The car ride back to the motel had been a quiet and tense one. He didn't think Dean had seen what Sam had seen, but he, too, had been silent. When they had finally reached their motel room, Tracee had immediately gone into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. It had left Sam feeling disappointed. He had wanted to immediately reassure her, but it seemed as though he wouldn't get the chance.

Fifteen minutes later, and Tracee still had not emerged from the bathroom. Sam sighed lightly. He had been pretending to read an old lore book. His head, though, was fill with anxiety—not just of the job, but of Tracee, too. Mostly of Tracee. Had what happened been too much? Would she walk away from all this? Would she just be gone one morning? Sighing again, Sam leaned back in his chair. So much for easy. Pretending wasn't getting him anywhere. Despite his thoughts of Tracee, they still needed to figure out what exactly they were dealing with. He glanced behind him. Dean was sitting up in bed, doodling on the notepad provided by the motel. His brother wasn't going to be of assistance. Not with the ghost-like Mordechai, anyway.

The soft click of the bathroom door opening drew his attention. Tentatively, Tracee stepped out, expression soft and gaze focused on the floor. She didn't appeared agitated or haggard anymore. But that look on her face… She looked hesitant. Her fingers lifted to scratch at her neck. Sam had learned it was a nervous tick. Even if the nervousness didn't appear on her face. She had removed her jacket, leaving her in her long-sleeved pale blue shirt and jeans. Her shoes and socks had been taken off as well. "Hey," he greeted lightly as though she hadn't locked herself in the bathroom. Tracee acknowledged his greeting with a glance in his direction and a simple nod. It was something, at least.

"Dean…?" she softly spoke his brother's name, prompting Sam to turn his head in his direction. Dean had been looking her way, too, possibly as soon as she had come from the bathroom.

"Yeah?"

"I'm… sorry about what happened tonight," Tracee apologized.

"What are you doing that for?" Dean questioned.

"Because I…" She wrung her hands together in front of her. "Because I didn't save you."

"What? Come on, Trace. There was no harm done. Besides, Sammy took care of-"

"No," Tracee cut him off. Her arms fell to her sides. "I didn't say I couldn't save you. I said I didn't. In the short time it took for Samuel to realize you were in trouble, I could have saved you five different ways. At least. But I didn't. I just stood there… frozen… with fear." Sam knew it. The spirit of Mordecai had scared her after all. He had hoped… He had hoped for a lot of things, but hope was a feeble thing compared to reality. "I just stood there and watched. My body was afraid. I've never been hurt physically before… so the daeva… they took away my confidence. When I watched you in danger tonight, even though my mind told me to do one thing, I… I just stood still. I'm sorry."

"… Trace… Look, no one starts off a pro. I mean, even I didn't come out swinging, and I'm a badass." Dean's attempt at humor did not garner even a crack of a smile. "Don't let tonight get you down. Or the daeva. You-"

"They've already gotten me down," Tracee replied. "I am effected negatively by these encounters. I… am not acclimating to this life. What good am I to this life, to you, if I am too scared to act?" She shook her head and closed her eyes. "This has to end." Sam flinched, dreading what her next words could be. This was it, wasn't it? She was going to leave. She was about to ask Dean to take her back to Ashland. His brother scooted to the foot of his bed, wearing a developing frown. Had he caught the signs of her leaving, too? Could he feel the same protests gnawing at his insides like Sam?

"What… What are you saying, Trace?" Dean asked.

Tracee reached up to scratch at the side of her neck again. Her eyes looked elsewhere for a moment. "Tomorrow… instead of working on the case, I want to…" she began. "I want to do the ritual." It took a moment for her words to actually sink in. She… hadn't wanted to leave? "I haven't done it since I've started traveling with you two. I think it would give me my confidence back if I were to start practicing again."

"The ritual…?" Dean repeated, sounding dumbfounded. It appeared that he had expected her to say something else as well. Sam released a heavy sigh of relief. He noticed the glance in his direction from Tracee, but she refocused on his brother. "You just want to exercise? You spent twenty minutes locked in the bathroom brooding just to tell me you want to exercise?!"

"I wasn't brooding!" Tracee's indignant protest was equipped with a pout. Dean gave her a look. "Okay, maybe a little—shut up!" She crossed her arms. "Most of it was meditation to come to a solution for this problem I have. And I have it. The ritual will give me the confidence to face the supernatural again."

"You could have led with that part," Dean said.

"I can't just blurt something out without giving context," she replied with a shrug. Then she uncrossed her arms. "Were you… thinking I was going to say something else?"

"I thought you wanted to leave."

"… Oh."

"Yeah. I know what you did behind that tree. I thought you had decided you weren't cut out for this," Dean stated. So he had noticed, after all. And he seemed to have been just as anxious as Sam had been.

"I suppose… I may have been a little misleading," Tracee murmured. She took a few steps forward until she plopped down on the bed beside Dean. She pressed her arm against his. "I've already made my decision. I'm not going anywhere. I'm your Slayer without reservation." She tilted her head, planting a light kiss to Dean's cheek. "I've already made the jump into this life, so whether I fly or fall… I'll be with you. Both of you."

Sam watched his brother wrap an arm around her. A smile—definitely relieved—spread across his face. "That's my girl," Dean told her, hand lightly squeezing her shoulder. Tracee smiled prettily in return. Watching them, Sam couldn't help the smile that formed on his own face. She was staying, and his brother was happy about it. Something about this was… familiar. He didn't understand why, but it wasn't an unpleasant familiarity. In fact, Sam liked it. Seeing Dean so comfortable with her was a good thing. Sam couldn't remember his brother ever being so comfortable with another person. Except himself, of course. But he was the younger brother. Dean had to be comfortable with him by default. Tracee was another matter entirely.

"So what are you guys working on? Find any reason why we encountered a quasi-ghost?" Tracee questioned. "Or is something like that actually normal?"

"No way," Dean said. "That's why we high-tailed it outta there. An unprepared hunter is dead hunter." Then he grinned at her. "Well, that's why me and Sammy high-tailed it outta there."

"Oh, you've got jokes already?" Tracee scoffed and stood up from the bed.

"What? Too soon?"

She merely rolled her eyes before shifting her line of sight to Sam. He cleared his throat, placing the book he had been holding behind his partially closed laptop. "There's no lore that I've looked at that says ghosts are immune to salt. So either this is a new breed of spirit, which is highly unlikely, or it's not really a ghost."

"It's weird that this… whatever it is… went after Dean with an axe, right?" Tracee questioned. "I was expecting it to come after me with rope to be honest."

"Yeah, and you see those slit wrists?" Sam asked. The both of them nodded their heads. "What's up with that? The legend says he hung himself, and ghosts are usually pretty strict, so-"

"So why exactly does his mood keep changing?" Dean cut in. Sam sighed as he opened his laptop. The browser for Hellshound was already pulled up. He clicked a few times to get to the actual legend.

"Okay, it says…" he blinked, not recognizing the words on the page. "Wait a minute…"

Dean made a small noise of inquiry, but most of his attention had shifted back to the notepad in his hand. Tracee walked over to him. She leaned forward, hand resting against his shoulder. "It's a new post," she murmured. "Now it says that Mordecai actually worshipped Satan and he chopped up his victims with an axe. It does not specify gender anymore. Apparently, he slit his own wrists and is now trapped in the house forever." Her summary was clear and to the point. Tracee lightly scoffed. "The legend changes. Mordecai changes. Spirits can't change their nature by outside influences, right?"

"Right," Sam agreed. "This is bigger than we thought."

"You hear that, Dean?" Tracee stood straight, sliding her hand from his shoulder. "Dean?" His brother made a vague grunt. He probably heard half of the summary of the new legend. Tracee walked back over to Dean and snatched the notepad from his hand. A disgruntled 'Hey!' came from his brother's mouth as dark brown eyes studied whatever Dean had been scribbling. "I've seen this before…"

"What? You said you didn't!" Dean stated.

"Not the one at the house. No, I mean, not at that angle," she explained. She gave the notepad back to his brother, but upside down. "I've seen it before at this angle. I know because I remember thinking 'That's a weird question mark.' Don't remember where, but it had to be recent."

"Ah!" Dean let out a gasp. "I remember! And it also explains why Tracee knows the symbol, too!" He stood up and headed over to his jacket. "And I know exactly where all this must have started."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense," Tracee muttered, crossing her arms. She sat down on his bed, taking his place. "Where'd we see the symbol?"

"At that records' store. Craig." Dean pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. "It was on one of the albums I was showing you. BOC." Tracee's expression remained unimpressed. She clearly did not know or care what BOC stood for. Dean frowned at her blatant indifference. "Think about it. Craig is the source of this story. Probably copied the symbol from the album. Which means most, if not all, are symbols from albums."

"Are you saying he came up with all this?" Tracee asked.

"I'm saying it must have started with him," Dean told her. His eyes scanned over the piece of paper in his hand. "He doesn't work tonight, but he works tomorrow all day. I say we get the truth outta him and go from there."

"How do you know his work schedule?" Sam questioned.

"Snuck a peek," Dean shrugged, uncaringly. "Just in case." Sam only shook his head. "Alright, so…! Me and Sam will keep working on this job. Trace will do her ritual. And we meet up for dinner somewhere to review."

"Yes, sir!" Tracee saluted. Dean grinned.

"You see that, Sammy? That's how you're supposed to respond."

"Give it time," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. Scowling just a bit, his brother headed into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, leaving the two of them in silence. Tracee cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

"You didn't… You didn't think I was going to leave, did you?" she questioned.

"I was a little worried," Sam admitted.

She frowned then. However slight, the corners of lips tugged downward. "Well, I'm sorry for worrying you," Tracee remarked. Sam stood up from his chair and moved over to her. She didn't take her eyes off of him. He sat down beside her, nudging her arm with his own. A slight chuckle escaped her lips. "I'm sure I'll give you a better reason to worry somewhere down the line." Finally, a smile touched her face. Sam couldn't help but grin back.

"Yeah, I suppose you will," he agreed. "I was… relieved to hear it, though. That you're staying."

"I meant it," Tracee assured him. "All of it."

"Oh yeah?" Sam looked away. "Prove it to me."

"Prove it…?" she repeated. He nodded his head, and then tapped his left cheek with his index finger twice. She seemed to get the implication because she chuckled lightly. "Is that right?" Then she giggled again. "You are too much…" That did not stop her from leaning against him. Her lips pressed against his cheek, similar to the way she had kissed his brother. However, unlike her kiss for Dean, her lips touched closer to the corner of his mouth and lingered just a bit longer, too. "Happy…?" she asked, voice low and almost a purr. He could feel her breathe on his skin, and that excited him just as much as the chaste kiss.

Sam cleared his throat, turning his head a bit to face her. With a smile, he leaned towards her, only stopping when his forehead found hers. Tracee bit her lower lip, drawing his attention away from her dark brown eyes. He swallowed, pushing down memories of those lips against his own. For now. He gave a slight grin, rearing back. "Almost," he told her. She scoffed, pouting just a bit when he didn't further explain. "I'm sure… that it'll change somewhere down the line." She scoffed again, and then lightly shoved him. He laughed in response.

0-0

Turns out the legend was a bust. Craig and his cousin had made the whole thing up because they had been bored. A girl had died because they had been bored. Sure, the kid had been pretty beat up about it, but Dean couldn't be sympathetic. Not now. Someone had died, and if they didn't stop this false legend, more people would die. All because of boredom. Boredom should only ever lead to harmless innocent pranks that would affect only one person. Like itching powder sprinkled in someone's underwear. That was a classic. But judging by Sam's lingering Bitchface, he did not have the same sentiments.

Dean grinned to himself as he drove down the road. His brother had been sporting the same expression for a while now. Even after they had made the pit stop back at the motel so that Sam could change his underwear. Too bad Tracee hadn't seen the genius of his latest prank. She had come with them to interrogate Craig, but after that she had left them to go about her exercises—her five hour ritual. That had left the brothers to their own devices. Whilst Sam had been researching what they were dealing with—a Tulpa, of all things—Dean had been buying the itching powder.

They had just finished delivering the fake death certificate to those two idiots—Ed and Harry—so that the legend of Mordecai would work in their favor. With any luck, they'd kill the bastard tonight and leave this place behind. For now, though, they would have to wait for the certificate to post on that dumb website, and for the changes to take effect on the Tulpa. Dean glanced at his watch, noting the time. They had about an hour before Tracee would be finished with her ritual and head back to the motel. By the time she finished, it would shave off the waiting time. Then they could go get dinner, take on the changed Mordecai, and then leave. Hopefully, it would be enough for Tracee to get back on her feet.

A thought suddenly struck Dean. He blinked once, and then did an illegal U-turn to get on the road back downtown. Having not expected it, Sam yelped in surprise. Holding back a chuckle, Dean sped up. "What the hell are you doing?" his brother asked. The sharp turn must have jolted him from his thoughts. He never liked his thoughts being interrupted, after all.

"I have an awesome idea," Dean told him. Sam only gave him a dubious look. "What?"

"I'm going to assume this has nothing to do with the job, so…"

"It doesn't."

"Then no."

"Come on! You haven't even heard it yet." Sam crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. Somehow, he still looked as though he did not want to hear. Still looked like he was going to shoot it down. Frowning, Dean tried not to roll his eyes. "Okay, so… I think we should prank Trace."

"No." Sam's immediate response came with the Bitchface. Although, he had expected the petulant reply, Dean still showed an incredulous expression. "Don't look at me like that! Of all your ideas, that's the dumbest one I've heard so far. She can literally break us! She gets mad, we're dead!"

"Ouch…!" His brother ignored the pout Dean gave. "You're thinking too small, Sammy." Finding the store he had spied earlier, he pulled into the parking lot. Sam did not take his eyes off him. "Look—Trace needs to loosen up. She's taking everything way too seriously, which is why her reaction was kinda bad. I want to show her that this life isn't all fire and brimstone."

"By pranking her?"

"Well, yeah. It'll be a fun time she can look back on and smile," Dean explained. "If she's involved with something as silly and little as a prank war, then she'll feel closer to us, I think. She won't leave." Sam narrowed his eyes again, but it wasn't a glare and it wasn't the Bitchface. No. His eyes were calculating. Like the gears were turning in his head. Then a grin slowly crept on his face as though he had figured out a puzzle. "What?" Dean questioned, putting the Impala in park.

"You like her," Sam stated.

"What? No!" he replied before he could stop himself.

"Yeah… you do," his brother persisted, grin growing. "You like her, and you don't want her to leave anytime soon."

"That's because she's an asset," Dean said. That was the truth. The least of it, anyway. "A potentially really good one. Somewhere down the line, we'll probably need her."

"Right. An asset. Of course." Sam made it fairly obvious that he didn't believe the cover story. Stifling a groan, Dean opened the door to exit his vehicle. He saw his brother hurriedly do the same. "So I guess it's normal to stay up late and watch movies with assets now?" Sam followed him into the store, apparently missing the eye roll.

"Well, if my brother wasn't a lamebrain…" Dean muttered, to which said brother told him to shut up. "Just drop it, alright?" His eyes darted around the store, looking for a particle section. "The main point is to prank her." Sam merely scoffed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Finding what he was looking for, Dean headed down a couple aisles. It would be another classic prank. It would be awesome. Grinning widely, he outstretched his arm, showing the wide range of hair color dyes that filled the shelves. Sam, as though just noticing where they stood, sucked in a sharp breath.

"You want to dye her hair?! That's-! No!"

Disappointed by his reaction to his brilliant idea, Dean turned away from his sputtering brother and began to peruse different boxes of hair dye. "Come on, Sammy! Most of this stuff washes out—it's harmless," he told him, eyes scanning over the instructions of the box he held. "Hm. Not that one." He placed the box back on the shelf. Who would want to permanently dye their hair orange? "I'm thinking a bright red."

"No—blue," Sam said. While he was glad that his brother was giving input to this prank, Dean could tell this was about to turn into an argument. "A dark blue. So dark no one will be able to tell the difference." Dean had a hard time not rolling his eyes.

"You're missing the point of a good prank," he said. "Let's compromise. Red and blue makes purple, so let's go with that." Sam opened his mouth, a string of protests at the ready, but then he pursed his lips. A thoughtful expression had appeared on his face.

"Fine," he relented, which was a bit surprising. "But I get to choose the shade."

"Shade…?" Dean replied incredulously. Sam ignored him and walked further down the aisle. "What's wrong with just purple?"

"There's no such color as just purple," he muttered, picking up a box. "There's lilac, lavender—lighter shades that won't work on her dark hair for a one time treatment. There's plum, dark purple, royal purple. Oh, they have amethyst." Sam quickly set down the box he had been holding and picked up another. His eyes scanned over the directions before he set it back down again. "And we have to make sure to find one that won't stain her skin."

"Trust you to know more than the primary colors," Dean remarked, rolling his eyes. Sam chose to ignore him. He picked up various boxes, only to put them down again. Eventually, his brother found one that he didn't put down right away. Sam tossed the box to him. "Violet black…?" Dean squinted at the model's hair. "This isn't gonna show, Sam."

"It will—the longer you leave it in, the brighter it will be," he stated. "Tracee leaves her conditioner in for about thirty minutes, so it should do the trick. Plus, it comes out after three to six washes. She won't be that mad. It won't look bad with her skin tone either." Dean blinked, and then turned dubious eyes on his brother.

"How do you know how long she keeps conditioner in her hair?" he questioned. Sam froze, clearly not expecting the question. He looked away, appearing nervous… but also oddly a bit smug, too.

"I just do, alright?!" he blurted.

"Yeah, I'm sure you and Trace trade hair tips all the time," Dean chuckled. Sam's expression morphed into his Bitchface, but there was a bit of redness to his cheeks. Wow—they did trade hair tips, didn't they? "That's priceless, Sammy, real priceless." His brother told him to shut up and shoved his shoulder as he walked by. "We have to get more of her conditioner as a replacement."

"I already know," Sam called back.

Twenty minutes later, they had come to a stop outside of their motel room. They had bought what they had needed to. Sam had gotten three bottles of Tracee's conditioner in the hopes that she wouldn't maim in them in retaliation. Dean thought his brother's paranoia was unnecessary. Tracee wouldn't seriously hurt them, especially not over a harmless prank. She was a girl who appreciated humor. She would laugh about it… eventually. Come to think about it, Cassie hadn't liked any deviation from her hair treatments, and that had been an accident. Her curls had been so frizzy, too. He had liked it, and had told her she looked like a sexy lion. She had not, and had retaliated. Over an accident. Internally, Dean winced. Maybe this was not such a good idea.

"You think she's in there?" Sam asked, eyes on the door to their motel room.

"Nah, she would have texted," Dean stated. He rummaged through the bag in order to pull out the hair dye. "Go in there and get the job done."

"Why do I have to do it?!"

"Because I said so!" His retort caused Sam to glower and cross his arms. "And because if she does come walking up, I could distract her and give you the heads up. We time this just right, she won't even think we're up to something until it's too late." Sam kept the glower, but uncrossed his arms. He snatched the box out of Dean's hand and moved to get out of the car. "Don't leave behind evidence!"

"I'm not an idiot, Dean!" Sam nearly hissed, and then shut the door. Clearly he was overly anxious about this prank. Dean shook his head, and then opened his own door. He exited his car and shut the door just as his brother closed the door to the motel room. Hopefully, it wouldn't take too long to put the dye in the conditioner and they could be gone before Tracee even knew they had come back. Dean sighed lightly as he leaned against the hood of the Impala.

He hated to admit it, but Sam had been right. He did like Tracee, and he did want to her stick around. Dean had believed she had wanted to leave. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. The people he came into contact with—they came and went, and he never batted an eye. Too many names. Too many faces. He had gotten used to distancing himself from people. Tracee was different. He didn't know why, but she was. The thought of her leaving—it still bothered him, actually. So he was responding the only way he knew how, save for talking, and he wasn't going to do that. So pranking it was. He hoped Tracee would see this whole thing as fun so that she would be less inclined to leave if they just happened to cross paths with something scarier than the daeva.

"Dean…!" He flinched, almost violently, hearing the familiar voice of Tracee Noland. He jerked his head to the left, eyes focusing on the tiny woman as she made her way over to him. Dressed in yoga pant, her blue sports bra, and a thin jacket, she didn't appear to have anywhere to put her sword, so it was carried in her hand. Dean's eyes darted over to the motel door. How long had Sam been? If they were caught in the act, the prank would be ruined. "I was just about to text you." Tracee came to a stop in front of him, causing his attention to be diverted back to her. With raised eyebrows, she stared at him expectedly. "You done for today?"

"Uh… yeah… Yeah! Basically, it's just a waiting game," Dean told her. He hoped the panicked look had been wiped from his face. Although he had told Sam that the plan had been to distract if she came back, he did not actually plan for the distraction. And now she was here, and he had nothing. Plus, he couldn't warn Sam now that she was right in front of him. He eyed the disguised sword for a second. Thinking quickly, he opened his mouth. "So how did your-" He cleared his throat. "-your ritual go?" Seemingly not noticing his nervousness, Tracee gave a small grin.

"I think it went well," she answered. "Spent a bit longer working with this thing instead of running, but I'll make that up later." Her brown eyes looked around for a moment. "Where's Samuel?"

"Uh, Sam? He's uh… changing. Yeah, changing," Dean responded. Tracee lifted a curious brow. "Yup, you missed out on him fidgeting around because of the itching powder in his underwear." She snorted, showing her amusement. "Would have waited for you to get back to see my awesome prank, but I just couldn't resist." He grinned at her, and she laughed in response, telling him that he 'was too much.' "I try."

"I… actually wanted to talk to you alone," Tracee announced once her giggles halted. Her voice took on a grim tone. Talk…? No! The last thing he wanted to do was have a serious conversation again. It hadn't been twenty-four hours yet. "I want to have the same conversation with Samuel at a later time, so hopefully you back me up."

"Back you up? About what?"

Tracee visibly breathed in deeply, and then released in a heavy sigh. She leaned against the car next to him. "About what happened in Chicago," she said. "I thought a lot about it during my ritual, and… I remember things clearly now." She set down her sword in between them, and then wrung her hands in front of her. It was one of her nervous habits. "I don't think you realized what happened since you were attacked, too, but… I was pinned and helpless." She looked very much uncomfortable confessing such a thing to him. "Then I wasn't. The dresser had been moved and it knocked away the daeva that held me."

"The dresser moved? You mean one of the daeva pushed it?" Dean questioned.

"No, it moved… Why would the daeva knock over its own comrade?"

"Well, they are savage," Dean stated.

"… That crossed my mind," Tracee admitted. "But in that situation, it made no sense. They weren't fighting over Poppa-Winchester to get at him. No, the dresser moved by itself, or so I thought. I have since realized that it was Samuel that moved it."

"Sam…? But he was in the middle of the room!" Dean exclaimed. He had known that because he remembered thinking that he had to get to his little brother. He remembered thinking he had to save him despite their attackers. In the end, it had been Sam that had saved them all. "There's no way he would have gotten over to the dresser to push it enough, and not to insult him, but his upper body strength isn't as good as it could be."

"… His upper body strength is just fine, trust me," Tracee replied, voice taking on a knowing tone. Before Dean could question her knowledge, she forged ahead, expression morphing back to her serious face. "It wasn't his strength of body, though. It was his strength of mind. I think he used telekinesis… like Max."

"No. No way."

"Yes, Dean. I'm almost positive that's what happened," Tracee said. "His psychic abilities are developing."

"You don't know that. It could have just been a coincidence," Dean protested. "A one-time thing."

"Shyeah, and that's exactly what I thought when I accidently broke my dresser," she retorted. "Your brother is a psychic and you both need to come to terms with that. It's not going to go away." A harsh inhale, followed by a heavy sigh filled the silence. Tracee sighed as well. "It took me some time to realize how different I am from others, so I'm not trying to push you guys into accepting it so soon after finding out. But… It is important to train with his powers. I didn't just know how to turn it on or off. I think that's why my father moved me out of my dorm. I didn't know how to control my strength and my father had to replace many things after I was… was activated." She scratched at her neck. "Look—I just think he should learn to control these abilities. He might end up hurting himself, or worse, hurting someone else."

"How is that worse?" Dean scoffed.

"I believe you know your brother well enough to know how devastating that would be to him, especially if he hurt you," Tracee said. Dean remained silent, knowing there was truth in her words. "I already talked to the Madam. She told me that Max isn't showing any other abilities so far other than what we experienced. Then again, he hasn't been using his powers since he moved in. It could have just been a psychic version of adrenaline."

"Then it was a one-time thing?"

"Maybe. If he does it again, though, then most likely not," Tracee muttered. "If that's the case, help me convince him that it's in his best interest to learn how to use it. It's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."

"Yeah, I hear what you're saying," Dean agreed with a nod.

"Does… Does it bother you that Samuel is a psychic?"

"Nah…" Tracee gave him a look. "Okay, fine, yeah it does. With what we do, it's already hard as hell to protect him. Now I have to worry about him being targeted because he has powers—powers that he shouldn't have. Powers that… could have been the reason that demon was in his nursery in the first place." Dean sighed heavily again. "I don't know… It just feels like our life is already complicated, but now he suddenly has these powers. I don't have powers. What am I supposed to do if… What if I can't protect him like I'm supposed to?"

Tracee was quiet for a time, but he could feel her eyes on him. Damn. He had said too much. He had revealed insecurities that he would have rather kept hidden. He wasn't a talker, and yet here he was spilling his guts to a girl who he had only known for… a month and a half? Had it really been that short of time? Dean swallowed hard, attempting to think of a way to shift the somber mood into something lighter, but before he could open his mouth, Tracee touched his shoulder. "Hey, you're not the only one that can protect him now," she stated. "I have a vague notion of what it was like growing up for you and Samuel, but… I mean, I know I'm not family, but that responsibility doesn't lie solely with you anymore. I'm here, and I'll stay and… be better for the both of you. You can rely on me from now on."

"Trace," Dean began, but he honestly had no idea how to respond to her declaration.

Fortunately, he hadn't needed to. As Tracee stared expectedly at him, Sam had opened the door to their motel room, apparently accomplishing his task. "Tracee…!" His squeak of her name almost made Dean roll his eyes. The tiny woman pushed herself from the car with a grin on her face, eyes focused solely on Sam. The two embraced, as they tended to do whenever there was prolonged time apart. "You're done with your ritual?" he asked, only glancing in Dean's direction. He appeared panicked. Dean shook his head to reassure him that they were still safe. Only then did he relax.

"Shyeah," Tracee answered, letting her arms fall. "I'm going to take a shower, and then you guys can explain this whole 'waiting game' to me at dinner… Speaking of which, I heard about your latest prank." Sam immediately tensed and blurted out that it had all been his brother's idea. Said brother shot him a betrayed look. "I know, itching powder sounds like it came from him."

"Itching… Yeah, of course," Sam awkwardly chuckled.

"You got it all out, right?" Tracee continued, oblivious to the relieved look Sam was sporting. He nodded his head. "Anyway. I'll head in and meet you guys at that diner after I'm done." She turned to grab her sword from the hood of the Impala. "Don't prank him back unless I'm there." Her brown eyes looked his way for a moment, and then she gave him a reassuring smile. "I want three cheeseburgers with extra bacon—none of that mayonnaise shit."

"It was one time, Trace! Get over it!"

She rolled her eyes, smiled at Sam, and then headed to the room's door. Only after the door had shut behind her had Dean shifted his eyes to his brother again. If what Tracee had told had been the truth, things were going to get more complicated. He felt it in his gut. But… Hearing that she would protect him, too—well, it had put an ease on his mind. "Dean… Dean!" The older Winchester blinked twice, realizing that Sam had been trying to get his attention. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing! Let's go eat," he replied, heading towards the driver's side door. "And hope that the tiny tank doesn't kill us."

0-0

"I'm going to kill you both."

As those had been her first words since she entered the diner, Tracee took great joy in watching both brothers' expression shift into horror. She had said it with a smile, after all. Perhaps she shouldn't have slammed her palms against the table. Still, her anger was warranted. The dorks had clearly conspired together to carry out the vicious prank. She should have realized they had been up to no good when they had acted weird outside the motel room. But no. She had been too keen on talking to Dean and hugging Sam to find their behavior suspicious. Now, she had to walk around with splotches of purple in her hair. Just thinking about it caused the plastered smile on her face to morph into a glower.

"Now, Trace…! Realize that we are in public before you go wild!" Dean attempted to appease her. "And look…! Food!" Tracee shifted her gaze from the older brother to the plate of burgers on the table. They were untouched and looked hella delicious. She pressed her lips into a thin line. Instead of three, as she had requested, there were six. To go with it, there was a pile of fries, too. They had also ordered her two glasses of Sprite with bright red cherries at the bottom. Her expression softened just a bit as she slid into the booth beside the older brother. Scoffing, she picked up a fry and began eating. She almost disliked that they knew her weakness.

"It was Dean's idea…" Sam said feebly. "OW!" Apparently his confession garnered a kick from his brother underneath the table. After shooting Dean a dirty look, his hazel eyes returned to her, appearing apologetic. "It's… It's not that bad." Honestly, on the way over, she had convinced herself that it could have been worse. After all, she could have done a half-ass job of conditioning her hair. It would have been much worse if only the top had been dyed. Fortunately, this time she had been thorough—all the way to the roots. "Besides, you look cute."

"Both of you are lucky that I walked off my anger on the way here," Tracee replied. And that was the truth. If they had been waiting for her outside the motel room, she would have wreck the Impala. With both of them still in it. She had spent almost thirty minutes with the tainted conditioner in her hair before washing again. She hadn't realized the dye had settled until she had been about to dry off. As she straightened, and curled, her hair, she had thoughts of the many ways she could wreak havoc on the fools that had dared. However, thoughts of causing harm had left her system within the twenty minutes it took to walk to the diner. "If my hair falls out, I'm gonna shave your head, Dean."

"Why just me?! Sam's the one that did it!"

"Dude!"

"I'm not as fond of your hair," Tracee replied with a shrug, and then picked up one of the burgers. It was still warm. "So what's the what?" Ignoring Dean's pout, she bit into her burger, gesturing for the review to start. As she ate her meal, the two brothers took turns explaining the quasi-ghost. Mordechai was actually a Tulpa, which had been the reason salt and iron hadn't been effective against him. He was an idea—a manifestation of belief from the thousands of viewers on the Hell Hounds Lair website. "So thousands of people believe in Mordechai, and he just comes to life? So does that mean Santa's real, too?" Sam chuckled at her sarcastic question.

"You've been hanging around Dean too much," he said. "And before you ask… it's because you're naughty." Tracee choked on the fry she had been eating. Dean had to slap her back in order to dislodge it. Embarrassed and a bit turned on, she swallowed several gulps of her beverage while glaring at the smug grin on Sam's face. The little shit…! Once she calmed herself, she set down her glass and questioned what the difference was between this Tulpa and Santa Claus. "It's the Tibetan symbol we saw on the wall at the house. I researched all the symbols, and like Dean said, most of them were from albums in Craig's store. Others were from his cousin's text books. They drew the symbol not knowing its background, so the legend turned real."

"So how do we stop it?" Tracee asked. "I'm guessing we can't just cover up the symbol."

"No, but we can manipulate the legend to our advantage," Dean stated. "We made a fake death certificate and gave it to those morons who created the site. Once they post that and people start believing, we can go and shoot the bastard with iron rounds."

"Ah, clever," she complimented. Dean smirked proudly, and then pulled a string to his right. Her face twisted into a grimace as the strange figure of a man holding a fish started laughing obnoxiously. Across from them, Sam groaned, clearly irritated. She looked back at the older Winchester, wondering how long he had been pulling the string before she had arrived. "So did they post yet?"

"We were just about to check when you came in," Sam answered. He shifted in his seat, pulling his laptop out to sit on the table. He opened it and began typing. It didn't take him long to pull up what he wanted to see. "They did." He turned the laptop around so that they could see the screen. Dean leaned forward and read out loud as Tracee scanned over the words.

"How sure are you that it's going to work?" she questioned.

"Pretty sure—the legend changes, so Mordechai does, too," Dean replied. Tracee nodded her head, remaining silent. She was beginning to think the two survived as long as they had with a lot of luck. That, or they had a guardian angel. She took a sip of her drink just as the older Winchester cleared his throat. "So what about you? You up for this?" Tracee reached up, scratching the left side of her neck. She knew one of them would ask again. Swallowing, she placed her glass back on the table.

"I think… I'm feeling up to it," she replied, nodding her head. "The meditation definitely helped. I've thought about a lot of things, and-" A sigh left her mouth. "-And I'm ready." Because she was staring down at her plate, she did not see the smiles being directed her way. "So… how long do we wait?" Sam shut the lid to his laptop, drawing her attention.

"Long enough for the new story to spread," he stated. "And the legend to change. I figure by nightfall, iron rounds will work on the sucker." He held up his beer bottle, wanting to toast. Tracee nodded and lifted her glass. Dean lifted his beer body as well. The sound of their respective glasses clinking together was actually pretty satisfying. Had she still been a bundle of nerves about the supernatural, it probably would have soothed her.

Sam suddenly snorted, and then laughed. Tracee blinked, looking from the younger brother to the older one. Dean appeared baffled as he moved his hand in an attempt to drop the bottle. The bottle remained stuck to his hand. Judging from the haughty laughter from Sam, it had been glued to his skin. "You didn't…!" Dean said incredulously as he stared at his brother. Tracee laughed out loud, realizing it had been another prank. Dean's betrayed expression was too much.

"Oh, he did!" she giggled, covering her mouth. Sam held up a tube of super glue to show that he had indeed carried out another prank. He reached over, pulling the string, causing the figurine to laugh along with them. Tracee could no longer hold back her belly-aching laugh anymore. She was sure other customers were looking their way, but could not bring herself to care at the moment. She had no idea how much she had needed that laugh. Dean huffed, muttering that it hadn't been that funny. "Don't worry. I got some nail polish remover in the car." She grinned sweetly at him, but he only frowned.

"Yeah, and what's that gonna do?" he retorted, trying to pry the bottle from his hand.

"Not tear your skin off," Tracee told him, halting his effort. "Trust me, Dean. You do not want to get it off like that."

"I'm not going to touch that line with a ten-foot pole," Sam remarked.

"Now who's naughty?"

"Still you—hands down," he answered, raising both eyebrows.

"You've been hanging around Dean too long," Tracee muttered, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. He only laughed. She huffed, and then continued to eat. Samuel Winchester did not realize how close he was to being jumped. She swallowed, and then cleared her throat. "So how long does it take to wash this stuff out, anyway?" Both brothers exchanged an 'oh shit' look. Actually, she was getting a little better at reading their silent conversations. "What? I won't get mad. The hair dye prank is pretty classic, so tell me."

"Three to six," Sam finally answered, appearing uncomfortable.

"Oh? Three to six minutes? That's all. Cool."

"Nah—he means three to six times you have to wash your hair in order for it to fade," Dean clarified. And just like that, the anger came back.

"I'm gonna kill you both!"

0-0

After being thrown out of the diner for causing a scene, the three had made their way back to the haunted house. To throw off the patrolling officers, Dean had set up a distraction in the opposite direction of the house. They couldn't risk being interrupted by the local authorities. Equipped with a flashlight, Dean entered the house with Tracee and Sam following close behind. Back to back to back, the three began their search for the Tulpa. They checked each side room before moving through a closed door in the direction of the basement. Dean aimed the light at the basement door. Both he and Sam had their guns drawn and focused on the door. Behind them, Tracee swallowed hard and twisted her wrist, disengaging the lock on her katana.

"Well, do you think old Mordechai's home?" Dean asked, jokingly.

"Yes," Tracee answered, stiffening. She could feel a concentrated aura just behind that door. Both brothers glanced at her before focusing on the door again. The Tulpa was apparently waiting for them to go into the basement. This would not end up the same as last time, though. "Wait until he comes out." They both nodded in understanding.

"How long?" Sam questioned.

"I don't know," she replied.

"Me neither," a familiar voice answered as well. Almost instantly, the Winchester whirled around, aiming their guns at the interlopers. Tracee's eyes remained on the door. The voice had belonged to that moron with the glasses. No need to turn around to discover him and the skittish one had come along as well. "Whoa! Whoa!"

"What are you trying to do—get yourselves killed?!" Sam nearly growled. Tracee had to ignore the way her body responded to that voice. It had sent a trill right down to her lower belly. Clearing her throat, she forced herself not to think about it.

"Focus!" she hissed, interrupting whatever answer the men behind her might have given. As commanded, Dean and Sam faced the door again just as a clear scraping noise came through the door. It sounded as though someone was sharpening blades. Apparently this Tulpa was a cheeky one. Clearly, the intention had been to cause intimidation. Tracee gripped the hilt of her katana harder. "Here we go…" The scrapping came again, louder than before. She felt the two behind her crowd her space. It took an iron will not to roll her eyes in exasperation.

The door finally burst open, revealing a screaming Mordechai with an axe in his hands. Dean and Sam immediately opened fire, not waiting for the Tulpa to take another step. Tracee winced at the loudness of their guns, but kept her gaze on the spirit. Despite the iron rounds pelting him, Mordechai shifted slowly in direction. Eyes wide, she realized that the bullets were not working. Eventually, the spirit disappeared in a haze, but it had been in the same manner it had disappeared the previous night.

"You!" Tracee sharply turned, facing the two sputtering men. "Why didn't iron bullets work?! Didn't you post that death certificate on that website?!"

"It didn't work?" Sam questioned behind her.

"I can still feel him," she responded, glaring at the two morons before her. "Why didn't you post it?"

"We-We did!" the skittish one answered. "… But then ou-our servers crashed."

"So it didn't take?" Dean asked. "These guns don't work?!" Feebly, the one with the glasses gave a confirmation. Tracee groaned, frustrated by the turn of events. "Great! Sam, Trace, any ideas?"

"Leave the legend to the locals?" Tracee suggested, turning to face the brothers. They both gave her looks. Rolling her eyes, she sighed. "I'm kidding… kinda." Behind her, the two morons scurried off, exclaiming that they needed to leave. "So what do we do?" It took several moments for one of them to speak up.

"Improvise," Dean answered.

"The power of Christ compels you!"

The shout from another part of the house made Tracee roll her eyes. It appeared the Tulpa had found its next victims. "I'll go," she murmured, turning to follow the path the amateurs had taken. When she found them, they were backed against a wall by Mordechai. Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes. "Hey!" Upon opening them, she saw that the Tulpa had turned to face her. Tracee pulled her wooden sheath from her belt loop, locking her blade inside. No need to draw it in this situation. It would do nothing against this opponent. "Why don't you come take on a real challenge?"

The taunt worked. Snarling, Mordechai walked towards her, twirling his axe. Her insides tensed in panic. Seeing him up close, she could make out red eyes and rugged grey skin. He was terrifying, and her mind screamed for her to run away. But that wasn't an option. Running away was never going to be an option anymore. Mordechai brought down his axe and Tracee blocked it with her sheath. Whilst the Tulpa was distracted, she shouted for the two morons to leave. They hadn't needed to be told twice.

As soon as they were gone, Mordechai seemed to take offense. His strength increased, allowing him to shift her and slam her back against the wall. Tracee gasped, horrified that it was taking most of her strength to keep her own sheath from blocking her airway. There was pain. There was fear. There was doubt. This was her life now. She chose this. She had chosen to take it all. The bad stuff… but also the good stuff. Squeezing her eyes shut, Tracee forced herself to calm down. The threat of death—that is what she had chosen. There would be pain, and she would get hurt. However, that was something she had to deal with. That was something she had to embrace.

She was a Slayer, and as her dreams told her, death was her gift.

Sharply opening her eyes, Tracee lifted her knees and used the soles of her feet to kick the Tulpa away. Snarling, he came again, axe raised high. She dropped down, shooting her leg out. His leg buckled backward under the force of the impact and he fell forward. Her arm stretched out, palm colliding against Mordechai's face. Her fingers curled, gripping hard. In the next instant, she rammed his head against the floor. Three times in rapid succession. The Tulpa roared, and then disappeared in a mist.

Scowling, Tracee jumped to her feet. She barely had time to look around before she was slammed into the wall again. Her nose and lips felt the impact, and she cried out. "Slayer…!" Mordechai hissed in her ear. Tracee quickly reared her head back, knocking against her enemy. She turned, punching him in the abdomen in the same motion. With a swipe of her arm, the flat side of her sheath smacked him in the face. She spun, raising he him in the chest. He flew back, smashing against the decaying wood and breaking it completely.

"Trace…!" Dean called to her from the next room. Hesitating, she glared at the Tulpa. Red eyes glared right back as Mordechai attempted to dislodge himself. "Trace, come on!" Clenching her teeth, the Slayer turned on her heel and moved quickly towards where Dean's voice had come. This was not an opponent she could beat by normal means—neither with her fists or katana. The Tulpa was impervious to whatever attack she might think of because of the way he was created. Hopefully, Dean and Sam had come up with something whilst she had been distracting. She met the two towards the front of the house. Sam reached out for her, and she took his hand immediately. "If Mordechai can't leave the house and we can't kill him…"

"Then we improvise," Sam finished. Tracee watched the older Winchester take out his zippo lighter, flick open the top, and then toss it behind them. The room almost immediately went up in flames.

"I liked that lighter!" she complained, frowning. Sometimes, she would steal it from him to flick it open and close while she read. Usually, it would get on his last nerves, and Tracee took joy in the older brother's displeasure.

"I'll get a new one—come on!" Dean retorted, and then made a dash towards the exit. Practically on his heels, she and Sam hurried after him as the flames grew. The three didn't stop running until they were at a safe distance from the burning house. They turned, looking as the flames consumed the old building. Tracee narrowed her eyes, seeing a glimmer of the Tulpa near the front door. It vanished in a similar fashion as before. "This way, no one will go in anymore," Dean explained, panting lightly. "Mordechai can't haunt a house if there's no house to haunt."

"Clever," Tracee replied, turning her eyes away from the house. "But what happens if the legend changes again? What if he doesn't need a house a haunt anymore? I doubt those morons will let the website go."

"Then…" Dean opened and closed his mouth, clearly not having thought about what ifs. "Then we'll just come back," he finally stated. Tracee nodded her head, agreeing. Perhaps at a later time, they wouldn't have to think on their feet.

"Kinda makes you wonder," Sam muttered, drawing her attention to him. "Out of everything we've hunted—how many existed just because people believed in 'em…" For that, Dean did not have a response.

"… You think too much, Samuel," Tracee told him. He looked her way, appearing as though he might retort—probably something similar to the pot calling the kettle black—but he halted, looking closely at her. "What?"

"You're bleeding," he stated, his other hand lifting to allow his thumb to lightly touch her lower lip. Tracee twitched, but it wasn't painful. It had felt worse when it had happened. "Are you okay?"

"Shyeah," she answered. Her eyes looked at the house one more time. "I'm okay." Honestly, this felt like a turning point. Even though she hadn't defeated Mordechai, it felt as though she had defeated her fear. She could live this life. She could be useful and make good on her promise. She could be a Slayer. "Let's go before the popo show."

A few hours later, the three were all packed up and ready to leave Richardson. But first, Sam thought it might be a good idea to see where those two morons stood. Honestly, she hadn't bothered to remember their names, and would probably refer to them by 'those two morons' in the future. They had promised not to alter Mordechai's background again and disallow their 'fans' from altering the legend, too. All in all, the case was pretty much wrapped up.

Tracee didn't know what they were sticking around, waiting for the two morons to come out of the little shop, but they had been taking their sweet time, so she had decided to pay them back for the trouble… and the insults. Being called amateur still bothered her quite a bit, after all. "Gentlemen, and my lovely lady," the curly-haired man caught her attention. She immediately scowled.

"Hey, guys," Sam greeted again. The two morons were carrying paper bags full of things. "And don't call her that."

"Shyeah, don't call me that," Tracee agreed, pushing herself from the picnic table. The moron had the nerve to wink. "Are you high?!"

"Just a little bit," he admitted. "So we might as well tell you—let you be the first to know." He sniffed haughtily. "We got a call this morning from a Hollywood producer—that's why we were at the house."

"Oh? Wrong number?" Dean questioned flippantly as they followed the two to their tiny car.

"No, smartass," glasses rejoined. He deposited the bag into the car and turned to face them. "He read all about the Hell House on our website and wants to option the motion-picture rights. Maybe even have us write it."

"Yeah the fuck right," Tracee muttered. Beside her, Sam snickered. Seemingly not having heard her, the skittish spoke up, saying that they were going to create the RPG. Dean looked really confused. "Role-playing game," she supplied. He looked at her, eyebrow furrowed and frown on his face.

"You know what that means, but not BOC?" he asked. Tracee merely shrugged. "Right…"

"Anyhoo…! Excuse us—we're off to la-la land."

"Well, congratulations, guys! That sounds… really great," Sam told them.

"Yeah—that's awesome. Best of luck to you," Dean tried.

"Oh yeah, luck—it's got nothing to do with it." Obviously, he could not take a compliment. Tracee folded her arms over her chest. If this fool didn't get into his car already…! "It's about talent. Sheer, unabashed talent." When they chose not to respond to him anymore, the man finally settled into his vehicle and shut the door. A smile worked its way onto Tracee's face as she watched the other one climb in as well. "Later…!" After a few moments of backfiring, the car finally pulled around, dragging the trailer behind it.

"Wow…" Dean muttered as he shook his head. He began walking towards the Impala, prompting them to follow. Despite the cold, she felt warm tingles just thinking about what those morons would face because of her. "There's all sorts of people, aren't there?"

"I have a confession to make," Sam began. Curious, Tracee turned her eyes to him. Dean, too, was curious. "I uh… I was the one that called them and told them I was producer." He laughed outright as he walked over to the passenger side. Dean guffawed and she giggled in response.

"That's too good!"

"Well, I'm the one who put the dead fish in their backseat," Dean admitted. They got an even bigger laugh.

"You guys are horrible!" Tracee remarked, but that didn't stop her from cackling. "I put superglue on their seats. Good luck getting out of that stinky car to meet that big time producer!" Both brothers grinned at her, probably pleasantly surprised she had decided to participate in their pranking. "Seriously, though… This was fun. I'm… I'm glad I'm here."

"Yeah…?" Dean asked, opening the driver's door. She nodded her head. "Awesome."

"And… thanks for letting me handle Mordechai by myself," Tracee continued. "I think that was something I had to do alone." They didn't response, but from the looks that they showed, it was clear to her that they hadn't wanted to be caught. "But in the future, feel free to jump in. I don't mind." Sam sighed, seemingly in relief.

"So we're good?" he probed.

"Real good." She smiled up at him, and he smiled back. "But don't mess with my hair again—I will kill you both. I'm not kidding." The Winchesters immediately stopped grinning. Tracee chuckled. "Now let's get out of here."