Disclaimer: See chapter one.

10. If You're By My Side

Lord, defend me from my friends; I can account for my enemies.

-- Charles D'Hericault

Can you say awkward? Coming back from that cave with the shadow bear in the mountain…yeah. That was beyond it. It was so far beyond it, it was nowhere in the realm of comfortable's second cousin twice removed on the maternal grandmother's half brother's son's girlfriend's stepmother's uncle's side.

Sam was driving, Sharika was pressed against the glass of the passenger's side door and window, and Dean's head was in my lap. You'd expect me to be ecstatic over this position under normal circumstances – unfortunately, yeah, not so normal. He was still kind of out of it. By kind of, I mean as far as he could tell, the ceiling of the Impala had been painted purple and decorated with flickering white lights. The idiot had a lump on the back of his skull the size of my fist, and I knew that I wasn't allowed to let him go to sleep, no matter how tired or sore he said he was. I knew it even before Sam and Sharika kept reiterating it continuously, until they realised that they were both saying the same thing and dropped off into the silence that now filled the car.

I didn't know how to break it at all – or if I want to. I mean, that back there, trying to murder Sharika, and then ending up hugging her and crying, which I hadn't been able to do since…god knows when…well, it was the first step along the huge path towards regaining our friendship. It may never be the same between us again, though. I wouldn't trust her for a hell of a long time yet, but I guess that's just expected. You can't just abandon a person, and then expect to settle back into their lives like you'd never been gone.

Make no mistake, however, she was going to be coming back into my life – I'd realised tonight that there was no way in hell she was getting away again. You can't just forget about six years of friendship and trust and love, no matter how hard you might try. She was going to come along with us. Us being me and the Winchester boys. Sharika was another one of John Winchester's disciples, and she had almost as much respect and hero worship for him as I did, so she may just agree on that basis alone.

See, I hadn't actually told her she was coming with us, yet.

I glanced up from eyeballing Dean's forehead to where she was sitting, her whole body angled away from Sam, cheek pressed against the window glass, knuckles white on the hands that gripped her seatbelt where it lay across her chest. Her hair was coming out of its habitual black, simple ponytail at the back of her neck, kinks forming around it. Her shoulders were tense and straight beneath her black sweatshirt, and I could practically feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. She didn't know how to react to the situation, same as me. In the car with two strange men who she only knows through rumour and a person who she probably thinks hates her. Actually, it was worse for her than for me. At least I know I have Sam and (um…hopefully) Dean on my side – and know them somewhat, as people. Sharika, well, she had no one. The most she had was a slim – very slim, in her mind – chance of continuing our friendship. This quiet, frozen countenance was how she reacted to awkward, and potentially threatening situations like this. If it were me, I know I'd be babbling about something completely and utterly confusing, and possibly insane sounding, a grin pulled tight across my face to show too much teeth, and I might even be bouncing. It was all to get rid of my nervous energy – because when that dropped off, I could, on occasion, fake normalcy enough to be believable.

Sam…well, Sammy wasn't handling the silence any better than we were. I think he may even be on the edge of turning some of Dean's music on. And that – well… it would be out of character to say the least. He was driving, hands deliberately not clenched tightly on the wheel. But I could see the stiffness in his arm and shoulder muscles, the vein – mostly covered by the thick chestnut hair that hit his lapel – that was throbbing in his neck. All classical Sam signs of 'I have an issue, but I'm repressing, repressing, repressing'. Usually Sam liked to over share, much to both mine and Dean's continual annoyance. People think he's quiet, and tends to hold things in – but the only time he exercises this propensity is when there are pressing issues in his head that he hasn't been able to work out yet in solitude. He tells Dean everything, and he tells me a hell of a lot more than he probably should. Like the Jessica and Mom and demon thing. I could have gone on quite happily, and oblivious, not knowing about that. But then one day he just looked at Dean, who tried to telepathically send him a message I intercepted as 'don't you do it – fuck Sammy don't!', and then he'd turned to me and said, "A demon killed my mother and my girlfriend." The only thing I'd been able to say, my mind arrowing into a dark place filled with thoughts of Sharika, and hate and quiet, was, "You're not the only one. Pass the salt." (That time we were at dinner, not on a hunt.) But right now, the presence of Sharika in the car must be putting him off. The way he kept taking his big, blue green eyes off the road to glance in her direction kind of gave this away. Every time he did, his fingers would strangle the steering wheel, before he made a conscious effort to release the pressure. I wondered what that was about – even I wasn't this wound up over Shar.

I took my mind off the two of them and their issues to study the boy in my lap. Dean's eyes were drifting shut again, and to wake him up I 'accidentally' jiggled my leg. He groaned, and I felt a little guilty, but no matter how he complained, and whined and tried to give me upside down puppy dog eyes, I couldn't let him fall asleep. Chances were he had a concussion, and we didn't know how bad it was yet. Sleeping with concussions, though usually believed to be a bad thing, is alright for mild ones. But he had a pretty bad collision with that wall, so who knew what shape his head was in right now? It was better to be cautious; after all if we let him sleep he might never wake up. He'd vomited just as Sam and I'd gotten him out of the cave, and his legs had been barely able to support him, plus he couldn't remember anything about the accident itself and kept asking us about it.

"What happened?" Dean asked groggily, for about the tenth time in thirteen minutes. Yes, I have been counting. This loss of short term memory, and repeating something over and over, despite being told the answer each time is known as perseverating. Don't ask me how I know – I retain the weirdest bits of information. The point is – it was making me nervous, and if I hadn't known that we had frozen peas in the freezer at the motel, I would have ordered Sam to take us to the hospital. Despite the fact that it looked really bad, and he had vomited, etcetera – nausea, and perseverating, and all the other symptoms were common, and accepted as those that signalled only a mild concussion. Sam and I knew how to deal with it, after all, we'd seen far too many, and besides, the Winchesters practically had a hospital phobia. It's just that head injuries always make me nervous, because the brain is such a delicate thing – who knows what might be going on beneath the surface?

While thinking this I was staring at the middle of Dean's brow, as though my eyes could bore all the way through his skin, flesh and bone into the grey matter beneath it all. What was going on in there? Was he okay? Was he really badly hurt? What if he –

"Lauren?" Dean muttered, hazel green eyes staring up at me dazedly. "What?"

"You've such pretty eyes!" I said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. I couldn't let him know I was worried about him. It'd probably be the one thing he retained through to the morning, knowing my luck.

Besides, how dare he make me worry about him? Could he be any slower dodging that shadow bear? Even Sam did better, and we know what an uncoordinated stork he can be –

"Men don't have pretty eyes," Dean grunted, and lifted a hand to the side of his head. I pushed it away and smiled. He'd always been sensitive about his eyes; I knew this because I'd made a passing comment one time about wishing I had his eyelashes. It had made him self conscious for a week, though he did a credible of job of hiding it. I kept seeing him stare into the rear view mirror, and passing shop windows, as if to check that he wasn't growing breasts or something. Okay…maybe he wasn't self-conscious about his eyes…I may have mentioned that he was getting wrinkles. He wasn't, but we do what we must…and torturing Dean is so much fun.

"Fine, you have such manly green eyes," I acquiesced, just as we pulled to a stop outside of the motel we were staying at. The Flamingo, I made out from the neon sign above our heads that was on the blink, to say the least (three of the letters had blown out), as Sam and I helped Dean into our room, Sharika locking up the Impala and following close behind us, still quiet and tense. She was walking stiffly, as someone does when they have back problems, or are really preoccupied. I wonder where she's staying…what motel, that is. Not here, I would have seen her. So why – oh. God…I know why she's not skipping out on her merry way – and it's not concern over Deanie Boy's safety.

Inside, Sam and I got Dean comfortable as he muttered about the purple coloured ceiling, his head hurting and that we should stop babying him, he was fine. He was always like this when he was hurt, trying to act as though it were nothing, trying to take care of it all himself. I found it so exasperatingly, annoyingly endearing that I could slap myself most days. Sharika fetched the peas, and Sam stripped off Dean's shirt and passed it to me. Despite myself, I couldn't help but notice the glorious peach skin pulled smoothly and precisely over hard muscles. It has to be a sin for someone to be allowed to look that good. With my fingers itching to touch, and hoping the other two hadn't noticed my lapse, I quickly wrapped the peas in it and passed it to Dean so he could rest it against his goose-egg.

With Sam watching over him, Sharika gestured at me to join her outside, and left the dingy motel room.

I didn't really want to go outside with her – I knew exactly where it was leading. Emotional train wrecks and big blubbering sessions and a whole lot of self hate and blame and crap that I just really didn't want to have to deal with right now. I was feeling way too messy inside to be able to cope with any new information – especially something as vital towards making my final decision – as this was. The reason she'd left me in the first place. The thing that had occupied the back of my mind for a year. I really didn't –

Besides, what about Dean? As selfish and self-serving and cowardly as it was (I'd be dodging Sharika and our issues), I wanted to stay with him. I had the most unbearably maternal instinct beating me over the head with a club, nagging me to get back there and ask him if he needed anything, anything at all to make him more comfortable. Chicken soup? Cold compresses? Foot massages? Wild sex containing all of the above items and actions? Okay, the might not make him feel all that much better – but me on the other hand…

I don't want to go – what if she – what will she – and Dean – and how will I – will she say – what if she says – shut up, Lauren.

I swallowed all my misgivings, following Sharika outside, and, with a last smile at Sam, who was eyeing me with the worried look he always reserved for victims of supernatural trauma, I closed the door again.

"Lauren," she said, turning to me, brown eyes the only thing expressing her emotions in her face – the rest of it was straight and composed, as though she felt nothing. Her eyes though – big, liquidising. It scared me. The last time she'd looked this close to crying had been when she was telling me what had happened to her parents on her thirteenth birthday. "I want to tell you –"

"Why?" She nodded, and I looked straight back into her eyes. "Don't."

"But –"

"Look, Sharika," I said, shaking my head, closing my eyes and turning away, trying to process everything that was scrambling itself inside my head. I bit my lip, eyes searching the darkness for answers. The remaining, working pink lights of The Flamingo motel sign cast a pink glow over the parking lot, illuminating the broken bottles and discarded cigarettes. In spite of myself, I found a certain symbolism in the dirty, deserted area. "I know before, when I attacked you in the parking lot I wanted to know why, but…" I paused, and cleared my throat, turning back to her. I felt so awkward, and not at all sure I was doing the right thing. I was curious – that's got to be the fucking understatement of the year – about why she'd left, but… "I just don't think I should know yet. I don't – I don't think I'm quite ready."

"But if we're ever going to be friends again – how –"

"Sharika, you know you're coming with us," I said, as a statement, not a question. She wasn't allowed to refuse. She owed me. If she tried to leave, to go again, and couldn't be bothered to comply with my wishes for once, to do this one thing for me – well, it meant I could finally move on. I'd have closure; I'd know our friendship was over for good. One less thing to worry about.

"They hate me," she replied flatly. I knew she meant Sam and Dean. And that she was probably right.

"Yeah, because they don't know you," I tried to reassure both of us. I wondered how the boys would react. I really had no idea – those two constantly surprise me. But then… Dean – well, Dean'd probably give me a straight out no, going on about extra burdens, past crimes, distractions… Sam might be on my side, if I play the 'pity me, I'm emotionally scarred and vulnerable' card right. He was a sucker for getting people to work their feelings out, and express themselves. If I said I needed Sharika around so I could sort myself out… he might just cave for me. Either way… I bet I could persuade them…somehow… "All they know is how I reacted to you, and it wasn't exactly inspiring…they just don't know what to think. But you have to come. Sharika – you know – I want to – you know?" At that the words choked and strangled themselves in my mouth just as they always did when I began to take a stroll in the neighbourhood of emotional vulnerability. As a defence mechanism I suppose, against leaving myself exposed to hurt and anyone that might take advantage of it. My pride wouldn't allow me to spill anymore of my emotions or secrets. It wouldn't let me open up, and that was just fine right now. I just hoped she understood.

"Me too Lauren. I just want you to know that there was a reason. And when you're ready…" she gave me an earnest look. She was anxious for me to give her a second chance, and I really wanted to. I understood that leaving me wasn't her first choice. Like it helped now. But it was still nice to think that maybe the friendship hadn't all been one sided. Even if I didn't know the reason, it must have been a pretty good one. Hopefully. If it was something I'd done, or…well. This is why I had to wait. I may never be ready to know that it had originally been all my fault she'd left.

"As long as you're here, with me, I think we can work this out," I said, and then shifted my gaze away from her face. I was feeling uncomfortable now, all the soul bearing, angst, etcetera. My skin was prickling, felt tight and stretched, like there wasn't enough to cover everything I was feeling. Along with this sensation, I realised that my old habit had come back – scrunching my shoulders up near my ears, as though I were trying to shrink from anyone's notice. Deliberately I lowered them and glanced back over at Sharika.

She hasn't changed at,I thought to myself absently, studying the way her face was held, and scrunched and contorted into the face she made when she was holding something in that was really getting to her. I can still read her every thought on her face. Right now, she really wanted to pressure me, wanted to spill all the things that I'd asked her to keep to herself. I knew she was obsessing about it – she was that kind of person. She'd sit there for minutes, perhaps even hours after something had happened, or you'd said something, and be thinking about it the whole time, while you thought she was over it. And then when she can't stand it anymore she'll blurt it out. I used to get really confused sometimes; mostly it had amused me.

Right now I just hoped she could keep it in until I was ready.

"Right," I nodded, and smiled. Change the topic, CHANGE IT. "So, what do you think of my baggage?"

"I've seen better," she said, and laughed. Liar. I saw you checking out Sammy's ass. "I was just going to ask you where you picked them up." Her eyes shifted momentarily from my face – so quickly that I wasn't even sure I'd seen it – that it hadn't been a figment of my overactive imagination, and need to analyse her every single action and movement tonight. Besides, what would it even mean, if it had happened? That she was lying to me? Why would she? What would there be to lie about?

"Around. They were just kind of drawn to me. Winchester bees to my honey." Ah, if only. If only. I wonder if Dean's alright…

"You know how wrong that sounds, right?" I grinned as she gave me one of her infamous arch looks. Both of our sets of emotions were tightly reined now, her face composed again, my twitching smile and raised eyebrow in place. We could move on to making strange comments. "I can't believe you've been travelling with the Winchesters." The wonder in her voice made me laugh on the inside. She'd never heard Sam singing Evanescence songs in the shower, when he thought Dean and I were out getting coffee – nor has she had to put up with one of Dean's bastardly black moods. She hadn't had to live with the boys and their habits for three months. So, I could kind of understand why her eyes were star struck, almost as if she'd just seen Jared Padalecki buying soap, or something. (We had been teenagers at one time, and Jared Padalecki had been her celebrity crush. Mine was Jensen Ackles. God – he still was, really. So hot.) After all, after I'd gotten over my drunken induced pride and anger that John was treating me in such a fashion as to send his whipping boys to look after me…I was kind of 'omgtheWINCHESTERS!!!!!!' too.

"I still can't, and I've been travelling with them for…how long now? Three months or so. They're more annoying than I thought they would be. Remind me of you, at least Sammy does. Speaking of Sammy…"

AN: One of my betas (my pushy, post-it-post-it-damn-you! one) has decided that from now on I post every Sunday, unless something has come up; eg my Christmas trip where there is no Microsoft word. So here – my posting, on a Sunday, just as we 'agreed'. (coughwasforcedcough) I hope you like it, as always. And I hope for more reviews to show me how much you guys care. :D Okay. Thanks again.