Part Ten:

The main room of the museum erupted into a cacophony of sound; glass breaking, shouts and screams, bellows and roars, and multiple gun shots echoed repeatedly around the cold, dark room. The salt rounds, while slowing it down, did not buy Dean enough time to both fend off the phantom beast and locate and deal with whatever artifact it may be attached to. He pulled and pushed the fore-end of his rifle, fired and then dove up and over a stack of crates, crashing in a tangle of limbs.

"Nice of you to join me," Mira quipped, helping him up off his back. She had her hair pulled up in a messy knot to keep it out of her face and in her hand, she wielded a threatening looking crowbar that she was using to pry open the crates around her.

Somewhere in the vast stack of boxes and crates were all the artifacts yet to be put out for the Buffalo Hunters display. She wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for—it was a pretty bloody time in history as far as the Bison were concerned—and the ghost could be attached to any number of items, which made Mira's search that much more difficult.

"Any luck?" Dean panted. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a handful of salt rounds and loaded them into the magazine, then chambered the first cartridge and peeked up over the crates.

"No. I've got it narrowed down, but I don't even know what it is that I'm looking for. What is this thing?"

"Vengeful spirit, damn vengeful. It's gotta be attached to something in there. Can't we just salt and burn it all?" He raised the rifle up over the top crate, leveling it and taking aim on the charging spirit.

"What?" Mira shouted over the ear-splitting blast of the gun. "No! These are museum pieces. You can't just burn them all!"

"What did you think was gonna happen?" Dean asked, giving her an incredulous look. When she turned away from him and went back to the crates, he snatched a hold of her wrist, pulling her back around to face him. "No, really. What did you think I was gonna do, strap a pack on my back and shoot it with laser beams? This ain't the movies, ya know. I'm not Dan Aykroyd."

"I know that. You're nowhere near as funny," she snapped back. "Here."

Mira thrust the crowbar into his hands, relieving him of the shotgun and hip-bumping him out of the way and on to his ass.

"You look," she commanded, "I'll hold the fort."

From his place on the floor, he gazed, completely in awe of the young woman in front of him. Mira climbed up on the crates, one foot higher than the other, allowing her to lean her weight into that leg and balance herself on the uneven crates. The rifle was raised to chest height and ready, she had one finger on the trigger, her other hand on the fore-end and her eyes scanned the room in a steady, confident gaze. In one breathtaking moment, little tendrils of golden curls that were falling down around her face were caught in a non-existent breeze and her silhouette lit up theatrically. With a shot gun in her hands, Mira looked, to him, like Joan of Arc in blue jeans and inwardly Dean's libido growled approvingly, but the resonating boom of the shotgun firing brought him quickly back into a presence of mind.

He climbed up off of the floor and using the crowbar, began tearing into the yet unopened crates, tossing items haphazardly when they didn't meet his predetermined criteria. A deafening roar and subsequent gunshot sped up Dean's search.

"Is it me," Mira shouted over her shoulder while she ejected the spent cartridge, "or is this thing gaining strength?"

"Do you blame it?" Dean asked dryly.

"What does that mean?"

When she didn't get an answer, she turned only to find him head first inside a tall crate, his rear end posted high in the air, feet scrambling up the side, trying to find purchase.

"What are you doing?" she laughed.

With his hands on the edge of the crate opening, Dean pressed himself up with intentions of scowling at her, but instead his eyes widened dramatically.

"Look out!" Dean reached his hand out as if he could stop the freight train of an animal barreling at the girl.

Mira brought the gun around but not before the spectral Bison had slammed full force into the crates she was standing on, splintering several of the wooden boxes and sending her flying.

Dean was down and out of his crate just in time to cushion Mira's fall and they landed together in a tangle of limbs. Cursing, Dean scrambled out from under her, taking the shotgun with him. He climbed out of the rubble, took aim and fired on the ghost that had circled back around for another attack. Then just as quickly, he was back at Mira's side, pulling her up from the floor and dusting her off.

"You alright?" Dean asked, running his hands over her, checking for injuries.

"Nothing hurt but my pride," she said, blushing. "Thank you for…ya know…breaking my fall."

He smiled down at her, gave her a wink and then pulled a bit of wood from her tangle of curls.

"What the Hell is going on in here?"

They both jumped, Dean spinning around to level the gun across the room at a very surprised man. He was a portly, gray-haired man dressed all in tweed and he raised his hands in surrender at the sight of the gun barrel.

"Mr. Wilson?" Mira called, narrowing her eyes to see through the darkened room. She lifted a hand to push the barrel of dean's sawed-off down, shook her head and whispered to him, "That's my boss."

"Ms. Poole? Is that you?" Mr. Wilson removed his glasses, quickly polishing them clean with a handkerchief and then sliding them back onto his face.

"Ms. Poole?" Dean cried, his voice cracking and face growing pale in recognition of the name, "As in Clive Poole?"

"Dean-"

"Look what you've done!" Mr. Wilson cut her off as he stormed across the room, his arms waving wildly and his eyes bouncing from one broken display to the next and finally landing on the heap of destruction where once had stood a stack of shipping crates full of unpacked artifacts.

"All that history! Destroyed! Someone's gonna have to–" his tirade was cut short by the ear splitting roar of the Bison rematerializing at the far end of the room.

Without a second thought, Dean handed the gun off to Mira and dashed out into the room to retrieve the man who stood frozen in shock and fear at the sight of the very large and very angry apparition. Dean grabbed him by the arm and gave him a firm yank back towards their once solid fort, even as the Buffalo was steaming towards them.

"Come on, buddy, you gotta move. Mira!"

On cue, the shotgun sounded and rock salt skirted just passed the men as they ran and dove for safety.

"Mr. Wilson, are you okay?"

She knelt next to the older man and cringed when he groaned in pain as she helped him to sit up.

"I'm fine or at least I will be. What the Hell was that?"

"That was a ghost, sir," she explained.

"Vengeful spirit," Dean corrected grumpily. Rising to his feet and relieving Mira of the weapon, he discharged the spent cartridge and began loading new shells into the magazine, keeping one eye on the room and one eye on the civilians, who, much to his dismay had multiplied.

"It's the thing that killed Bob."

"I don't understand."

"No one ever does," Dean stated flatly. He nudged Mira in the shoulder with his knee to get her attention. "We've got a problem." He raised a hand and displayed five fingers; one for each round he had left.

The seriousness of Dean's confession sank in and Mira, turned, forcefully grabbing Mr. Wilson by the shoulders and said in the most commanding voice she could manage, "We have no time for this, you have to help us."

"What do I gotta do?" he asked.

"We're looking for something that the ghost is attached to. We've been through all these, but so far, jack squat."

"It's a buffalo."

"You don't say," Dean sniped sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and grumbled something about 'civilians' and 'captain obvious' before turning his attention back to the large room.

"No no no. It's a buffalo. These crates here aren't for the buffalo hunters' exhibit." Mr. Wilson turned 360 degrees in one spot, looking specifically for something. "There," he said excitedly and pointed to the large crates that they had been using as a shield. "Those are the ones we want."

He began pushing crates and debris down and away from the stack, trying to clear a path to the large crates on the bottom.

Mira saw his intention and joined him, tossing broken bits of crate to the side and shoving whole boxes over and knocking them to the ground. Dean helped where he could, but kept an ever watchful eye on the room, gun raised and knowing that he needed to make every shot count.

"Here!" the museum director shouted, "these two." He grabbed the crow bar up off of the ground where Dean had dropped it and jammed it beneath the lid, prying it open one nail at a time. Mira grabbed hold of the lid and together the leveraged the lid open completely, and then pulled the packaging back to reveal a buffalo skull.

"Dean?" Mira called out, tugging on his pant leg.

Without looking down, Dean fired off another shot, the echo of the blast and the Bison's bellow filling the room and above it, Dean yelled, "In my bag. There's a flask of salt and a can of lighter fluid."

She quickly crawled to the bag to retrieve the items and then back and looked to him for further instructions.

"Salt it. Like steak. No," he corrected when she did as he asked. "like my steak,"

"If this can't really burn, will it even work?" Mr. Wilson asked nervously.

"It'll work," Dean said confidently.

Across the room, the Bison flashed back into existence and for a second, it was as if the entire world stopped, all eyes locked on the beast as it sized them up. Having already sprayed the skull with the lighter fluid and without taking her eyes off of the ghost, Mira's hand snaked up Dean's far side, patting him down. He couldn't help the giggle that escaped when her fingers found a particularly ticklish spot.

"Now's not the time to be playin' grab ass, much as I appreciate the reach around."

At that comment, she did scowl at him, "I'm looking for your lighter, you jerk. As if."

With his sights trained on the ghost, Dean dug into his front pocket, fished out the simple Zippo and pressed it into her awaiting hand, giving her fingers a slight squeeze to let her know that he'd been teasing and smiling when she squeezed back.

As if sensing that it was being threatened, the Buffalo snorted a warning and then charged across the expansive room. Mira was quick to strike the lighter and dropped it into the crate, igniting the fluid and catching the entirety of the skull and crate on fire, but the Bison just kept coming.

"Oh, that's not good."

Dean fired into the head of the ghost just as it breached their broken down wall of crates, knocking them all sprawling.

"Now what?" Mr. Wilson asked, climbing to his feet. "You said it would work."

"Well, obviously, that's not the thing we're looking for," Dean growled, pulling Mira up from the ground. "What else have ya got, Willie?"

Mr. Wilson eyed Dean, suspiciously, "Just how much am I going to have to sacrifice for this little adventure of yours?"

"Adventure? Ha!" Dean threw his head back in a mocking laugh. "This isn't an adventure for me, pal," he sneered. "This is life or death. That is dead," Dean one-handedly pointed the rifle at the rampaging Bison, not even bothering to look as the rock salt dispersed the spirit, "and if you wanna stay alive, then you best get with the program and help us find whatever's grounding this thing here."

"Guys, I think I found it!"

While the men had been nose to nose, bickering, Mira had set to work, opening the second large crate. She had its lid pried open just a crack but was struggling to pull it open the remainder of the way.

"How do you know?" Dean asked, bending down to peer inside the crate. It was much too dark to see inside and he couldn't fit his fingers between the lid and the crate.

"The box says so."

Sure enough, the crate had been marked with a tag reading 'Buffalo robe'.

"Why didn't we see that before?" Dean grinned. "Think you can handle this, Wilson?" Dean asked, handing the shotgun to the director.

"Point and shoot, right?"

"Pretty much. There's only two rounds left, so don't waste 'em."

Dean dropped to his knees beside Mira and made to take the crow bar from her, but the girl wasn't having it and suggested in not-so-polite terms that he should find his own. He looked around in the wreckage of what had been the museum; his eyes lighting up when they caught on a familiar shape.

On the floor beneath a shattered case that had been marked Lakota, lay a Tomahawk. He picked it up, weighting it in his hand for balance and smiled.

"I always wanted to do this," he said before letting loose a full-bodied Indian war cry, bringing the deadly weapon arcing down and smashing through the lid of the crate, shattering one corner and popping the lid free.

"Was that necessary?" Mira asked, pushing the lid up and off.

"Absolutely," Dean answered with a grin of pure glee. He slid the Tomahawk into his belt and began peeling back the shattered wooden lid.

"I-uh think you better work faster, cuz here it comes," Mr. Wilson's warning was shrill with anxiety. He raised the gun to his shoulder and waited until the Bison had come close enough to make the shot count and then smoothly pulled the trigger. "One shot left," he announced, ejecting the spent cartridge.

Working quickly and together, Dean and Mira salted the 135 year old hide and sprayed it down with lighter fluid.

"What are you waiting for?" Mira asked when instead of lighting it immediately, Dean stood confused, patting himself down. "Oh! It's in the other crate," she said, pointing to the skull that was still burning.

"Sweet Jesus! Here it comes again. I hope for all our sakes you got it right this time."

"Me too," Dean answered, lifting a piece of flaming wood from the first crate and dropped the torch onto the accelerant soaked hide.

-X-

Spraying gravel everywhere, Clive slid his pickup to a halt outside the front entrance of the museum and before the engine was even cut, Bobby was out of the cab and sprinting for the door with Clive only three paces behind him. Just as they reached the concrete steps leading up toward the entry, the doors burst open; Mira and Mr. Wilson came stumbling out together, coughing and hacking in a putrid cloud of smoke. Pale and shaky, the older man bent at the waist, putting hands to knees for support and vomited into the yard.

Clive was there in a heartbeat. As Bobby rushed past them and into the building, Clive took hold of Mr. Wilson's arm and slung it around his shoulders and helped the man down the steps and to a concrete bench.

"Y'alright, Doug?" he asked, kneeling at his feet and placing a steadying hand to the man's shoulder.

"I'll be fine; just got a bit overwhelmed by the smell and the smoke. That's God awful."

Clive clapped him sympathetically and left him to gain his senses and clear his lungs in the cool night air.

"Mira?"

Clive had her wrapped up in his arms before she even knew he was there and held her up while her body shook with coughs. Pushing the loose hair out of her face, he did a quick once over, checking for injuries and burns, but found none.

"I'm okay," she persuaded.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at her face, wiping away tears and soot. She gratefully accepted the offered and cleared her nose of the rancid smoke.

"Mira, where's Dean?"

"He hasn't come out yet?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said catching a hold of her as she made to bolt back inside. "You're not going back in there. Bobby'll see to him. You just stay right here and catch your breath."

"But, it's my—"

"But, nothin'." He pulled her back into his arms, hugging her tight and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "What would I have done if you'd gotten hurt in there?"

"I was fine. I had Dean to protect me."

"Dean?" Clive sighed, feeling the pinch of a headache building behind his eyes, "Mira, I don't know what it is that you think you know about that boy, or how you've come to know it, but you shouldn't have gone to him. If you needed help, you could've come to me and I would've gotten you help. But this?" he gestured towards the now silent building. "This was just risky. You being in there with him…honey, you only put the both of you kids in a lot of danger."

"Yeah, you did." Bobby's voice invaded the privacy of their conversation and startled them.

"Dean? Where's Dean?" Mira asked nervously when the young man didn't pop out from behind Bobby.

"He's fine. He'll be along shortly, but before he does…the three of us need to have a little heart-to-heart."

Mira cast a sideways glance at Clive only to find that he'd dropped the look of concern and in its place was one of disappointment and in that moment, she truly felt on her own.

"You're a smart woman," Bobby gave the compliment matter-of-factly; his tone not carrying the meaning of the words, but he tried to soften it with a smile when he noticed Mira flinch inwardly.

"I'm not gonna fault you for figuring a few things out," he continued, "like I said, you're a smart cookie, but I definitely expected a little common sense outta you. Hell, girl, you coulda got yourself killed in there."

"Could've got Dean killed too." Clive echoed in a harsh, hushed tone.

"Him, I'm not worried about," Bobby dismissed casually, "the boy can take care of himself, but he should never've agreed to take you in with him."

Mira was already shaking her head, her eyes creased at the corners and looking well scolded. "No," she choked. "It wasn't his fault. I didn't give him a choice."

"I didn't figure you did," Bobby tried hard not to smile. "Kid never could turn down a pretty face, but…he knows better—"

"I just don't understand," Clive interrupted, letting the full force of his parental authority take over. "Where'd you get the idea to involve Dean in this in the first place? You have no idea what could've happened to the two of you in there."

"I do know," she answered quietly. When she looked up with her eyes glassy with unshed tears, Mira found that she had both men's full attention. "Just because you won't talk about it with me, doesn't mean I don't know. I wasn't so young that I don't remember."

"Mira…" Clive sighed.

Dean chose that moment to appear at Bobby's side, rubbing at his smoke-scratched throat but otherwise, looking no worse for wear.

"Fire's out," he croaked out, grinning. But his grin quickly faded when he felt the edgy tension between the two older men and Mira.

"What's going on?" he asked uneasily, taking notice of the tearful look on Mira's face.

"Go sit down, hot shot," Bobby answered dismissively.

"What?" Dean asked, taken aback by Bobby's curt rejection.

It may have come out a little harsher than Bobby had intended, but he'd gotten a little madder than he'd intended as well. Mira & Doug Wilson were both civilians after all, and it was his and Dean's job to protect civilians, not to put them on the front line.

"Bobby—"

Dean made to step through the pair of men but was stopped when Clive, attempting to defuse the situation, stepped bodily in front of Dean saying, "Bobby and I just need to have a word with Mira, here, in private. Gotta sort a few things out, is all."

"Well fellas," Mr. Wilson appeared beside them, wiping his glasses clean as he spoke, "I'm afraid that'll have to wait. There's a deputy's car approaching."

As one unit, everyone turned to look up the road and sure enough, a deputy's police cruiser was very purposefully making its way to the museum with its lights flashing.

"Balls," Bobby groaned.

"Get movin'," Clive said firmly to Dean and Mira. "We'll take care of this. You two high-tail it back to Bobby's and then…you sit your asses still until we get back there. Am I clear?" He looked directly at Mira, who lowered her eyes to the ground, but nodded obediently and grabbed a gob smacked Dean by the arm and pulled him towards the Chevelle.

"Well…which one you suppose we'll end up with?" Clive gestured toward the approaching squad car.

"Simpson if we're lucky," Bobby answered, knocking a bit of greasy protein ash off of his hat.

"I'm friends with Baker," Mr. Wilson offered.

The two men turned as one to regard him with no small amount of surprise and Bobby was not able to disguise the disbelief in his voice.

"You mean to tell me after the amount of destruction inside your place, you're still willing to help us out?"

"I'm not a fool Mr. Singer. I've got two eyes and a sound mind. I know what I saw in there and I have no doubts that had I faced that alone, I would have joined Bob Lane in the morgue. Those kids, as thoughtless as they might have appeared at first, knew exactly what they were up against. They handled themselves calmly and efficiently and, I am not ashamed to admit, saved this old man's life. So, yes. I am still willing to help you out."

When the Deputy's vehicle pulled to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk and the door swung open, the three men let out a group groan. Deputy Jody Mills stepped out of the vehicle and slid her cover into place over her perfectly French-braided hair.

A pretty young woman in her early thirties, Deputy Mills had only been on the Sioux Falls Police Force for six months, but in that small amount of time, she had built herself a reputation for being a hard ass; a well-deserved reputation, as far as Bobby was concerned.

She tugged on her shirt, pulling it straight and setting her appearance, then placed a hand on her police issue and walked confidently toward the welcoming committee before her.

"Bobby Singer," she announced haughtily. "Imagine my surprise to find you at the center of this…issue. Well, let's get this over with. Mr. Wilson, what charges would you like to file?"

-X-

The drive back to Bobby's was a quiet one. Mira sat silently in the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around her torso protectively, her eyes trained, unseeing, out the side window as the landscapes whizzed by.

Even with his hands on 10 and 2, Dean found it very hard to concentrate on the road. His body strummed with unspent adrenaline, but he remained painfully in check by the edgy quiet of the girl beside him. The tension radiating off Mira was tangible and he couldn't help but worry his lip between his teeth when stealing the occasional glance at her.

Say something, he told himself. Dean looked at her again and noticed how she visibly tensed each time his eyes fell on her. He couldn't help but wonder why, exactly, she was catching Hell for what had taken place at the museum.

Dean had made Bobby fully aware of the case. Hell, the man had practically given Dean his blessing. But at the museum, Dean had seen Bobby's eyes, seen the set of his jaw; the man wasn't happy. He had seen just enough of that look over the years to know when there was about to be trouble. And if there was one thing Dean knew for sure, it was that Bobby didn't get upset easily and when he did, it was usually because someone he cared about was in danger.

Clive too. Even though Dean had only just met Clive that week, he fully recognized the quiet, parental look of anger and disappointment mixed with 'Thank God you're alive'.

So maybe it was a parental thing. Clive had been worried about his daughter, and wow, wasn't that a shock? And Bobby had been worried about Dean. But if that was the case, why hadn't Bobby been all up in Dean's ass about it?

"I can hear you thinking," Mira said, barely a whisper, her breath fogging the chilled door glass.

"I wasn't," he defended automatically.

"You weren't?" Mira looked, catching his gaze and lifted her eyebrows in disbelief. "Do you mean to tell me that isn't your pensive and brooding look?"

He just looked at her, his mouth twisting in a mocking frown and kept driving. Dean wasn't pensive. He thought it was perfectly clear to anyone who actually knew them, that of the Winchesters, Sammy was the pensive one, whereas Dean was cool and aloof. But Mira didn't know them. Did she?

Dean pulled the car into Bobby's lot and cut the engine, but neither Dean nor Mira made a move to get out. Instead they just sat there. Dean's hands clung to the wheel, grounding him and the swirl of thoughts in his head. Maybe he was pensive after all.

Mira, however, sighed. She slid down further into the passenger seat, the round curls of her hair that had been loosely pulled up and knotted were now bunched up above her head against the seat leather, glowing in the harsh yellow yard light like an angel's halo above her head. She slouched; not too unlike Dean had seen Sammy do so many times over the years, and for a moment he was reminded strongly of his brother; especially when she slid her hands beneath her thighs and stretched her long legs out in front of her.

"I don't get you," he said, breaking the silence between them.

"What's there to get?" she returned, trying hard to come off nonchalant.

"Nah, forget it."

Following her lead, Dean sunk down into his seat, stretched his legs and noticed for the first time that his injured leg was throbbing. He'd most likely regret this night's actions come morning, but for now he could only make himself comfortable. Releasing the deep breath he'd been unaware he was holding, Dean let his eyes fall closed. He laid one arm over his chest and tucked it beneath the solid weight of the other and then tried to let his mind go; not that it was going to work. He was in the middle of a post-hunt high and his mind was racing at a million miles an hour. The fact that he was actually sitting still, was a minor miracle. This kind of energy was meant for two things, fighting or fucking, but seeing as neither appeared likely, Dean was left to think.

"So what's our story gonna be?" he asked finally.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Bobby and Clive are gonna come back here lookin' to restart the Spanish Inquisition, so I just figured that it would be good if we're on the same page."

"Don't worry about it, Dean. They're not after you."

"And why is that exactly?"

Mira's head rolled his direction, her rich brown eyes wide and imploring; wanting so badly for him not to ask the questions she could hear floating around in his head.

"What did you do?" Dean asked, the hint of an accusation seeping into his voice, but then he frowned, seeing the answer forming on her lips and watching her fight for control over her own words. Blinking heavily she opened and closed her mouth, swiped her tongue across pink lips that threatened her with treachery and then in the next breath, she had turned and was closing the distance and pressing those same traitorous lips against his.

It wasn't a nice kiss. Dean had known hundreds of kisses in his lifetime; he knew kisses. Kisses could mean many things; I love you, I want you, I need you, I'm afraid, I'm alone; so many things. This kiss was different, he recognized. It was demanding and forceful and was meant to shut him up, and for one brief moment, Dean felt himself sink into that, surrendering to the loss of control as she attempted to strip it from him completely. He let his lips slip beneath hers, parting them to taste her desire and instead found only desperation.

His eyes sprung open and he squeaked in denial, tried to back away from her kiss, but he was slouched down in the seat, with Mira inching over him, pressing him further into the leather, her hands now grasping at him impatiently.

"Mira," he spoke against her mouth, "stop."

He peeled her hands from his shirt, taking hold of her slender wrists and fighting up out of his slouch and to regain some sort of control over the situation, even as she continued to chase the contact.

"Mira," he said a little more forcefully. Dean sat up, pulling her easily with him and trapping her small hands between them as he wrapped a long arm around her, holding her in place. With his free hand, he pushed the wild curls from her face, only to find her eyes brimming with tears, her features covered with anguish.

"What did you do?" he repeated, quieter this time, without the heat of his earlier accusation.

"I lied to you, Dean." she choked, angling her eyes away from his.

"Darlin'," he drawled, pulling her attention back up to his face, "I had that much figured out a long time ago."

He smiled; that self-assured smile of his with his head leaned back, looking down his slender nose at her and his chin tucked up so that his mouth looked both teasing and pouty all at once; that smile. That was the smile that could get him anything he wanted. And what he wanted right that very moment was for Mira to spill.

"What I don't understand," he started, rubbing his thumb up and over the apple of her cheek, wiping away a stray tear, "is why you thought you had to lie; why you had to manipulate me."

Defensively, Mira freed a hand and knocked Dean's away from her face. She pushed against Dean's chest, trying to put some room between them and when Dean obliged and let go completely, she fell backwards off the seat, only just catching herself on the dash before she tumbled onto the floor.

"I'm not proud of it," she said bitterly, "but I didn't know what else to do."

Dean was a world class liar and he'd been around world class liars his whole life. It was a necessary part of his life, but a part which he'd never come to handle well when on the receiving end. He wasn't used to being the manipulated one.

"You coulda just told me," Dean offered by way of suggestion.

"Dean, I'm sor—"

"I mean, under normal circumstances…you ain't getting in under my radar," he cut across her, taping his temple with an index finger. "Dean Winchester just doesn't get taken, ya know. He does the taking, but I can't even get a read on you, cuz you're all over the damn map. That's a little unfair, don't ya think, Mira?"

He was babbling now, at full speed, and Mira couldn't tell if he was trying to be funny or if he was being serious and actually upset with her.

"Hell, you claim to know who I am, but I don't get the same rights? Who are you? You never did answer me that one, Mira…if that is your real name. One minute you're a stuck up sorority chick who won't give me the time of day and the next you're eyeing me up like a piece of meat."

Dean took a deep, exaggerated breath, found 'center' and then leaned in closer saying quite seriously, "And then I find out that you're none of the above and that you're Clive's friggin' daughter. So, if you really know me, like you say you do, then you had to know that us running off on a goddamn job was gonna cause waves between Bobby and your old man when he found out. No self-respectin' father is gonna let his kid get put in harm's way like that."

"He's not my father."

Dean stilled, not sure he'd heard her correctly, she'd spoken so quietly.

"What?"

"Clive. He's not my father."

"Oh God," Dean groaned, looking like he was truly going to be sick. "Please tell me he's not your husband or something."

Mira pulled a face like she too was going to be ill, her nose crinkling at the thought.

"He's my uncle," she all but cried out. "That's so gross, Dean. Why would you even think that?"

"You have the same last name! Shit, I don't know."

They both sat in shocked silence until the smallest laugh bubbled up from within Mira's chest. Once started, it became contagious, Dean following suit until they were laughing so hard they were panting for breath.

"Truce?" Dean asked, offering his hand to her.

Mira nodded her agreement and took his hand. Dean pulled her back onto the seat, where she settled down beside him, resting her head against the seat back and holding her aching tummy.

"Where's your folks?" Dean nudged the conversation tentatively, but slowed when Mira tensed next to him, "You don't have to tell me. I was just curious."

Mira took a deep breath and released it slowly and then let herself slide over until her head met Dean's shoulder. He looked down, completely unsure and wary of the move, but did nothing to stop her.

"My parents…were killed…when I was a little girl."

She stopped and tilted her face up to gauge his reaction and was surprised to see that Dean…wasn't all that surprised.

"My aunt and uncle raised me," she continued. "They have one son of their own and thought about having others, but I was so messed up when they got me, well…" Mira shook her head sadly, swallowed thickly and looked down into her lap.

"How'd it happen…your parents?"

"Know how I said I knew who you are? What I should have said was; I know what you are. My parents were killed by a…something. I don't know what exactly. No one would ever talk to me about it, but I do remember things…my mom. She was so pale…gray."

Sitting up, Mira breathed again, long, deep and shaky and only jumped a little, when she felt Dean's warm hand slide comfortingly up her back, rubbing large circles through the cotton of her shirt and into her skin.

She spoke so very quietly that Dean had to lean forward just to hear her:

"I remember her eyes, open and empty and how I licked my thumb and wiped away the smear of blood at the corner of her mouth, you know, how moms always do that when you have food on your mouth." She smiled just a little at the thought of her mother spit washing her face, the way all mothers do, but just as quickly as Mira's smile had appeared, it faded.

"I remember all that, but I don't remember the thing that did it to her and my dad. I do, however, remember the men who saved me."

It turned out that Mira had many very clear memories of the night her parents were murdered and Dean listened intently to how two men, two hunters had come bursting into Mira's childhood home just in time to sweep the small girl up from her dead mother's side and dispatch the creature that was obliviously bent over the carcass of the girl's father.

A tall, dark man had appeared over little Mira and she'd looked up with wide, fearful eyes and whimpered when the man had knelt down next to her.

"It's goin' be okay, girlie," he'd said; just a hint of South in his scratchy voice. He scooped her up and grinned, bright white teeth standing out brilliant against his dark complexion. They turned and bumped into a second man who stood rigid, gun stock held achingly hard against his shoulder.

"You alright?" The first hunter had said to the other man.

"Sure," he'd answered, shakily.

"Here, take this child. Go outside and wait. Quick-like."

And Mira had been handed off and hustled out the door to the awaiting pickup. In the street light, little Mira had been able see the man holding her; his pale eyes, wide and looking just as frightened as she had felt. He'd tried to smile, his light mustache, twitching nervously around the ends of his mouth.

"It's gonna be okay, darlin'," he tried to reassure, "I promise. Rufus, he'll just be a little bit and then we'll get you someplace safe. Okay?"

To little Mira, the hunter's words had just been noise; a buzzing among all the screams of her parents and the snarls and growls of the thing that had taken them. But the words hadn't mattered. The tiny girl had curled into the hunter's chest, clinging tight to his pale blue denim over shirt and feeling safe.

"It was Bobby," Mira explained. "I don't have any proof," she added quickly, seeing the look of shock in Dean's eyes. "It's not like my aunt or uncle ever told me. I've just somehow always known. Sometimes when he comes into the store, he gives me this look; like he's remembering. And every once in a while, I catch a bit of his scent; his cologne or maybe his aftershave and it all comes flooding back to me. You're uncle saved my life, Dean. So, yeah, I kinda know what you are."