something other than Hey, only it turned out that it would take too much effort. What a nice surprise!

Bela stopped in her tracks several steps away from him and blinked in surprise as if she wasn't really sure that her eyes weren't deceiving her. And then, "Are you crazy or what?!" She bellowed stomping in his direction, and Dean suspected that the general idea was to deafen him or something. Wouldn't put it past her. "What are you doing here?"

Honestly?

"Go and yell at someone else," Dean grumbled wincing, his teeth chattering.

"Jesus, what happened?" She was at his side before he noticed and slipped one arm supportively around his waist when he tripped in the dark, anger in her voice now mixed with concern. Now that was embarrassing! "You okay? Why… why are you so wet?"

"See, I have this thing for the late night swimming, sweetheart." Dean gave her the best impression of a grin, given his condition.

"Are you serious?" She blinked, confused.

He swallowed when it occurred to him that she was a bit closer than he expected.

"Never mind."

She opened her mouth to comment on it one way or another, but then something else caught her attention. "Oh, my God, Dean, is this…" Bela looked into his face. "Is this blood?"

They both looked down at his arm. She – to have another confirmation of what she already knew for sure. He – to get what the hell she was talking about. Good thing about being cold was that he stopped feeling pain as well.

"Shit! It was my favorite jacket. Can you believe it?" Dean shook his head.

Bela huffed. It was irritating to see him half-turned into a popsicle and yet so put down by the ill fate of his clothes instead of taking seriously his own state. Unbelievable! So very Dean! Not that she knew him well enough to judge, Bela reminded herself with slight regret. But that was exactly what she expected of him speaking from past experience.

"Oh, really?"

Dean snorted at the sarcasm in her voice. "Material valuables, Bela. You must be familiar with the concept."

"Did you hit your head as well?" She asked with a frown. He couldn't see it, what with the lack of light, but the picture was pretty clear in his mind. Her voice was implying enough.

Perhaps she was right, about his head, too. Why else would he be so glad to see her? And how did she get here again?

"Ha-ha," he said flatly when nothing better came to his mind.

"Come on, fish boy." Bela paused to look around anxiously one last time before pulling Dean with her. "We don't want to stay here longer than necessary, do we?"

***

"Okay, I get it, you have a serious problem with the hero complex, Dean. But you have to fight it or something." Bela chuckled shaking her head. "Don't move!"

They were sitting in the front seats of her rented car parked some twenty feet from the Impala. Lights on and first aid kit in her lap, Bela was doing her best with dealing with the consequences of Dean's little field trip.

When she demanded his medical supplies some ten minutes earlier, he complied without a word of objection. And now he was sitting with his lips pursed and his teeth clenched tight, listening to her rambling on how stupid he was, or not really listening as it all sounded like an annoying buzz to him, and feeling an overwhelming urge to flee since Bela wasn't exactly Florence Nightingale in his eyes. Not even Dr. Grey, speaking of that, among all other things. Be damned Sam and this stupid show on cable. And he was too tired to even try and protest.

Apparently, it was his luckiest day after all. Not only he survived his encounter with deadly spirit (shaken but not defeated, huh?), it also turned out that he made a circle and ended up only half a mile away from where he had left the car. At least it explained how Bela had found him, although it didn't happen before he made a crack on her having radar for him, which she didn't dignify with any kind of response.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" She inquired.

"Um, I met the Headless Horseman."

"Thank you, Dean! I kind of got that already." She darted a pointed look at his arm before fixing her eyes on his once again. "You're such an idiot!" She breathed out reaching for the bandage.

"Gee, thanks!" He scoffed suppressing the convulsive shivers.

It was humiliating enough to let her help him – let alone help him get undressed so that she could take care of his wound – to stand her never-ending I-told-you-so's, too.

His leather jacket – completely ruined now that one of the sleeves was only elbow-long – was lying in the back seat, and so was his button-down flannel. Both, Dean knew, sort of saved him from having his arm cut off as they took the greater impact of the blade. This left him only in tight black t-shirt, and even with the heater on and working at its best he was still freezing, what with his soaked clothes and "below zero" temperature outside.

Dean stole a quick glance at Bela. She was herself again, composed and calm and like playing a nurse was something that she was doing on daily basis. Or maybe ER was her favorite show, he wasn't sure. She had changed, too – not that he was supposed to notice such things – and her hair looked perfect, falling on her shoulders in gentle waves as though she'd spent a couple of hours in some fancy salon. Not that he cared about anything like that either. Still, Dean wondered absently if she was looking so good only out of wish to make him feel even more uncomfortable than he generally was when he was around someone with real money. Around her in particular.

"Ouch!" Dean winced and jerked his arm snapping out of his thoughts when whatever she was doing set his skin on fire.

Bela caught him by the wrist and gave him a glare. "Don't. Move."

"Why don't you find yourself another hobby?" He hissed offended by her implication was he wasn't able to take care of himself but then just trailed off on mental wave of hand. It was a rhetoric question anyway.

She surprised him by answering, "Well, I have to set the score."

"Whatever." He muttered. "What are you doing here, Bela?"

"Except for wasting my time, you mean?"

"Except for that," he made a face.

"Well, obviously, I have a sick idea of fun."

Huh? "What?"

She hemmed shaking her head. "Sam called. Said he couldn't reach you…"

"What?! Bloody hell!"

Dean wiggled out of her grip and reached into the backseat for his jacket.

"Dean!"

He ignored her in favor of going through the pockets and muttering curses under his breath until his fingers touched a piece of plastic. Dean pulled his phone out and growled with frustration when his eyes locked on it, broken in two parts and dripping water on his knees.

"Crap."

"Are you done?" Bela snatched the no-longer functional gadget from him and tossed it carelessly back under Dean's displeased look. "What? It's useless anyway. Can I finish now?" She grabbed his arm again. "So, Sam called… And just for the record, I'm sick and tired of you guys using me for communication. But anyway, your brother needed you for something. He didn't tell me what it was, or maybe he was just missing you badly, but you would never pick up your phone. And I know that you two have this slight issue with keeping in touch 24/7…"

"Are you going to cut to the point any time this week?" Dean asked in pointedly calm voice.

"That's what I'm doing. Sam thought that maybe you had a dead battery or something. Whatever. And, as foolish as it may sound, he supposed that you could be somewhere around me." And she rolled her eyes as if was the craziest thing to think about. Well, now at least she knew what Sam meant when he mentioned extreme risks.

"Yeah, what a ridiculous supposition. And?"

"And… you weren't at the hospital, obviously, because I was there when Sam called." She continued in that smooth voice that she knew was setting Dean's teeth on edge. "And there was no way you'd go to Mark's father to claim the reward with that I work for free only written on your face." And it probably was a miracle that the glare that Dean gave her didn't know her out. "You weren't at the motel either because it was the first place I checked. Optimistically, I supposed that you wouldn't hit the nearest strip-bar now that the case is not over yet. Assuming all of that, it wasn't hard to guess what was the best place to look for you."

Dean blinked but regained his cool quickly. "Wow! Impressive, Sherlock!"

"Some of us can think, see. Unlike the others." And she arched her brows meaningfully at him but Dean failed to figure if the insult referred to his miserable loss against the Headless Horseman or to her opinion about his mental abilities in general.

"Yeah, you kinda made that pretty clear already." Dean nodded with a smile trying to stay focused, his mind a bit fuzzy. "So, back to what are you doing here…" He gave her a suspicious look. "I mean your part is done. You found the boy… Well, we found the boy but that's details. Honestly, I'm surprised not to see you packing, which causes logical question…" His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Call it curiosity!" Bela said brightly. "And charity. Haven't been much into it lately."

"Huh? What does any of that have to do with charity?"

"Working for free is charity," she explained with mock patience, shut the lid of the first aid kit and passed it over to Dean.

"Cute!" Bela and delicacy. The woman had a unique ability to say with the most charming smile and in the sweetest voice the words that would make one wish to go and take a shower. "You know, I feel so much better now, looking back at all the years..." he trailed off.

"To make it even better you should start wearing tights and call yourself Dean 'Robin Hood' Winchester," she offered willingly.

"I'll think about it." He promised.

Bela hemmed trying to imagine the picture in her mind, then buckled her seatbelt and started the engine.

Sam and Dean jumping from tree to tree with bows and arrows, Impala long forgotten in favor of horses. It was impossible to imagine them stealing from the rich to give to the poor though but the whole nature of their hobby was not that far from something like that, so…

"Hey, what… What are you doing?" Dean anything but jumped on his seat when he finally registered that the car was moving and whirled around to look at the Impala that was getting smaller with each passing moment in the back window. Then turned to scowl at Bela.

"Relax, Dean. Nothing's going to happen to your precious car. The guy over there has his transport already."

"Turn around." He ordered in low growl.

"You're in no condition to drive." She gave him a pitiful look voicing the obvious.

And she was right, damn her but still… "Bela…"

She rolled her eyes. "We'll pick your car first thing in the morning, okay? Now fasten your seatbelt."

"Bite me." Dean made a face at her and turned away to look out his window. Ignored her words about the seatbelt completely, stubborn in his wish not to do whatever she could possibly ask.

She was right after all – although he would never say anything like that to her, even if she had a gun pointed at his head – and deep inside it was a relief to know that he didn't have to think about anything else at the moment. Not that he could anyway. Now that he got warmer, his arm began to throb dully and Dean's thoughts reeled to his duffel bag and a whole bottle of Ibuprofen pills but he just didn't feel like moving to get it. He stifled a yawn. The level of adrenaline in his blood, the only reason why he was still alive perhaps, started to drop and suddenly Dean felt endlessly tired and completely drained. Numb.

Strange how often he was feeling like that lately. So indifferent. He was tired of always thinking about the others. Tired of Sam's angst and Bobby's silent mourning. Tired of so many things that he couldn't see his life without before… because he knew that he was dying. It sort of gave everything he did some odd finality. Whatever. For now he was all too willing to let Bela call the shots. For a while. He didn't even really care where she was taking him.

"So?" Bela's voice reminded Dean of where he was and of how he got there in the first place.

He rubbed tiredly at his eyes knowing exactly what she was waiting for. And sending her right to hell was tempting, he had to admit.

"Sam's got a theory, on the pattern of murders," Dean said instead, and snorted as if the very idea of Sam having a theory on anything was utterly impossible.

"O-okay. And?"

He sighed. "See, all victims were men, 25 to 35 years old. That's why you and Mark got out alive. Mark was too young." Dean paused to give her a long once-over. "And whatever you are, sweetheart, at least we found out that you're most likely not male."

"Charming!" Bela wished she didn't have to hold on to the steering wheel so that she could fold her arms on her chest. Yet, she gave Dean her best smile, all teeth, and batter eyelashes at him for good measure. "So, you two morons jumped to conclusions without having any proof, and you, all prince in shining armor in the flesh, rushed ahead into battle swinging your sword above your head." Bela shook her head on a smirk. "Oh, sorry, I forgot that the horseman in the story is not you."

Dean's scowl deepened. He hated it when she was like this, all so right. And he hated even more when he had nothing to say. So, he just grimaced at her.

"I don't remember you having any bright ideas," he pointed out.

"See the difference between bright and sane." She snorted, and then sighed. "Okay, let's assume for a minute that your genius brother was right…"

"Apparently, he was."

Bela's eyes darted towards his fresh bandage. "Yeah, well..." She pulled the car to a stop at the motel parking lot and cut the engine. "At least I'm not crazy anymore, yeah?" She added more to herself than to him climbing out after Dean.

He dove into the back seat for a moment to get his stuff and then walked to his room without so much as thank you, or even a look back. Bela failed to figure if it meant that she was supposed to follow without any specific invitation or that he didn't really care. Dean Winchester and manners weren't exactly best friends. She debated getting back into the car and winding off. She was not less tired after all, and the thought of hot bath and soft bed that were waiting for her in her own hotel – actual hotel and not a dump of a place that charged by the hour – almost made her moan in anticipation. But then she sighed, locked the car and went after Dean. He's been through quite a lot, and the least she could do – after all she'd done already, Bela reminded herself on mental snort – was to make sure he actually was okay. In the best way possible.

She caught up with him a moment before he had a chance to slam the door in her face.

"What?" Dean frowned when he saw her on the doorstep, surprised and not really happy in Bela's opinion. "I'm in no condition and not really resourceful for anything daredevelish in the nearest future, so consider yourself free for tonight."

Bela ignored his not so subtle hint to get out and walked past him into the room.

Dean sighed and closed the door behind her. Should have invited her instead, he thought if a little belatedly. Trust her to refuse to come anywhere near him in that case.

Surreptitiously, he gave her a studying look. Now, with the lights on, he registered dark circles beneath her eyes; recalled that the previous night – and wasn't really the previous night??? Felt longer! – was the hell for both of them… and scowled at himself for giving a shit.

She stopped in the middle of the room, arms folded on her chest, and regarded him appraisingly from head to toe.

"Just bate my curiosity, Dean. What exactly were you thinking when you went there all alone?"

"Rock salt was supposed to work, for starters."

"But it didn't."

He was so not in a mood to keep up the fight.

"Why are you even still here, Bela? If you came to lecture me, screw you. I don't give a crap about what you're thinking." He waved his hand dismissively at her and winced at how his words sounded, a bit self-conscious by the second and doing his best in trying to think straight. He could be an ass sometimes, but never an ungrateful ass. And he was grateful after all…

Call Sam. He needed to call Sam and tell him he was alive before his brother went farther than contacting Bela. That fact itself already showed that he was at the verge of panic. God knows what might come to that brainic head of his next. And why it always was like this with the cell phones? Why would they always break/die/drown, or all of that together, when you needed them most? That was beyond Dean. The other thing beyond him was why would he think about any of that. Oh, right, he needed to call Sam. So, the phone…

"You look terrible," Bela told him, as though it was something he didn't know already, her voice a bit softer than she intended it to be. You should have some rest, she wanted to say instead but couldn't quite bring herself to voice something like that. "Don't you think it was a bit extreme?"

"Oh, I don't know. Felt pretty refreshing, won't you say?"

She hemmed. "Yeah, well, I see. Dark night. Cold water."

"Careful, Bela, or I will get an impression that you actually care."

What if I do? "Don't flatter yourself! Why would I?"

"Why are we talking about any of that anyway? You know where the door is." Dean waved his hand at her, then walked up to the dresser and pulled open one of the drawers to find dry clothes. Um, the phone. There was one on the night stand…

"Fine. Not that your well-being is any of my business."

She turned on her heels when Dean didn't grace her with so much as goodbye, all too busy to acknowledge her leaving obviously, a little too hurt than she was willing to admit.

Cautiously, Dean looked over his shoulder to make sure she was actually leaving surprised by how quickly they got over sending quippy comments at one another part, relieved, confused and inexpertly disappointed by the outcome.

He couldn't stay for long around Sam because his concerned looks and guilt and My brother is dying because of me written all over his face were steadily making Dean wish to punch his little bro. As if he forced Dean to sell his soul. As if Dean regretted even for one short moment that he did it. But this way he at least knew that Sam was okay. Well, knowing that Sam was with Bobby sort of worked that way, too. They both needed a break.

As for Bela, she annoyed hell out of him simply by existing but now that she was making her way out of his room, it reminded him that in a couple of seconds he would be left all alone with his thoughts and fears and nightmares that sometimes kept him wide awake till dawn, eyes open and peering sightlessly at the ceiling. So not something he was looking forward to. If only because of that he didn't quite want her to leave feeling with growing panic the demons crawling into his mind. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone but himself…

Still, a t-shirt and sweatpants in hand, Dean slammed the drawer shut and followed Bela to the door to close it properly behind her, both locks and a chain, paranoid over safety that he was. With the prospect of a very long night ahead he wished he would just black out after everything that had happened, sink into deep dreamless abyss.

Bela turned all of a sudden on, "Oh, and do me a favor…" when her hand was already lying on the door knob, and trailed off when she found herself standing face to face, literary speaking with Dean (When did he get so close? And… what was she going to say again?) who hardly heard her as he was talking too.

"Bela…" not quite sure what exactly he was going to say. Maybe even nothing at all. Maybe he would just fall silent and look like a dork.

She looked up, a little too concerned to notice deep lines around his eyes and absolutely world-weary expression now that she could see past fake bravado and witty wisecracks. Right at the moment Dean Winchester looked like he had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. And okay, she knew that he was good at what he was doing, and furthermore, she had no reasons no doubt the fact that he was a good man but that was just a bit too much, the latest events assumed.

Dean swallowed fighting to find strength to take a step back, let her go and shut the door, both physically and emotionally.

"What?" They asked at the same time.

She – automatically. He – out of wish to keep himself focused on something other than her lips more than anything else, his voice low and hoarse.

"Don't sneak out the window." Bela's voice dropped to a whisper by the time she ended the phrase, not as sarcastic as it was meant to be.

He felt her breath on his lips and somewhere in the back of his mind Dean knew that he was probably having fever, or so he wished to believe. Say something, you dork! Something that would make her slam and door in your face and run away fuming and angry. Get back to a familiar territory before it's too late. Damn it, you have no right…

"Don't go."

The words surprised him as much as they surprised her. And Dean only realized that he said them out loud when Bela raised her hand and put it on his chest where his heart was beating under her palm; her eyes never looking away from his. The urge to run away grew stronger. To escape. He was walking on thin ice, or a minefield, knowing that each step could be fatal. She didn't know what she was doing. What she was getting herself into. But that was how it usually worked with danger – it was addictive. And Dean was so grateful for the rare chance to blame what was happening on his exhaustion, and inability to think straight, and utter lack of wish to keep denying the obvious. He didn't want to deny anything anymore.

To be continued…

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