The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 4: Don't Stop Me Now

It's been a long night. No amount of staring at a computer screen, gulping down instant coffee, note-taking and zooming in and out on pictures of Megan's room has brought me any closer to figuring this case out. At first light I rub my bloodshot eyes and drag myself away from my makeshift desk (a rickety wooden table covered in ancient cigarette burns), no longer able to ignore the sunlight streaming in through the motel curtains. I need to refuel. Time to head to the nearest diner for something to eat and better coffee.

Ten minutes later, I'm seated in a cherry red booth at Brocky's Diner, so tired I can barely remember driving myself there. Sinking into the cracked leather cushions, I melt into a bleary mess, pulling my sunglasses down over my eyes. A menu is set in front of me but I barely have the strength to grunt at the waitress – thankfully she's seasoned enough to know that means I need coffee, stat. A major headache has set in, and I can barely think straight. The fact I'm sucking down coffee every two minutes probably doesn't help, but I can't even think about sleeping until I find some clue about what killed Carla and Louise, and where their daughters have disappeared to.

My head is aching so much that I even curse the little jingle of the diner door. I close my eyes and rub my temples, which means I don't see the owner of the heavy footsteps approaching. Someone slides into the seat opposite me and plonks an object on my table. My eyes snap open to see a bunch of flowers sitting by my coffee. Peonies.

Startled, I glance up to see the last person on my mind: Dean, the cute fed from last night. Slowly, I lower my sunglasses, studying the peonies and then Dean. This is not some weird coincidence – it's the same bouquet the vetala offered me in the parking lot last night.

Dean gives me a pointed smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and tilts his head, daring me to react.

"Heard they're your favorite," is all he says, but in that moment something passes between us and I can feel everything unraveling. I smile thinly in the face of his mute accusation. Damn it. I do not need this, not this week.

Kelly the waitress chooses that moment to arrive, pouring Dean a cup of coffee and glancing back and forth between us. She's plump and weary in her peach uniform, with teased blonde hair piled on top of her head and way too much black eyeliner on for this time of morning.

"I didn't know you had friends in town, Sid," she says, but I get a feeling that's code for is everything all right here? Kelly and I bonded yesterday by griping about ex-boyfriends, although I let her do most of the talking. She eyes Dean with undisguised suspicion.

"Oh yeah, me and Sid, we're old friends," Dean says, turning to Kelly with a winning smile. It probably would have had an effect if she wasn't – how did she put it? – off men for life. Kelly narrows her eyes at him, then turns to me.

"This the guy you were telling me about?" she asks dryly, and I somewhat guiltily remember my fabricated story of being on a solo road trip to get away after a bad break-up. Kelly leans forward and whispers, "He's gonna have to do better than peonies."

I feel a surge of something then – acceptance? Solidarity? Girl power? Maybe I should visit this town more often, I can actually make friends here. I smile at Kelly with genuine affection. "It's cool, Kelly. He's just a friend. Oh, and there's gonna be three of us, could we get another cup?"

Now it's Dean's turn to look surprised, and I can't hide a flicker of satisfaction.

"Expecting someone?" he asks. There's no sign of the flirting and charisma from last night – Dean's gaze is now sharp, a silent challenge. He doesn't know what to make of me, I realize. Could be my advantage.

"Your partner," I answer as soon as Kelly's out of earshot, cocking my head at a huddled young man who just sat down at the counter. Suspected Fed #2, mop of golden brown hair and everything. "Figured he'd want a coffee to go with The Financial Times."

Dean sighs, then slowly twists around in his seat. The men make eye contact, and seem to have a conversation purely through facial expressions. Suspected Fed #2 gathers up the newspaper and approaches us, sparing me an uncertain nod. He's something of a gentle giant, with a boyish face and very cautious body movements, as if the world is made of cardboard and he's afraid of destroying something by accident.

"Sid, Sammy," Dean introduces us, patting the younger guy a little too hard on the shoulder as he slides into the booth.

"Sam," the other guy corrects him, brushing Dean away in annoyance. No Agent or Officer there either.

Removing my sunglasses, I size Sam and Dean up, knowing that if push comes to shove I might not be able to take them both on. These guys are six feet of pure muscle and most likely armed. I'm going to have to tread carefully. The weight of the Smith & Wesson on my hip reassures me a little as I try to work out their story.

Obviously Dean and Sam were watching me last night, so they saw me kill. Twice. The way I figure, there's only three possible reasons I'm not in handcuffs right now. One, these guys have never seen a supernatural death before, and have a few questions as to what the hell they witnessed last night. Two, they're federal agents who know about hunters, and might be willing to let the killing slide in exchange for info. Or three, they're feds who also happen to be vetalas, and they don't want to arrest me, they want revenge.

Here's hoping for option number two.

"You gentlemen have any ID?" I ask, stirring the teaspoon in my coffee cup. Might as well verify who they're working for.

Dean gives a slight frown, while Sam looks to him as if he needs my accent translated. "What?" Dean asks, craning his neck as if he misheard me.

"Your badges," I emphasize. After more confused silence I press them. "Look, who are you working for?"

"We don't work for anyone, exactly," Sam finally answers, before gesturing at all three of us. "We're in the same line of business you are."

"Business...?" I'm beginning to think maybe there's a fourth option.

Dean juts his chin towards the charms around my neck, which most people assume are just pretty trinkets I picked up from a flea market. "Let's see," he says, holding up a hand and counting on his fingers. "You're wearing protection charms, travelling solo, you know how to nail a vetala, you got some mean knife skills and you're packing heat at breakfast. You're clearly a hunter."

I freeze, my palms tingling with both relief and dismay. Christ. These guys aren't feds, they're my kind. Hunters. I almost laugh – it's been so long since I've run into fellow hunters that this possibility had never even occurred to me. As Kelly approaches the booth to take our order I wonder with a sigh if she'll serve me a beer for breakfast.

"You folks ready to ord-"

"Three Sunrise Specials, eggs scrambled!" I say quickly, willing her to leave. The longer Kelly hangs around three hunters, the more likely it is she'll end up in some crazy crossfire, and I don't want to jinx this nice girl who in an alternate universe I might have been friends with. Kelly reels in confusion, before nodding and backing away. Lowering my voice as she disappears, I lean forward.

"It's a little early for this, isn't it?" I ask.

"What's wrong, you have a late night?" Dean asks, at the same time Sam says, "Early for what?"

"You know," I say to Sam, gesturing with one hand as I reach hungrily with the other for my coffee. I put on a mock macho American accent for effect. "You don't know what you're getting into. Hunting is dangerous. You're just a girl. This town ain't big enough for the two of us. Blah, blah."

I've clashed with territorial hunters before, if you can't tell.

"That's not exactly what we're going for, we're just trying to get things straight," Dean replies, and I raise an eyebrow when I hear my own words from last night quoted back at me. "Doesn't hurt to get things straight, right?"

"Touché," I answer, raising my coffee cup in a sarcastic toast. "So let me get this straight. Did you two know about the vetalas in this area? Were you using me as bait? You didn't do a thing to stop them."

Sam straightens in his seat, holding a finger in the air. "Uh, actually-"

"For all you knew I was an innocent girl," I add, shaking my head.

"Yeah, an innocent girl, ditching me in the can while she goes vetala hunting," Dean snorts. He spreads his hands wide, looking at me with mock hurt. "I bought you beer and everything. By the time I got out there the things were doing their flower trick. We were about to step in before you went all Gina Carano."

"I have no idea who that is," I mutter.

"Well it's a compliment," Dean says, waving a hand dismissively and reaching for his own coffee. "We saw you waste the uglies, but you bailed before we could, uh, debrief each other. So let's pick things up from there, shall we?"

"Debrief," I repeat flatly. Dean's use of that word makes me wonder if he actually does have a background in law enforcement, maybe even military. I frown, a thought suddenly occurring to me. "Have you been following me this whole time?" Is it possible I've been that careless?

"Well, no," Sam admits with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "We figured we'd track you down today and see what your angle is. This is the only breakfast diner in town, so."

"Got me there," I say as Kelly arrives carrying three plates piled with bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. She pointedly ignores Dean's pleasantries, stopping only to raise her eyebrows at Sam's loudly growling stomach. I hide a smile, pulling my hot plate towards me and salivating at the smell.

"So, my angle," I say slowly, spiking my eggs with my fork and wondering if I even want to be sharing information with Sam and Dean. Pros: if they're legit hunters posing as feds, they could have leads that I've missed, hence speeding up the time it's taking to find Megan. Cons: they might slow me down, or worse, they might not be legit.

"I'm working the Brown case," I say, deciding to risk trusting them. Legit or not, Sam and Dean can access the sheriff's department when I can't, and I could certainly use that help. If they're something else – something worse – well, they're going to regret getting in my way.

"Right," Sam says, nodding knowingly. "And the Fletcher case in Elizabethtown, I'm guessing."

"The Fletcher case?" I repeat before catching on. "Oh, Louise. She was a friend of Carla's."

"In both cases, the victims had broken necks, we have witnesses who claim the bodies were floating in mid-air, and the victims' daughters have gone missing," Sam says, opening his newspaper. Inside are loose sheets of scrawled notes and photos – looks like The Financial Times merely functions as a cover for his case files. Sam rummages for a second as Dean shovels bacon into his mouth. "The missing girls are Ashlee Fletcher… and-"

"Megan," I cut him off impatiently. "Megan Brown. Can I see that?"

"Sure," Sam says, beginning to slide the papers over, but Dean intercepts and plants a hand on top of the pile.

"And the vetalas?" he asks mid-chew, not budging as my hand hovers over the notes. "How'd they fit into this?"

"Coincidence," I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "I took 'em out, but they knew nothing about the missing kids. It was just my lousy luck to get jumped by them. Besides, vetalas can't levitate people. We're dealing with something else. Something worse."

"It's always something worse," Dean remarks grimly.

He releases the papers and I snatch them to my side of the table. I inhale sharply as my gaze falls on the crime scene picture of Carla's broken body, trying in vain to keep my expression indifferent. Unfortunately I get the feeling Dean's green eyes can see right through me, recognizing every emotion my face tries to hide. He watches closely as I absentmindedly trace a finger against the photograph.

I am going to destroy whatever was responsible for killing Carla, and if Megan's hurt… I can't even think about that yet.

Sam starts offering me his own theories (they have about as little to go on as I do), but suddenly that all-too-familiar awareness prickles at the back of my neck. As Sam continues talking, I keep my gaze fixed on his, alternating between him and Dean with a flick of my eyes. But I'm actually trying to catch sight of someone outside the window, someone who's been standing outside the diner way too long. Watching us.

Great. I can't tell if Sam or Dean have noticed – the person is outside their line of vision, but just on the periphery of mine. Is it another vetala? Another hunter? A creepy local? I want to check this out, but I don't think it'll be easy ditching Dean a second time. Keeping my smile light and pleasant, I casually pull my wallet and a pen out of my battered satchel, before reaching for the nearest napkin.

"This has been fun, guys," I say brightly, testing the pen on the napkin.

"What, you're out?" Dean asks incredulously. He glances around to make sure Kelly's not within earshot before adding, "I mean, the food here's not great, but you're really not gonna finish-"

"Just gotta powder my nose," I reply breezily, being careful to keep everything casual, everything smooth. If my instincts are right, I can't let whatever's lurking outside know that I've spotted it. After scribbling on the napkin, I fold it in half and slide it across the table to Dean, who eyes me quizzically but doesn't take it.

"My number," I explain, miming a phone with my hand and giving Dean an inviting smile. "Call me."

Sam begins to say something but I've already slipped a $20 note onto the table and stood up. Slinging my bag around me, I stride purposefully to the ladies room out back, plan already forming in my mind.

I'm in luck – as I burst into the empty bathroom I spy the window straight away, an honest, old-school window you can climb out of and not one of those annoying fly-wired ones. I swing my bag behind me and hoist myself upwards, grunting a little at the filth and grime I smear all over my hands and jeans as I wriggle the window open.

As I heave myself through the narrow window opening and land onto the gravel outside with a practiced crouch, I remember the hasty message I scrawled on the napkin for Sam and Dean:

We've been made. White sedan, outside.

Hey, I don't give my number out that easily.

Bag swinging behind me, I walk as stealthily as possible on the loose gravel, inching my way around the side of the diner to get a glimpse of the parking lot. Peering around the wall, I scan for the white sedan and immediately spot the lurker I'd sensed– it's a young guy, nineteen tops. He leans on the hood of the parked sedan with chubby arms folded and a baseball cap pulled low over his thick red hair, clearly watching Dean and Sam's booth through the diner window. I can't make them out, but I'm guessing Sam and Dean are still eating breakfast. Probably discussing what a whackjob I am.

The redhead doesn't look like a threat, but I've been blindsided by enough innocent-looking people to know that doesn't mean squat. I decide against drawing my gun in the carpark in broad daylight, settling on backing Sam and Dean up from a distance. If this is an ambush, I can take the redhead by surprise.

The diner door rattles and the redhead looks startled as Sam steps outside, closely followed by Dean. As soon as they make eye contact, the kid pushes himself away from the sedan and backs up in shock. Probably not an ambush then. Without wasting a second Sam and Dean take off after the guy as he spins around and flees.

I might not always be the strongest in a fight, but I'm usually the fastest. All those gymnastics tournaments my mum put me through as a kid, all those parkour lessons Mac and I took in Melbourne, all those nights darting across clustered chaotic rooftops in Spain hunting creatures after dark – it all comes thundering back to me every time I give chase.

Hair flying, I cut back through the diner's back alley, past grimy skips and milk crates, kicking off the brick wall and propelling myself upwards in a move I must have practiced hundreds of times. I clear the rickety wire fence and find myself behind the neighboring antique store, calculating that the redhead is probably running past this very second. I dart around the side of the store, tearing down the narrow side alley onto the main street where I can hear Dean yelling for the kid to stop.

Sprinting at full speed, the redhead is busy looking over his shoulder. He doesn't see me or my leg sweep until it's too late.

Whack! The momentum from being tripped/slammed into at top speed sends the kid flying into the alley I just sprung out of. He collides with a pile of boxes and rolls inelegantly to a stop, a crumpled mess against the brick wall. I feel a flicker of guilt when he doesn't move.

"What are you, part jackrabbit?" Dean grunts, skidding to a stop. "How'd you get over here so fast?"

I ignore that, too busy catching my breath and willing the adrenalin rush to fade. "Friend of yours?" I ask between pants.

Sam cautiously approaches the fallen boy, prodding him with a boot. "He's out cold," he announces, bending down to check the body.

"Uh, I guess I hit him a little hard," I say meekly, quietly kicking myself. Rookie mistake, Sid – you can't interrogate unconscious guys. "Is he okay?"

"Ah, he'll be fine," Dean shrugs, sweeping his gaze up and down the street to make sure there are no witnesses hanging around. I do the same, but thankfully the streets are empty. Dean herds me into the side alley with an incline of his head and we slip quietly into the shadows.

"Dean, this is the delivery boy," Sam reveals, voice tinged with surprise. He flips open the redhead's wallet and frowns slightly at the contents. "Josh Olsen-Monks. There's nothing but a driver's license and $4 in here."

"The delivery boy?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," Dean says in recognition, snapping his fingers. "The ginger kid. He was dropping off the mail when we stopped by the sheriff's office yesterday. Y'know, I thought he looked nosy."

"Why would a delivery boy be following you?" I ask, suspicions already forming in my mind. "The sheriff wouldn't send some kid out to spy on you guys."

"No," Sam agrees. "But someone else might. Someone who doesn't like us sniffing around the Brown case."

Inwardly, I let out a sigh. Josh isn't another vetala at least, but if somebody is trying to shut down Carla's murder investigation, that's yet another can of worms in a week that's already chock full of freaking worms. This hole just keeps getting deeper.

A pained groan sounds from Josh's body, and the effect of the noise is like a gunshot. We swoop down on the body but he remains unconscious. No telling how long he'll be out. Sam turns Josh onto his side, carefully making sure his breathing isn't obstructed and his head is cushioned. For some reason this small kindness impresses me.

"I think it's safe to say we're all on the same side, here," Dean finally says, stretching his arms out at Sam and me. "I say we coordinate efforts."

Sam shoots him a bewildered look, as if to say, coordinate what now? They probably aren't used to having a third wheel tagging along on their cases. I'm not exactly thrilled about it either.

"No, I think we should split up," I counter. "You guys are drawing some bad attention. Stay with the kid, ask him why the hell he's following you. I'm going to the sheriff's department to get to the bottom of this."

"Uh-uh," Dean says, shaking his head. "Our cover isn't blown yet. We're going with you."

I begin to protest but Dean cuts me off. "Babe, you hit Josh here like a freight train – 10 for style, by the way – but he's not comin' to for a while. I say me and 'Agent Young' over there pay the sheriff's office a little visit, nose around, see if we can pick out anyone who might know more about the missing kids than they're letting on. By the time Josh wakes up and tells his boss we're onto him, we'll be gone."

"This'll slow him down," Sam mutters. He's rifling through Josh's pockets, and after a second he retrieves the redhead's cell phone and car keys. With deft fingers Sam removes the phone battery and pockets the car keys, before returning the dead cell to Josh.

Straightening up and turning his gaze on me, Sam adds, "Besides, Josh probably didn't see you, Sid. Even if someone's tracking me and Dean, you might not be on their radar yet. If we work together we're at an advantage."

I plant my hands on my hips, but have to admit they have a point. This could be a mutually beneficial relationship – if only I wasn't so rusty with the whole playing nice with others thing. But hey, I'm a fast learner.

"All right," I agree. Whatever it takes to find these kids. "We better move. We'll take my car."

Dean snorts, swinging a set of keys around one finger and slinging an arm around my shoulders. "No baby, we're taking mine," he corrects me, steering me out of the alley as Sam follows. "You'll see why."

Together, Sam, Dean and I pretend we're walking casually back to the diner parking lot, ignoring the fact we just lifted some guy's car keys and left him unconscious in an alley. I shrug Dean's arm off me, opening my mouth to make a smartass remark before stopping dead in my tracks.

The boys have stopped by a sleek black muscle car with Kansas plates – it looks like a 1960s model Impala, and it is in showroom condition. I try to conceal how impressed I am, but can't help a smile when I see Dean's tough-as-nails exterior melt and his eyes light up as he unlocks the car. Sam catches me tracing a finger reverently along the chrome, and I grin sheepishly at him as he laughs and swings into the passenger seat. I slip into the back and discover the Impala's interior is just as sexy as the exterior – I should probably think about taking better care of my jeep.

"So, first stop, crooked sheriff's office?" Dean asks, bringing the engine to life with a roar. He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and winks. "Listen to that purr."

"Sheriff's office," Sam confirms, rummaging through the glove compartment and pulling out two FBI badges that I now know are fake. "And to be fair, we don't know if the sheriff's behind this."

"Soon find out."

As the Impala thunders out of the parking lot, I scan the other odds and ends lying around the dashboard – an army man that's been shoved into the ashtray, empty food containers, spent ammo, spatters of rock salt. This is a hunter's car, that's for sure. My eyes fall onto a box and I gasp and eagerly lean forward.

"Holy shit!" I blurt out in excitement. "Are they cassette tapes?"

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