Chapter Seven: Goodbye and Hello

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys! I didn't mean for it to take me so long to write this chapter. I've been looking for a job and signing up for college classes and the like so needless to say my schedule's been a little busy. Thank you for reading this far – it excites me so much to realize that people are actually finding my meaningless ramblings about this amazing show even remotely interesting. I love you all so much! Have a wonderful day/evening! 3**

John's sons placed his large, sheet-wrapped body on a makeshift cot set above a large pile of twigs and branches. Stepping back, Dean emptied a container of kerosene over the wood and set the scene aflame. With her hands in her pockets, Marley remained still, the brothers on either side of her, and she watched the blaze stony-faced; the flames danced in her emerald eyes. There were no words, nothing Marley could do to make up for this. Even as the Winchester brothers suffered beside her, all she could think to do was nothing.

"Before he- before he-," the words formed a lump in Sam's throat as he attempted to choke them out. "Did he say anything to you?" Dean's eyebrows pinched together, feigning concentration, but Marley mentally heard the words as he thought them: "If Sam gets too powerful, too ruthless, kill him, Dean. You'll have to kill him." But why kill Sam? What could he possibly do to deserve something like that? Wait- Marley halted her train of thought. If I'm one of the "special children" too, should I be wary of the same fate? John hadn't mentioned her, but did that mean she was safe? "Anything?" Sam repeated.

"No," Dean shook his head. "Nothing." Despite the outcome, and despite her fate, she'd promised John she would watch over Sam and Dean, and she would keep his deal with Yellow Eyes a secret. She had to, it was her purpose. That and to avenge her brother, of course, she wouldn't rest until the demon had been served his just desserts. Marley could keep the secret, but could Dean not tell Sam what their father had said? Would the pressure get to him? She hoped more than anything that they wouldn't ever have to act on those words, that Sam wouldn't somehow become ruthless. The thought alone seemed ridiculous.

Without another word, they let the pyre die down, and they climbed into the Impala as the last embers faded into darkness. The drive to Bobby's was quiet and stale; no words could justify their predicament. Arriving just after ten at night, they pulled in and quietly entered the house, finding Singer sitting asleep in front of the television, a beer bottle loosely hanging from his fingers. Sam and Dean had instantly gone to the kitchen to retrieve drinks of their own, but Marley turned off the TV, set the bottle on the coffee table, and removed Bobby's dusty ball cap from his head. She unfolded the woolen quilt on the couch and draped it over his snoring torso before joining the brothers in the front room.

"What's the game plan?" Marley questioned quietly, eyeing the brothers as they sipped their beers on separate chairs. Quiet ensued, until finally Sam wiped his mouth and spoke.

"I'm not sure, I hadn't really thought it out yet," he simply replied. Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother, coaxing him to add to the conversation.

"I'm gonna fix my car," Dean said, not bothering to muffle his voice, then roughly set the half-empty beer on a table near him and briskly exited the house. A little flustered, Marley turned to Sam.

"Did I say something?" She pondered aloud and Sam shook his head.

"No. I knew this would happen. Dean's, uh," a short, breathy laugh came from the younger Winchester. "He's kinda an expert at shutting people out." Marley nodded solemnly and returned her eyes to Sam's.

"Sam, I'm sorry about John," it was weak and simple but all she could muster. Everything had become such a mess so quickly; Marley had to keep reminding herself that John was really gone.

"Thanks," Sam spoke in response, his brow furrowed and he stared at the half-full beer bottle in his hand. "Kinda makes me think if it was worth not pulling the trigger." He sloshed another sip and sat silently, eyes flicking to meaningless points in front of him.

"Would you have been able to live with yourself if you had? Live with Dean's disappointment, and the guilt of killing your own father?"

"I guess you're right," he conceded, knuckles tightening around the glass.

"Don't ever regret saving someone when you had the chance; some of us aren't so lucky," murmured Marley, and before Sam could pry she stood and quietly took the stairs to the second floor.

The guest bedroom hadn't changed a lick since she'd seen it last. Well, there may have been fewer cobwebs then, but it still felt like home. She flicked on the lamp which cast a warm amber glow over the room and, out of curiosity, opened the second drawer of the oak dresser it sat upon. Its contents beckoned a grin from Marley as she recognized shirts, her shirts, from when she stayed here months ago while John went on a hunt "too dangerous" for her to tag along on. She'd stayed only three days, helping Bobby maintain his endless webs of hunters via phone, and when she'd left she was in too much a hurry to remember her clothes.

Knock – knock – knock. Marley didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam standing in the doorway; his hand fell to his side and his mouth twitched a little as if it couldn't decide to smile or remain illegible. Before he could speak, she heard his thoughts and spoke for him.

"There are only two guest bedrooms and Dean will be upset if he doesn't get a bed, and you don't want him to trip over you if he comes into bed late. So, you want to sleep on the floor in here?" She rattled off his question and reasoning, a sheepish grin appeared in his features. Too tired to argue, she simply nodded and allowed Sam to enter. He was a little surprised at her immediate willingness to allow an almost-stranger to share her room; however, he saw the knife strapped to the interior of her boot and realized she probably wasn't incapable of handling herself. "There are extra pillows and a comforter in the closet."

"Thanks," Sam uttered. "I would have taken the couch if it wasn't occupied."

"And then Dean would have ended up on the floor."

Sam breathed a laugh and set up his makeshift bed on the hard wood floor. He began to undo his belt buckle and slide off his jeans before remembering Marley's presence and hurriedly shuffled them back to hip-height. Arching an eyebrow at him, she slid off her jacket.

"If you're shy, I can turn around while you change," she suggested mockingly, throwing her top off, kicking her boots to the space under the bed. Sam huffed in response, his ego hurt, and proceeded to get undressed and lay atop the comforter. Like the gentleman he is, he looked away as Marley removed her pants. She slid onto the bed under the blanket after shutting off the lamp atop the dresser. Moonlight glistened through the room's one window, illuminating a strip of the floor and doorway into the hall. All was silent except for the occasional rustling of Sam's comforter and the ticking of the hand clock hanging above Marley's head.

Tick..tick..tick..tick…

Neither fell asleep. Sam was thinking of Dean, of how he would push people away when he was hurting – it was a trait he learned from his father – and how fixing the Impala would become an obsession until it was mint again. Bored and exhausted, Marley took up this same train of thought, and she watched Dean, mentally, as he stood in the glare of the workshop's floodlights; he wrote everything wrong with the Impala on a notepad – every dent, break, scrape, scratch, ding. He wrote and wrote then double-checked and wrote some more. Finally at three in the morning he came inside, snuck as quietly as he could upstairs and stealthily peeked through the opening to the guest bedroom. Inside, as he expected, were Sam and Marley, both fast asleep, light snores coming from the former. He retreated, not bothering to close the door, and stepped into Bobby's bedroom.

Singer was still asleep downstairs and so the large bed, occupying the greater portion of the room, was free. The springs creaked as he flopped onto it, clothed, boots on and all. Not long after, his eyes closed as well, and the whole property was void of sound. Even the moon had retired, and the world was a shadow. It was peaceful moments like this, the ones where nobody was looking over their shoulder, when they didn't feel responsible to save their own hides or save the world, that it felt like everything was really okay. All that they'd done to get to where they were felt like the right path to follow.

~*One Week Later*~

A mid-morning sun hung lazily in the sky, baking all it touched. Dean Winchester was underneath his black Chevrolet Impala, which could now be recognized as its original shape, and was fidgeting with something furiously, the exercise creating dark grey circles of sweat in his T-shirt. Dust and grease coated the denim of his jeans. Marley and Sam approached the scene, but Marley stopped at the shaded workbench and took a seat in an unfolded lawn chair.

"How's the car coming along?" Sam questioned over the clanging of Dean's work.

"Slow," grunted Dean.

"Need any help?" A tubular hunk of metal fell to the ground next to Dean with a loud clang.

"What, you under a hood? I'll pass."

"I could help," Marley offered somewhat sarcastically and as Dean stood up after wheeling himself out from under the vehicle, he gave her a funny look. "What?" she asked him indignantly.

"I think I'd like that less than handing Sammy the tools."

"Oh, come on, Dean. I know everything, remember?"

"Right, right," Dean pretended to concede. "Then what's my car exactly?"

"Your car is a black 1967 Sport Sedan hardtop. It was built in Janesville, Wisconsin on April 24th, 1967. Your father was encouraged to buy it instead of a VW van, which was the car your mother wanted him to get. The car's first owner was Sal Moriarty, a bible salesman. The combination to the lock on the weapons arsenal in the trunk is 11-02-83, which is a date we're all familiar with. And the engine is a 427 seven liter with a Turbo-Jet V8," she explained quickly and smiled to herself as utter bewilderment developed on Dean's face.

Dean pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and began scrubbing the grease off the wrench in his left hand. Squinting his eyes in the sun's glare, he grinned and joked, "Sammy, I think I'm in love." Sam laughed breathily and arched his eyebrows at Marley. He pulled a small grey phone out of his jeans pocket and gestured it toward her.

"Oh, right. Sam and I found something we thought you'd be interested in," she began, and Sam took over.

"It's one of Dad's old phones. I found it and tried to crack the voicemail code, but then asked Marley and she knew it so, yeah. Listen to this," Sam pressed a button on the phone and held it out in front of him. The recording was a female voice and spoke: "John, it's Ellen. Again. Look, don't be stubborn; you know I can help you. Call me."

They stood in silence for a moment, letting it sink in.

"That message is four months old," Marley clarified.

"Dad saved that chick's message for four months?" Dean seemed surprised. John wasn't exactly known to be sentimental.

"Yeah. That chick is Ellen Harvelle, a family friend actually. She runs a saloon that's most often frequented by hunters; I can show you the way if you want to pay her a visit," she offered. They decided to leave within the hour, and while Dean went off to shower and change, Sam made sandwiches for himself, Marley, and Bobby. Standing and small-talking in the kitchen, they finished their lunch just when Dean pranced down the stairs in fresh clothes. Sam tossed him his sandwich and Bobby tossed Sam the keys to the vehicle they could drive to Ellen's – much to Dean's disappointment that vehicle turned out to be a boxy, old brown-on-black van.

Only six hours on the road and they made it to North Platte, Nebraska – Marley's hometown, and she tried to ignore the familiar sights as much as she could until they were off the interstate and barreling toward Harvelle's. They finally reached the building, swerving into the parking lot and stopping the junker with a jolt. A dust cloud formed from the reckless maneuver, and when it cleared the three could see the barn-like saloon. Over head hung a sign reading "Harvelle's Roadhouse", and if anything the place looked like an enormous fire hazard. However, this was the only part of Nebraska that Marley enjoyed; it was like a safe haven in a state that was a stain in her memory. She pushed back the memory, pushed back Cam. They'd already avenged his death, right? Then why did it feel so pungent, so needy, like a never-ending itch that you couldn't quite reach?

She was snapped back to reality when Dean killed the engine and threw the keys to the mat at his feet. "This is humiliating," he fumed. "I feel like a freaking soccer mom."

"It's the only car Bobby had running," Sam justified, subtly enjoying Dean's displeasure. All three exited the van and began checking their surroundings. Quickly remembering something, Marley headed back to the van, ignoring the brothers' lockpicking of the front door. She ruffled through the small travel pack she had brought along and produced a necklace – it was simple, black string with a pendant made from a .45 casing. John had given it to her after he'd first introduced her to Ellen and the Roadhouse. He'd said "Next time you see here, give her this. She'll know what it means." Pretty mysterious at the time, Marley figured there was no better chance than now to see what he meant by it then.

Casually strolling into the Roadhouse, she was greeted by the odd sight of Jo Harvelle – Ellen's daughter – holding a rifle to Dean's back, and Ellen Harvelle holding a revolver to Sam's head. She stifled a laugh and jogged into the space between the two Harvelles, holding her hands up. Ellen nearly turned the gun on Marley before a look of recognition passed her features.

"M-Marley? What are you doing here? Are these two with you?" Ellen stammered and returned the barrel of her gun between locks of hair at the base of Sam's neck. Marley nodded and explained:

"Yes! Ellen, this is Sam and Dean Winchester. They're John's sons." A smile cracked Ellen's lips and she let the gun down.

"Son of a bitch," she said. Jo was a bit more hesitant to let her rifle down but did regardless. "Hey, I'm Ellen. And this is Jo."

"Hey," came from Jo, and Dean took a pace to his right, distancing himself from the short blonde.

"You're not gonna hit me again, are you?" Dean asked and wiped his nose. Marley barked a laugh at the thought. She wished she'd been inside seconds ago to witness the event.

"Well, y'all have a seat now," Ellen offered and went in the back shortly to retrieve a rag containing ice for Dean's nose. Dean was seated upon a green barstool, Sam was on a chair at the table by the swinging doors to the back section of the saloon, but Marley remained standing.

When Ellen returned and Dean had the ice firmly pressed against his pulsating injury, he cleared his throat and spoke up, "You called our dad, said you could help. Help with what?"

"Well, the demon, of course," she replied as if the question was obvious. "I heard he was closing in on it."

"Was there an article in Demon Hunters Quarterly that I missed or something? I mean, who are you? How do you know about this?" Dean's tone turned more heated.

Ellen explained, "Hey, I just run a saloon, but hunters have been known to pass through now and again, including your dad a long time ago. John was like family, once."

"Ellen-," Marley attempted to get a word in.

"Oh yeah?" Dean interrupted. "How come he's never mentioned you before?"

"You'd have to ask him that," Ellen replied. If only they could.

"So why exactly do we need your help?"

"Hey, don't do me any favors. Look, if you don't want my help, fine."

"Ellen-," Marley tried again.

"Don't let the door smack your ass on the way out," Ellen finished.

"Would you both just shut up for a minute?" Marley Walker raised her voice to a level she hadn't used in months, startling everybody in the room – all eyes were on her. A warm blush covered most of her body, tingling in the tips of her fingers. She crossed her arms and allowed her thoughts to gather. She then presented the necklace before Ellen. "John said you'd know what it means."

A look of fear and realization came over Ellen's face, the .45 casing reflected in her chocolate eyes. Of course Marley knew what it meant – the necklace was a to-be present to her from her husband, Bill, who had died while on a job with John. It was the casing of the first round Ellen had fired when she and Bill had gone shooting together for the first time. Later that same evening, Bill had proposed to Ellen. The casing was a symbol of their life together, but now it was an apology – and a message.