Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

11. A Kind of Aggression with Himself

Anyone can become angry – that is easy, but to be angry with the right person at the right time, and for the right purpose and in the right way – that is not within everyone's power and that is not easy.

"So…" she says the next morning, watching the boys pack away all their belongings into the huge, well worn duffle bags they take everywhere. She'd completed her packing the previous night.

They are a study in contrast; the tall boy places his clothes into the bag with a quiet, slow efficiency and precision, every item of clothing folded, every toiletry carefully packed in zip lock bags in order to prevent spills and placed the right way up. All his belongings are in neat piles on the bed around his duffle bag, and he stands in front of it, still but for the ritual of bend and pick up item, straighten, hold open duffle bag, and slip item inside, bend and pick up item, straighten, hold open duffle bag, and slip item inside. The bag is sectioned off into four sections – short shirts, long shirts, jeans, and jackets and underwear. The toiletry gets packed on top of the clothes and into the sides. Everything always fits, without him needing to strain the zipper.

The older boy however, simply stuffs all of his items into the duffle bag; clothes are crumpled and screwed up into clean and dirty balls – there is no difference in how the clothes are treated – both dirty and clean items are shoved in on top of and surrounding each other into the bag. He's rushing around the room, reciting things he thinks he's forgotten to himself – "…toothbrush, razor, blue shirt, blue shirt…" – chucking the item onto the bed when he's found it, before continuing his search for any others that dare to elude him. Toiletries are hurled amidst the rest of the things that go into the bag; they hide in convenient valleys and folds of material. A tube of toothpaste is thrown on top of jeans, cap still off. It receives more and more pressure placed on it as he piles on more and more clothes, a can of shaving cream, its tip still smeared with foam, is tossed into the duffle as well. When he finally thinks he has everything he squishes the clothes down flat, and starts pulling at the closing flap, trying to shut the duffle. His possessions are coming out of the top of the bag.

"Mmm?" Sam mutters, smoothing creases out of the brown shirt he's holding before putting it into the bag and smoothing it out again, so it lies perfectly. The older boy ignores her, struggling with the bag, pulling and muttering to himself.

"Sharika's coming travelling with us. Okay, good, now that's sorted I've gotta –"

"No," Dean says, without stopping in his straining and tugging. Sam doesn't even glance at her, in the middle of his ritual. She waits, eyebrows raised for something, anything else. Some kind of reaction. Nothing, bar the continuation of the boys' packing, is forthcoming. She should really be used to it by now – it's like they expect their word to be law and that nothing else needed to be said after they've passed their verdict. Mostly Dean did it, but Sam definitely had his moments. Put simply, it pissed the crap out of her. Half of the time she was conversing with the Winchesters strangulation scenes were dancing like fairytale happy endings in the back of her head. The boy's often wondered at that strange smile she wore when they were speaking to her in angry tones – but they'd never know the truth.

"No? I'm sorry; I don't believe I gave you any choice in the matter." So, she thinks nastily to herself, eyes narrowing, shoulders squaring and jaw jutting out, a stubborn line, you can be domineering? Well, guess who else can play that game Dean? She knows that she's right, that she owes it to herself to see where this thing with Sharika was going. Add in a pinch of bitchy, a dash of self-righteous anger, and a healthy splash of the fact that she knows on one hand, whatever they have to say would probably be at least half true. She worries, somewhere in the forefront of her mind, the part that isn't dealing with how to get the boys to agree with her, whether or not Sharika will just leave her high and dry again. Never a word said, never a sign as to the why or the when. She balks at putting herself on the line like that, ever again – but if that's what it's going to take, then damn all the consequences. Do what you like, and hack the consequences, isn't that what she lives by? She was not the type to hide behind her fears, nor let them consume her. Then again, on the other hand she's completely denying it – the fact that they may actually be right. She doesn't want to let that take her over. Combine all these elements together and you have a party! "It was a statement, not a question –"

"So is what I said. She is not coming with us." Dean finally stops pulling at the zipper, which isn't even halfway around, and looks at her, his face completely expressionless. She eyes him almost nervously, making sure that no such emotion shows on her face, or in her posture. His countenance speaks of resolve and restraint, and the last time she saw him like that he was in the process of beating up that grope-y guy, who was mauling her. She doesn't understand his animosity towards the dark woman – she has done him no harm, in fact, she had saved their asses – including his unconscious one – from the real grizzly bear just last night. The woman hadn't thought it would be this hard, in truth – she'd pretty much gotten her way with the Winchester's, no matter how much she complained and bagged them out. They gave her a lot of freedom, as long as it didn't impede on her safety, or theirs, or on the hunt. What reason did they have for not allowing her, after all? If the dark woman left again, it'd have no real effect on their lives. They were probably just being assholes, not letting her get her way, because they never offered it to her. Everything has to be the way the Winchesters dictate, everything as they say it should be. Well, she wasn't a slave. Fuck them. "I see no reason for her to."

"For me," she says, stressing the last word, and leaning forwards a little, showing her seriousness, how much it means to her, how much she needs this, how important it is. And crossing her arms under her breasts as she does so. Cleavage to get what you want – it's a way of life. And, it usually works on Dean. Now, if he would just –

"Not good enough," the older boy says. He looks away from her, running one large, square hand through his short, dark blonde hair. When it comes away it's sticking up in blunt, messy spikes, and gives the illusion that he is younger than his twenty-six years. In this light the tiny, virtually invisible freckles sprawled across his nose – as though a kindergartner had been going wild with toothbrushes, flicking, and brown paint – add to this, and despite her rising anger she feels the familiar clench her heart makes, every single goddamn day when she sees him. The sensation is as though someone has grabbed her heart, and squeezed it while jerking it up and down in rapid succession. No matter how many times it happens, she can't get over how insane it feels to have her heart behave in such a manner. It had never done anything remotely similar to it before. But then, the whole thing about her being in love with him was insane. What else was new? Suddenly he's looking back at her, hazel green eyes arrowing straight into hers as though he can view her very soul, her very essence, and take it all away. Fuck the clenching – her heart had frozen. Then he murdered all such mush with his next words – she should have known it wouldn't last, and that he was just thinking of a way to let her down again, not so gently, but all Dean. "Look, Lauren, we don't need to deal with the added burden of bringing her along with us – and then when she leaves you again, having to cope with you all broken up because you'd believed her when she said it would be different."

She blinked, eyebrows beetling for a confused second. He was getting a little too strong and insightful on this topic. She would have taken a moment, or more, to ponder on the why, but then she reminded herself – you're kind of in a fight for your emotional survival here. Kill it – kill it! "You mean if not when. And I don't think she will. Besides, she won't be a burden – she's just as good a hunter as I am, plus she has…special powers, and she doesn't even have to ride with us; she has her own car. I don't see the problem." Usually she'd say Sharika was almost as good a hunter as she was, because that was just the way she was. Wisecracking and sarcastic and derogatory. But at this time, she knew she was pimping Sharika's good side out her to the boys' weaknesses – good hunters and their skills and information, and besides, the dark woman was just as good in most ways, if not better in some.

So the equation stands at – good hunter (Sharika) equals big plus. Neutralises the 'protect Lauren, we're always right' factor…?

"Lauren," the taller boy said, turning around finally and obviously deciding to show an active interest and take a stand. He understands, doesn't he, how much the woman needs her friend? How much she needs this reconciliation – or at least the chance at it. He's so intuitive like that, he knows her. And she knows that he cares about her. But then… he so often agrees with Dean. Not about the little things, sure, and half the time not even about the big things. But the medium, in between things? Usually he had her back. If only she could read what he's thinking right now. If only she could see his eyes, the boy's dead-give-away, so expressive eyes. But his fringe falls over them, concealing the thoughts contained within their blue green depths. And then, as though he heard her unspoken wishes he brushes it away impatiently, with long, slender fingers. The strands parting reveal stern determination, and she feels her heart sinking. "Dean's right. We can't take the risk." Not so much with the neutralising. Damn it.

She opened her mouth, but then there came a hesitant knock on the door. She knew who it was, immediately. Everyone she was close to had a different knocking tone, and she knew them all. The dark woman's was always slightly hesitant, but still loud enough to be noticeable, almost as though she didn't want to be disturbing the going's on behind the door, but now that she was she didn't want to have to keep doing it, or for it to have no effect. The tall boy's was slow and even, and he never entered a room that was closed off without doing so – probably a learned, ingrained and embarrassment centred habit after living with his brother and his…appetites…all his life. The oldest boy's knock was loud and impatient, and half the time he was opening the door with the hand he wasn't using to knock.

This tendency was much to both his and her horror at times, when he caught her shaving her legs after a shower (a.k.a. naked) on the bathroom floor, and there was no lock, or when she was in the shower, or when she was changing in the bathroom or in the bedroom when the boys went out somewhere. Sometimes she conveniently 'forgot' to lock the door, just to chance such occurrences, and the ensuing shouting match about 'fucking privacy Dean!' and how 'Dean was such a freakin' perve'. It amused her to no end to see his face whenever he caught her in these positions – a mixture of surprise and shock…and something else right at the back of his eyes, like – well…she'd never been exposed to it long enough to figure it out, so she wasn't sure. It was probably just her optimistic, love clouded nature that deluded her enough to imagine the heat in his gaze. And then, of course, there was always the lingering hope that one day, if she tried hard enough, if she was there, if he wanted he could…take advantage. And then reality strikes, like a sharp, firm wake up call, a slap in the face. Not that he ever would take advantage. He had his pick of a billion women a day – why the hell would he ever consider her as more than a mild nuisance, and a thing to be toyed with, played with, prodded and poked to see what reaction it gave? Dean wasn't cruel – not in the way you would usually think. He just didn't get it. What he was doing to her – how much it – damn it. He didn't even find her attractive, after all, who the hell would?

"Come in," she calls, and the dark woman enters, head held high as she meets the accusing eyes of the boys. Her shoulders are pulled back and her face is set, much in the manner of a soldier who is facing their first battle – or at least going to war.

"Hi," the dark woman mutters, a habit of sorts – and then the other one feels the tension strumming through the air like the calm, pulsing power of the quiet before a storm. It was smooth and heavy, and spiked with the awkwardness of the dark woman, as she didn't know how to react in the presence of the Winchesters, now that it wasn't all automatic flight, fight and nurture responses. Since Dean and the woman had just been hashing it out, it had to be even worse for the dark woman. She was sure to have heard it, and know what it had been about. The woman glances at Dean, eyeing him swiftly up and down – he's as tense as Sharika; Sam had gone back to packing his bag, showing his large non-involvement in the issue.

The blonde woman hides a smile and gets up to stand next to the dark woman, also facing the Winchesters. Nothing but a calm, sedate strength and studied resolve show on her features, and the boys are taken aback although they do not display it – that the blonde woman would so swiftly change sides, and back up the woman who had deserted her so easily irks the oldest boy in ways he refuses to acknowledge, even to himself. His glare narrows even further at the woman who had set off this whole problem. How dare she just come back into Lauren's life, and think that she can just continue wherever it was she left off? He wasn't going to let her use and discard Lauren again, and besides – their dad had given them orders to protect her. Against what, he hadn't said, so Dean had to make those decisions. He was the oldest, the most responsible. Whatever he says around here goes. That was that.

"We already told your girlfriend," he says, sarcasm dripping like dark honey from his voice. "You aren't coming anywhere with us."

The blonde woman's jaw tenses and she grits her teeth silently, grinding them together as though she could powder the anger she feels, and swallow it down deep inside her, until it loses its potency. She will not be bossed around. She will not allow her decisions to be made for her, yet again. If this was how she was going to be treated, then… "Fine," she says, looking away from the boys, shrugging and rolling her eyes as though it is no big deal.

The Winchesters blink, taken aback, as is the dark woman. They all stare at her, waiting for something else. But she's decided to take a leaf out of the boys' book. Wait for the conflict to come to you, do not chase after it with all guns blazing, all cards drawn, all emotions and thoughts and where you stand glowingly obvious.

"Fine?" the tallest boy finally mutters incredulously, the questioning air in his voice testing the waters of her meaning for the rest of the group. The dark woman and his brother glance at him for a second, before their eyes meet and tear away again, with both of them of the same mind. They will not be put on an even keel with each other – they will have nothing in common. Nothing.

The blonde woman looks up from the ground and smiles at the tallest boy – a dangerous, determined smile that pulls three bodies as taut as tensed bowstring, even as hers flows and relaxes, her decision filling her with calm confidence. "Yes, Sam. That's just fine." It was as though she was agreeing to something simple and easy, something that she didn't feel passionate about. As though she wasn't ready to batter those boys into a pulp until they got their heads out of their asses long enough to listen to her. Her eyelashes flutter over her eyes and her smile spreads, as the pain blossoms in her chest at the thought over never seeing the oldest boy again. Never touching him again. Never having the chance for anything other than a tenuous friendship. But it's his choice. What he says goes, right? She'll be damned if she lets him have the decision he'd thought he'd made. "Since Sharika can't travel with us…I'm travelling with her. I guess this is goodbye. I'll miss you Sam; you're like the little brother I never got to know, and now wish I hadn't." Her eyes crinkle at this, and she ignores the frozen shock on three separate faces. "Anyways…time to hit the road. Sharika, you ready?"

"Okay," the dark woman says, recovering, and shrugs, used to the blonde one's erratic personality and the table turning she pulled on everyone around her. That she was doing it to the oldest boy was no surprise, and she'd even expected something like this to occur. Besides, she didn't want to have to travel with the males anyway; all she wanted was to have her friend with her again for them to sort this out. The boys would just add complications that she didn't need, or want.

"Good." She smiles at the other woman, and they share a second of connection, a spark of recognition – and then she pulls away again, turning her smile on the boys and grabbing her own duffle off the floor. "See you guys, well, you know, probably never again." She turns, and they are half way to the door, when the oldest boy says it. It confirmed all her suspicions as to what he'd been thinking, and thus stops her in her tracks, blood thundering like the pounding of a waterfall through her brain, smashing everything all to pieces – rationality, willpower, numb calm. He really was an idiot sometimes.

"No way. Dad told us to protect you, and that's what we're going to do. You are coming with us, and she is not."

"Excuse –" she spins around, and starts to yell, when she is interrupted by Dean's ring tone. He doesn't even look in her direction as he digs it out of the pocket of his dark blue jeans, strong, tanned fingers scrabbling for purchase, until the mobile and his hand are out and he flips the phone open, placing it against his ear.

"Yeah?" he asks into the speaker, and then his movements, which were previously on the borderline of pacing, still. His hazel green eyes widen and he shoots a quick look at Sam, who directs a confused one back. "It's Dad. Where are y- yes, sir. Yeah." He nods, although only the people in the room can see it of course, as he's interrupted. "Yeah." Is that all he's going to say?! "But – okay." The woman mutters to herself sarcastically in her head, about there finally being some variety. "Yes, sir. Yeah." Oh, great, we're back to that again. So much for variety, and non-monosyllabic answers. The eldest boy hangs up the phone and turns to the women again. "You're both coming with us. Be in the car in five minutes."

"Wait, what?" the dark woman exclaims, before she battens her mouth shut again, due to the shock of the boy suddenly agreeing to their request. This instinctual response was not meant to happen – she did not purposely decide to let it loose, and now she has everyone looking at her. The blonde woman is close enough to see a slight stain spreading over her cheekbones, and she feels her mouth twitch into a true smile, not the fake one she'd been handing out through this whole scene. She feels a small surge of amusement run through her – she'd forgotten some of Sharika's more choice characteristics in the midst of losing her. Losing her – fuck. The barrier slams up against any positive feelings, and she's left with the smile pulling at her muscles, as false as it ever had been, and too tight to ever be mistaken as real. It hurts her cheeks, and then she focuses again – the boy is speaking.

"The car. Go."

"I think she meant the other part, asshole," the woman says faux cheerfully, although amused by this complete change of events, the barrier still encloses her. Then again, it was a joy, really, if you viewed it from her point of view – having the tables not only turned, but pulled out from under Dean so totally it had left the very air around them breathless with the speed.

"Ask no questions, tell no lies." The eldest boy turns back to his duffle bag, and resumes the struggle of doing it up.

"Dean, what did he want?" the taller boy asks, head cocked to the side, stare intensifying as he focuses on his older brother, his body language, his tone, every nuance. If he tells a lie, surely the boy would be able to tell.

"It was about her, Sam." The elder boy waves a hand in the dark woman's direction, and she is shot a look from under brown brows, sea green eyes questioning, accusing.

"How do you know our Dad?" he asks, turning to the dark woman, his size seeming to grow as the other one watches, shooting hazel green and gold glances at everyone, trying to see what is not being said, what should be said, what possibly might be said. She knows, but will the boys be told the truth? Is there more than she knows to it? Pay attention, her thoughts admonish her, as they often do when her mind wanders.

"We keep in contact," the dark woman says nonchalantly, shrugging. If the blonde woman hadn't known in what high esteem her old friend holds the hunter, she would have thought it was just a vague acquaintance. "He's kind of my mentor, and he just helps, in making decisions objectively with me – sometimes you're a little too close to the problem to be able to do that." She glances at the blonde woman, and then away, spiking her curiosity – which is left unfilled as she continues. "It's the same for me as Lauren – he kind of took me under his wing." She blinks, brow beetling, and suddenly her entire focus is on the floor, dark brown eyes scouring it as though it holds secrets and truths she never would have believed. "Oh my god, he – I mean – he'd – this must mean that he's –" she cuts herself off as everyone eyes her questioningly, and she glances at the blonde woman again, seeming to swallow her words. This leaves her confused and unsatisfied, questions tearing at her head like harpies, and she wonders… Could John have had something to do with…no. It can't be. "Never mind."

The women glance at each other simultaneously this time and, although the blonde one is feeling the unbearable pressure of her personality's desire to kick the information out of Sharika, the dark woman shrugs before she's able and turns to leave the room. She asks the boys questions with her eyes, but they are as curious and unknowing as she. She shakes her head, and walks towards the door, realising that they know about as much as she does – nothing.

At the door she hears Sammy's whisper – about the dark woman knowing more than they did. The angry undertone in his voice warns her about the days ahead, but she refuses to dwell or be worried.

They had time.

She hoped. Was she just fooling herself? Her instinctual bravado in the face of Dean's disbelief was very different than what she actually thought in the dark corners of her mind. What was stopping Sharika from leaving again?

Nothing.

AN: Miss me? Lol. I'm making up for missing my last posting; so happy days! I hope you guys enjoy! Reviews, as always, are treasured. Thank you everyone who has done so, and also to my pushy, but still cool, beta, again, who encouraged me to post late. I was considering just missing it... And thanks of course, to my other, wonderful beta, who makes my writing what it is. LOVE TO EVERYONE!!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL THAT CRAP.