Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

9. All the Things I Ever Wanted You to Know

Kinkler's Second Law:

All the easy problems have been solved.

Present

She stares at the woman who was the highest point in her life for six years, torn with a mixture of confused emotions that continuously threaten to impinge on her rationality. Her body is as stiff as an ironing board, and her lip is bleeding from her constant worrying at it with sharp, agitated teeth. It is the only physical sign of her discomfiture. The coppery taste hits her tongue as she tries to soothe the cut; it's precise, unmistakable tang beats off the emotions a little more, enough so she can do something other than breath and try not to cry, or scream. She's not sure which she wants to do more.

"Sharika," she whispers, hand clutching the older boy's t-shirt with one hand that can't seem to let go, white knuckled fist crumpling the plaid material, and he tries to remove her fist, but it's clutched in death's grip so he just leaves it there, glancing at the taller boy and shaking his head in confusion. The other hand reaches out to the other woman in what she refuses to see as supplication, palm up, fingers curled loosely inwards, as though she is trying to coax her in some way. "Why?"

This solitary question holds the pain of a year's worth of wondering and self-blame and hatred. Her best friend – or the person she'd believed to be her best friend at least – had left her, without a single word, a single backwards glance. How does that reflect on a person? How awful must she be for a person she'd lived with and loved and saved every day for six years to turn around and leave her in such an all-encompassing manner?

It had been her worst fear since the day she lost her family to her father's ghost. That everyone would leave her because she wasn't good enough, because it was her fault they'd died. She hadn't been strong enough, brave enough, smart enough to save them. Even her mother knew it; wanting to become a hunter wasn't the only reason she'd left home, after all, she could have started learning from there. No, it was the way her mother, her little brother, the rest of her family had treated her – as though she had been the one to kill them.

She'd tried to tell them what had really happened, that it wasn't her fault – but somewhere in her mind she knew that they thought she was crazy, psychotic even – that she had been the one that had killed them. She'd heard her mother on the phone to a mental institution on the other side of the country the day before she'd left. The worst bit was, staying there, with their constant contempt and fear and misunderstanding made her start to wonder if she really was crazy, if it had just been a delusion of her mind. But she'd clung to the image of John – he'd been real, he'd been there, she had his number to prove it.

She'd never looked back after the day she'd left on a southbound train, clothes and her daddy's gun in a duffle bag on her back, mobile phone and John's number clasped in her hand.

But when Sharika had left her she revisited every memory of the death of her innocence. She'd crawled into the motel bed and stayed there for three days, not moving, not sleeping, not eating or drinking. The flashbacks had run through her mind as she waited with a quickly withering hope that Sharika would come back.

The motel manager knocking on the door had brought her out of her stupor, and from then on she'd refused to trust anyone, hadn't even cared about her own wellbeing. What was there to live for after all? Besides killing, and killing, and ridding the world of all the evil she possibly could. That was all there was until Sam and Dean had come along, and woken her up a little more each day.

Now that Sharika was back, was she just going to let her into her life again, give her that kind of power over her, so that if she left she'd be left in that state again? Be in that permanent, numb darkness?

How could she bear it? How could she bear to ever go back there?

The dark woman was telling her much she loved her, how much she'd missed her, and all her reasons for leaving. Something about protecting Lauren, something about trying to save her from getting killed.

And the rage started to settle over her, a blood red curtain.

"Why the hell does no one think I can take care of myself?" she exclaims, hands clutching in her hair, tears stinging her eyelids, as though little men with red-hot pokers were stabbing the backs of her eyeballs. "Why can't you ever trust me? I would rather be dead than have to be looked after like that. It's the worst kind of patronising. You actually think you're doing it for my own benefit. No one trusts me to make my own decisions." She's whispering now, voice hoarse with repressed feeling. "I loved you Sharika, but you left me. You left me, without even telling me why, or asking me what I thought about it. You had all the control over my choice; you didn't even consider how I felt about it. How can I ever forgive that?"

"Would you have let me leave, if I had told you everything?" the dark woman asks, face expressionless. Anyone who didn't know her would think she felt nothing, that she was unaffected by the woman's tears and questions and accusations. But the woman knows how tightly her reins are held, how close she clutches her emotions to herself, so no one can view her weaknesses, her vulnerability. It still hurts though, that she can seem so composed and together in the face of the woman's obvious breakdown, obvious hurt and distress.

This was never the way she thought it would be; never the way she had envisioned it. Then again, she'd never known what to expect – she'd never even known if she would see her again. But this quiet, calm façade just makes her ache more with the gaping hole between them, and fuels the fire of her anger. Does she really feel so little? Did she ever care at all?

The woman sees the sheen in her brown, painstakingly truthful eyes, and knows. It rips the truth from her bleeding mouth. Or half truth at least – as much as she can possibly bear to reveal.

"Hell no. I love – I loved you too much. If you got hurt – or killed – how would I ever have forgiven myself? For fuck's sake, you were my best friend Sharika. My best friend didn't trust me to make the best decision concerning my own safety, as though I was a child. How is that supposed to make me feel?"

"Lauren, it wasn't like that, I swear. Can we talk, please? Alone?"

The first woman's mouth parts, just breath escaping. How is she supposed to react? One side wants to accept, while the other screams vehemently, hell no. Do you want to be used and discarded again, like a cheap condom? You'd be sure to break the second time around.

"Look," the until then silent man, the older one, with the glittering, furious green eyes, says. He's staring at the dark woman with an intensity of anger the first woman had only ever seen when she looked in the mirror. "You should leave. Don't you think you've hurt her enough?"

The dark woman opens her mouth, the other woman is too stunned, and too numb and drained to say anything, as she nods and says – voice suddenly and inexplicably husky – "Perhaps you're right. Another time then. But Lauren – know this. I only did what I did to protect you."

And then she turned and walked away.

000

The woman lies on the lumpy, old motel bed, eyes staring unseeingly, unerringly at the cracked and peeling paint of the ceiling. The boys had brought her here, laying her down on the bed, removing her of her jacket and shoes, telling her to sleep, that they'd talk in the morning, before they left again.

Saving the world didn't wait for any kind of personal crisis, after all.

She hasn't cried, although some corner of her mind insistently argues with her that she should, that repressing it isn't healthy. But then, since when has she ever acted according to what is healthy, or good for her? Her own mind answers this silent, rhetorical question. Not since she was twenty two, full and fresh and feeling invincible, like nothing in the world could bring her down. No demon, no ghost, no nothing.

Her lip is still bleeding, and she's biting the inside of it now, teeth clenched tightly on the soft inner skin of her lower lip, so as not to harm the outside any further. Her lips always end up bleeding for some reason – the stupid, useless things. She swallows, trying to do the same with the emotions, and it almost works – she's had far too much practice. The coppery taste of blood hits the back of her tongue again, and she closes her eyes against the images of the familiar, dark face that threaten to swamp her. Wide brown eyes, expressing every emotion that her face could not.

She blinks the pictures clear, and glances to the right, where the cheap alarm clock is set up. Two thirty four in the morning, read the blinking red numbers of the digital clock. She wonders when the boys will be back.

She knew how uncomfortable they had been with her steadfast silence, her impregnable shield as they'd driven here. They'd had to pick her up to put her in the Impala in the first place. They had to pick her up again to get her out of it, and onto the bed. She'd been barely there at all – a breathing, not even half alive creature.

How did they see her now? She didn't want this to change their opinion on her – she didn't want them to see her as weak, vulnerable – she didn't want to make herself into something they'd need to baby, or worse, leave. How did this change the way they viewed her? They'd had to save her practically, from the situation, just like they had to save her from practically every hunt they went on. Sure, she helped them, whatever, but was it worth the constant worrying they had to do about her? About her getting into trouble, and screwing up, and wrecking everything they'd worked so hard for? She was a burden, she wasn't worth the effort – no wonder Sharika had left her in the first place, no wonder –

Her mind screams at her to stop, that these are the exact thoughts that she shouldn't be thinking. This self pity and deprecation is her worst enemy, the selfishness wasn't her. She wouldn't allow it to be. She couldn't even stand her own attention directed onto herself. She had to refocus these feelings, she had to stop thinking about herself, stop thinking about her own problems. There were plenty of people out there worse off than she was. The children for instance, that they'd originally come to this town for. Until –

She turns her face into the pillow, jaw clenched so tightly it aches, and tries to hold back everything. Stop – just don't, is the mantra repeated over and over in her head. Put your efforts into something useful for once. Stop thinking about HER.

By now she was starting to wake up from this self imposed, instinctively defensive blockade. She knew it had been to protect her from her emotions, which otherwise would have left her in the state she'd first been in when Sharika had left her.

She sits up in the bed, deliberately shakes herself all over, as though waking up from a deep, deep sleep. Push it all aside, move on, are her thoughts as she stands up and makes her calm, sedate way to the bathroom. If she's shaking a little, there's no one there to see it. Suck it up.

When the boys come in an hour later, she is asleep on one of the beds, in her pyjamas, papers containing information on every kind of supernatural entity that affected children in the way this one did spread on the covers around her, along with small and large scale maps tracking the pattern of houses the thing had attacked, possible places it could be striking from marked with red circles and lines, and similar patterns in different towns and in different years written in her scribbled, messy shorthand lie by her hand.

In the morning she asks about what they'd done the previous night, how it had gone, as though she is completely normal and nothing had happened out of the ordinary to her the night before. She knew what they'd been doing; they'd hit a veritable goldmine of information before they'd come out of the bar to find her 'being attacked' by the other woman. They'd followed the lead up last night, going to the hospital and posing as paediatricians so they could gain access to the afflicted children. Apparently they'd seen something similar in another hunt; it had been a Shtriga, a very rare spirit that sucked the life force out of children. She'd been trying to determine if it could be the same thing before she fell asleep.

The boys glanced at each other, realising something was horribly wrong, but not knowing what to do about it. So they did what they did best, repress, and wait for a chance to bring it up again.

000

Sunset, two days later; they're at the lair of the beast. They'd tracked it here the previous day, some kind of savage, supernatural bear that came into children's dreams and stole their consciousness. They had to kill it to save the children's lives – they were plunged into comas after the bear left them, until their bodies finally gave up the fight. They had some kind of idea that if they killed it, the children's spirits, or whatever it was the bear collected that put the kids in that state, would be set free.

The cave it lived in was up in the thickly forested mountain country around the town; they'd had to leave the Impala a while back and travel on foot, because it was rumoured that the area was prone to real grizzly bears, and they didn't want to run the risk of attracting one. It was winter, so most of them would be hibernating, but you could never be too precautious. The older boy had been threatening the other two with hot pokers and other such complimentary amenities for an hour or more if anything happened to his precious vehicle, when the taller one halted and pointed out the black opening in the rock face.

They pulled to a stop just outside the lair, and started arming themselves in silence. The hunters were equipped with the weapons that were reported to kill it – silver bullets inscribed with holy signs, made hastily that morning – which were loaded into shotguns with the careless ease of long practice, checked and rechecked, as they had all been taught. A final glance at each other sent them inside the cave, eyes scouring the ground and the rest of the terrain for anything that may give away their positions, or alert it to their presence.

The woman's hands clutch her shotgun with white knuckles, fingers slick against the barrel as her mind continuously jumps back and forth to the possibility of Sharika being here, she's just as good as they were at tracking after all; it was plausible.

The boys had asked her about the woman – the taller one had brought it up just yesterday, eyes earnest and urging her to open up all of herself to their blue green scrutiny. She was used to this look from him – just not at it being directed at her instead of at his brother. His brother who had refused to back down either, both of them using all the weapons in their considerable arsenal to draw her out. She'd gotten so close to confessing; but the fact that they were treating her half like a suspect, half like a victim had made her waive all the questions off with a 'she's the past', before twitching the conversation back to the hunt again and refusing to budge from it.

Due to her inattention, her booted toe knocks a rock and it jumps forwards half an inch, even this shift evoking a sharp, scuffling sound that reverberates on the surrounding rock walls. All three of the hunters freeze, waiting to see – to sense – any change in the immediate vicinity. But nothing happens, and the males shoot her an antagonised glare each, the older one asking with his eyes for her to keep her mind on the task at hand. She can almost hear the smart alec comment attached, probably something like, 'unless you'd like to be bear fodder – we could use the distraction'. It's just like him.

She looks down again, mind strictly focused on the ground, on the hunt. She cannot afford any mistakes. Besides, thinking about the other woman serves no purpose but to make her angry again; and anyway, she might have already skipped town.

She was good at that.

They found the bear without another glitch – it was sleeping by a large rock pile in the back of the cave, snoring gently, sides rising and falling with heaving breaths. All three hunters stopped at once, and aimed with their shotguns, no hesitation marring their perfect individual coordination, nor their collective synchronisation.

But none of them shot at it.

"This just seems…off," the woman whispered finally, after they'd been standing there, not moving for a whole minute. Her position was in the middle of the two men, gun cocked, one hand holding up the barrel, the other with one finger poised to squeeze the trigger. She didn't move from it as she spoke, one foot forwards, the other back to balance her weight. The boys glanced at her for a millisecond, before training their eyes back on the beast. The taller one shifted his weight, then cocked his head to the side, face showing the fact that his mind was running through all the possibilities as his eyebrows scrunched a little and his hair swung forwards.

"Dean –"

It came tearing out of the physical bear's shadow, a being of darkness and seemingly non-corporeal; its shape that of a grizzly on its back legs, claws forwards, swinging. Three guns were swung immediately to aim at it, bullets shooting forwards and out – but it was quicker and more agile than its worldly counterpart – all three of their accurate reflex actions missed it, and the older boy was hit across his chest, sending him back against the solid rock wall, his form slumping as his skull cracked against it, hard.

His name is ripped from their mouths before their assault on the shadow bear is doubled; they dodge its claws and shoot, the tall boy rolls to escape a particularly close call, while the female shoots at it again from in a position in front of the corporeal bear – and the bullets finally connect. The dark shadow jerks back from the blow in its chest, and a grating scream sounds throughout the cave, echoing until the woman drops her gun to cover her ears from the pain it evokes.

She hunches forwards, and when she looks up again finally, it is only to see the other woman standing in front of her with a gun aimed directly at her.

As the woman stares at the instrument, and the person holding it, that she realises are the last things she will ever see, her thoughts are simply, 'I wish she'd given me time to forgive her'. Time freezes for an infinitesimal moment where sight tunnels onto the things that signal her destruction; the round mouth of the gun, the dark hand clutching it, the brown eyes that look…over her shoulder? Our woman turns and looks behind her, to see the real bear, its form teetering, a hole in its head gaping and blood starting to fall and soak into its thick, rough brown fur.

The crash as the real bear the shadow bear was using as cover falls back onto the ground shakes the cave, the vibrations rocking all that were standing on their feet.

The woman looks back at the other, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. "You…?" she whispers, all at once dealing with being relieved that she is not going to die this night, at the claw of a shadow bear, nor the hand of her ex-best friend, nor at the bite of a real grizzly, shocked at the sight of the other woman right in front of her again so soon and the turn of events, the fluctuations in her adrenaline supply, and a steadily rising anger and feeling of helplessness. "Right." She does what she does best, and ignores the situation at hand. Turning away from the other woman she says, "Sam, are we going now?"

The taller boy glances at her from where he crouches, checking the vitals of his brother, and then at the other woman before returning his eyes to her. The blue green orbs fill with understanding and she feels her walls against the issue crumble a little, before she pastes a smile on, cocking her head to the side and silently begs him not to ask. She's grappling with the fraying edges of her temper as it is. "Just give me a second to wake Dean up."

She nods, and starts checking her gun for signs of anything – anything to take her mind off Sharika. Hard, considering she was so close and starting to chafe at the lack of attention. Or at least lack of gratitude.

It isn't that she is ungrateful, she just doesn't like how it has been pretty much proven that she needs protecting, that she can't look after herself. Once again. It's the one thing that puts her back up more than anything. Because she knows that it had to be one of the deciding factors in her being left in the first place – her eternal 'protect me, I'm so weak' vibe. Dean and Sam felt it. Sharika had always felt it. It was as though she were a toddler that everyone mothered.

She hated it. And this killing of the bear she hadn't even noticed – how the hell can you not notice a rearing, fucking grizzly bear right behind you?! – it was just bordering on the last straw.

"So that's it?" she hears from behind her, the numb, quiet tone making her stiffen even further. "I saved your life."

The last straw snapped.

She turned around, and in one smooth motion, dealt the other woman a savage, powerful uppercut to her jaw. The woman stumbled backwards one step, then raised a hand to the offended area, staring at her with shocked brown eyes. She'd dropped back into a defensive pose, fists lifted to protect her face, stance balanced and even, that of a confident fighter. Her golden green eyes were wide and shivered with tears that threatened to fall – but she held them back with a strength that had tided her over in all the years since her father had died and she'd started on this path, mouth tight and jawbone tense with the restraint it took.

"Come on!" she growled, panting slightly. Her emotions were completely out of control; she didn't care what happened anymore she just needed to get them out. They'd been contained within her for a year, and now they'd been rubbed raw and bloody by Sharika's presence for the past few days. They needed a release – and right now anger and violence were the only options open to her. "Hit me back. Hit me back!"

"No."

She swung again, her attempt to get her anger out in a fair manner, where she was equally paid out, there was no guilt or regret and they wouldn't even have to talk about it was closed to her now – so fuck it all. Her punch was blocked by a trained wrist action that sent it over her opponents shoulder – and then the fight started for real. Instincts and knowledge of each other's bodies kept them evenly matched on one level, but the blonde woman had one up over the other – she'd been travelling with the Winchesters, had learnt new things, so on occasion she actually connected. They moved like lightning, one move flowing to the next in an effortless, endless cycle of attack and defence, attack and defence. She struck again and again, pushing forwards relentless, tireless, fury driven, and her punches, kicks, and other improvisations were blocked sporadically by an equally unyielding adversary.

The other woman refused to attack – and when the tall boy made a move to intervene, she told him in a quiet, breathless, dead voice to stay back. That she deserved it. And the older boy's quiet moaning kept him at his brother's side.

At this, the acceptance, the dam broke. Tears started to fall down the woman's cheeks, and her flurry of attacks grew more and more heated and fervent and uncoordinated and messy and desperate; but the other woman never took advantage, never pressed an offensive. She just blocked and blocked, until the first woman was sobbing at a standstill, shoulders shaking, tears running down in rivulets of shame and anger and frustration and sadness and need.

The dark woman stood in front of her, her uncomfortable approach to touch restricting her from comforting her friend in any possible way. She'd always been helpless at stuff like that.

Suddenly, the blonde woman stepped over the invisible line drawn between their bodies, and threw her arms around the dark woman's shoulders, sobbing into her neck, and clutching her as tightly as she possibly could, as though she'd never be let go again. The dark woman froze.

After a second, the woman growled into her shoulder, laughter hidden beneath all the other layers, "Now would be a good time to hug me back, Sharika."

So she did.

AN: Hope this chapter isn't too out there, or anything. And I hope you guys enjoyed it. I don't know when the next update will be, I'm going away for Christmas, and they don't have Microsoft word. Possibly the weirdest thing ever. If I can squeeze in chapter 10 before I leave, I will, but until then, see you guys!