The walk back to the car was stumbling, halting, like a toddler taking its first steps. Kat's eyes were on the ground, though she found herself taking quick glances up, as if to be sure that the two men in front of her hadn't moved. They hadn't. Sam was clearly waiting for her; hazel eyes following her every move as if waiting for her to drop. She wondered if she would.
Her hands were shaking, steps unsteady, eyes burning but not quiet leaking. She felt on edge, as if one word would cause her to break and she would be left collapsing to her knees in the cemetery like every other grieving woman. But she was supposed to be a hunter. She was supposed to be strong.
Dean was leaning against his car, staring up at the sky like it held answers. Sunlight dappled his tan cheeks and made exotic patterns through the oak tree nearby on his skin. His face was turned slightly away from her, hands deep in his pockets and posture relaxed. Kat wanted him to look her way, to give any semblance of understanding or comfort as she slowly walked towards the car. But green eyes didn't meet blue until she'd managed to get herself under control, until her breathing was normal and she was only a few feet from them, her shoulders slowly releasing tension.
He looked at her then, his expression carrying a type of softness buried under uncertainty and hesitancy. He didn't know how to proceed, how to move forward without upsetting her precarious emotional balance. He didn't have to.
Sam made the first move, wrapping his arms around her small frame until her face was buried in his chest. She let go. Inch by inch, feelings were released from her body and she'd never really managed to control the swirling emotions in her chest. She felt wetness collecting in her eyes and spilling over, like a dam breaking. Her arms wound around his waist like he was a life preserver, like Sam was the only thing keeping her alive. He didn't speak, didn't whisper soft words as she cried into his chest like a child.
Her breathing was shallow, her heart beating too fast, her mind clouded with the grief that was suffocating her. All she could see was her mother's face, her father's brown eyes, Andrea, Jamie, Susie. What God decided that she had to lose them all? When other children lived happy and lost no one until they were old and grey, she was ripped from any semblance of normal and vaulted into the life of a warrior. What if she didn't want it?
She didn't have a choice anymore.
Dean ran a hand through his hair awkwardly and wondered what he should do, wondered what steps he should take down the twisting road that was Kat. He didn't have a map that could guide him. Sam was already giving her comfort, giving her something while he stood against his car and pretended to look back up at the sky. He could hear her crying softly, could tell she wanted to scream, wanted to empty her lungs out to convey her pain and frustration. But she held back, and he was grateful. Crying people made him uncomfortable, more so when he couldn't help them. When he only stood in the background while his little brother picked up the pieces.
"Come here," Sam said with an attempt at a smile, waving him closer with an almost teasing look. Kat's shuddering breaths had evened out and it seemed like she was slowing down, eyes drying as she collected herself. "Get in on this."
Dean sighed, pretending to be exasperated and unwilling as he dragged himself forward. He could see the beginnings of a grin forming on her lips at the action, shifting in the cage of Sam's arms to sling one arm around Dean's waist. She was crushed comfortably between the two of them, protection she could count on wrapped around her like they actually cared, and for a moment she allowed herself to believe it. She let herself believe that they cared about her beyond the obligation of hunter to hunter. She let herself think that they were close, they were friends, and they loved her like a part of their family. She let herself think she belonged.
She pulled away, hands rising to wipe at her eyes, smudging her eyeliner around the corners until it looked smoky. A low chuckle broke from her and she wondered if she was losing it, if she was finally going as insane as the rest of the world thought she was.
"So," she said brightly, sounding energized and awake for the first time in a long time. She was almost smiling, the edges of her mouth turned up just enough to give Dean hope that she was okay, that she wouldn't collapse in the car and curl in on herself and sob. "What do you say we kill some evil sonsofbitches and we raise a little hell?" she asked, a spark in her eyes that made Dean think she knew she was quoting him.
It was almost the same thing Dean had said not too long ago, back when it was just him and Sam against the world and Dean's number was dwindling fast, counting down like the doomsday clock. But now it was different, now it was an added member of their little team making a shift, a change in the way they operated. She was remolding the way they behaved around each other until they were joking again, like they hadn't since the end of the world, the rising of Lucifer, Dean dying, Sam dying, their father dying. Everything was changing, though everything around them was the same. The end of the world was still looming, raised like the pendulum over the pit and either way they were screwed. But they had another set of helping hands, a willing soldier, someone to share the burden with, and maybe that was enough.
Car doors slammed in a vacant cemetery on a sunny day, a throaty engine purring to life amongst the peace. The '67 Impala pulled away from the rows of polished rock and epithets, turning down a back road and picking up speed. The woman in the backseat tapped her fingers distractedly and pretended to lose herself in gazing out the window at the town, marveling at the way the buildings blurred together as Dean pressed on the gas.
"Is it wrong that I'm glad I didn't grow up here?" Kat asked suddenly, her eyes flicking to the front seat for only a moment, before returning to the window. Dean shook his head, green eyes casting out to the closed signs on every other building.
"It's anything but you," he commented as if he'd known her all her life, as if he could make such an assumption about her life. But she couldn't help but agree with him. They were surrounded by suburbia, the ideal American world, and it felt claustrophobic, tied down, like it was trying to keep her in. "You probably would've moved out first chance you got, gone to some college on the coast, lived a little."
Her eyes flicked to meet his in the rearview, surprise coloring the blue until it could be deemed its own shade. Sam was nodding along, like he agreed completely, tapping on his leg like he was counting the silent beats.
"What would I have majored in?" she asked before she could stop herself, head tilting to the side in honest curiosity. It was distracting, something she needed right now. She let herself be carried away by Dean's rough voice, the possibilities she might have had.
"You would've wanted art, your mom too, but your dad would have insisted on a business degree." Dean spoke as if he knew everything about her, knew every inch of her mind like his own and could draw up his findings on command. He spoke like she'd told him every faded memory she had.
"What about you?" she asked, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her cheek against them, eyes finding the window again. He swallowed, his gaze flicking to Sam, clearly waiting for the answer.
"When I was little, I wanted to be a fireman, y'know, help people," he muttered, gripping the wheel tighter until his knuckles went white. "But it probably would have played out the same way, drop out of high school, and work with dad. Mechanic, maybe. Nothing big."
"Why not?" she pressed, catching his eyes in the rearview and holding, refusing to let go until she got an answer. He shifted, trying to ignore the anxious way Sam was watching him, like he was waiting for a break, a splinter down his big brother's soul.
"Because I'm not built to be at the top, to get a thank you or a medal. I'm just there to help people get from one place to another. Most days, that's enough," Dean admitted after a stretch of silence, finally breaking the eye contact between them and focusing on the road as they exited Derry.
"And the days it's not?" She pushed, wondering how far she could go before he shut down. He found understanding in her eyes when he flicked his gaze back to the rearview. She felt the way he did, like there was glass between them and the rest of the world, and the most they could do was press their bodies against it and pretend they were being held, being protected.
"Jack's good at letting you forget there was a problem in the first place," he said with a knowing glance, remembering the whiskey bottles and beer cans that littered her floor at three in the morning. They knew the sting of alcohol as a blessing, the comforting warmth better than a lover's touch.
"You're both ridiculous," Sam muttered, arms folding and chin jutting out. "You'd live perfectly happy lives, you'd be happy. We wouldn't be worrying about the world ending, or who's gonna be hurt next. We wouldn't have that weight on our shoulders," he trailed off, hazel eyes finding his brother's with the pleading look Dean could never quite get used to.
"I like my life," Kat spoke up, and the genuine truth in her eyes made both brothers sit up straighter with surprise."It's not a fairytale, but it's not bad. I travel wherever I want, I don't have to work for a living, nine to five confined in a cubicle. I help people, I work with my hands, I meet new people every day, and I don't even have to pay for where I rest my head. Doesn't sound half bad to me."
"At least until the world decided to end," Dean tacked on, the finality in his voice taking her back to reality and she remembered that the novel had to have an end. It didn't feel like it was ending, nothing did. But it must've been weighing harder on the Winchester boys, the ones destined to stop it, the ones that really held the world. Just two boys from Kansas.
She wondered if people would preach their words, their practices. She wouldn't have guessed they would deserve their own gospel. Christianity would change, she thought with a wry grin, when their savior was Dean Winchester. When their new Messiah drank until the world blurred around the edges, wore red on his hands in order to deliver them from evil. He wasn't the white-robed bearded man that provided the answers. He was rough on more than just the edges, hands accustomed to the grip of a gun, quick to judge when he saw in black and white. He wasn't the savior the people would want.
She trusted him, though. She trusted both of them, a thought so foreign to her it was frightening. She wasn't built to trust. She'd been crafted by dark hands to shy away from hope, from any chance of light shattering through the night she lived in. She'd been raised to fear. All the more reason to let herself trust these two hunters trying to save the world. If anyone could keep her safe, it would be them.
"Fuck."
The curse drew her from her thoughts violently as she caught on to the cell phone in Dean's hand, white screen emblazing a message she couldn't quite read from her position. He shoved the phone at Sam, quickly retaking the wheel in a white-knuckle grip and jerking it swiftly with expert hands. The car made a jarring U-turn, sending Kat sliding across the backseat and slamming into the opposite door. She hurriedly grabbed at her seatbelt, snapping it in with a deafening click as she glared openly at Dean. He sent a glance of apology, before turning again towards a major intersection that would take them towards Kansas. She realized hours had passed, it was already dark, past midnight.
"Damn it," Sam muttered, a hand swiping through his hair. "Doesn't he have an archangel for times like this?"
"Apparently not since we broke from the Grand Plan," Dean muttered, turning the vehicle with deft twitches until they were on the proper route.
"What's going on?" Kat asked, wondering if she should be panicking. The boys clearly were, and she felt the Impala pick up speed and wondered what they would do if they were pulled over. They must be doing ninety now, trees and scenery blurring so quickly it was just a mass of green to her eyes.
"Leave it to Chuck to get himself in another 'life or death' situation," Dean grunted, speaking only to his brother. They were in their element, living like they always did when it was just the two of them, feeding off of each other's energy. She was taking up space.
"Who's Chuck?" she asked, her voice gaining volume, trying to be heard over the frantic energy between the two hunters in the front seat. Crackling between them, it could almost be seen; it was addicting to watch them work, but she had to be included.
"I hope he's in more than that disgusting bath robe he was in last time," Sam commenting, making a face as he examined the text and the address. "Turn off here, we'll make it by morning if we punch it."
"Hey!" she nearly shouted, leaning forward until her upper-body was between the two of them. "What the hell is going on?" She felt like a hunter again, all strength and crass words. Soft voices were gone, trembling lip eradicated. In its place was the woman the Winchesters had initially met.
"Chuck's a prophet," Sam said,rubbing the back of his neck. "He, um, focuses on our lives."
"Makes a living on selling out our story, you mean," Dean muttered, watching the speedometer climb as Baby sped down the freeway.
"Well, he sent us a text-"
"Screwed his pooch. Again," Dean muttered. Kat wondered if that was some sort of abstract language only he and Sam spoke, because his little brother seemed to know what he meant. She guessed the prophet was in trouble, and this wasn't the first time.
"Life or death?" she asked, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, the pure adrenaline that always came with a new hunt.
"Leaning towards death," Dean said bitterly, fighting to keep his eyes open. He reached down, flicking the stereo on and filling the car with the blasting chords of AC/DC, the music a substitute of coffee and conversation. They couldn't stop until they got there; it would be hours until they did.
Kat settled back into the seat, refusing to unbuckle her seatbelt after the display of amateur racing. She preferred not to have brain damage, thank you. Her fingers tapped a beat on her thighs, distracting herself from the pent-up energy in her gut, swirling around in circles until it tried to break out. She wanted a hunt, wanted something to focus on, something to distract her from the grief and the pain and the memories of the past. She wanted to be like her old self, pent up and walled in around layers of armor too thick to penetrate. But the Winchesters had.
Maybe it was timing, they entered her life at the perfect time to watch her bleed and crumble. They wormed their way into her consciousness, something she could categorize as safe. Nothing was supposed to be safe, but they changed the rules. They changed everything and she was smiling more, accepting touch, sleeping with Dean beside her, looking out for more than just herself, caring about their opinions. Things were changing and it was confusing, muddling her thoughts until they were cyclical, always bringing her back to the same revelation: the Winchesters were different. Something about them made it okay, made everything okay.
She knew it was late, hours ticking by like seconds but she didn't feel the strain. Too many peaceful nights spent pressed against Dean to make her want to sleep now. She was awake, alive. Waiting for the pale light of dawn to break past the horizon and bathe them in the sun. Another day they'd made it through. Another day the earth still turned.
Another hunt.
Kat needed the heart-pounding adrenaline that accompanied a hunt, the sharp-sight that came with pain, with the need to stay alive. The clarity that came with the moments between life and death and saving. She wanted that high again.
She wasn't lying when she said she liked her life. She loved it. Loved the way she felt when she saved someone, when she pulled a person from the depths of their own fears, helped them claw their way into the sunrise. Loved the power she held in her chest when she killed the monster, got the bad guy, burned the bones. Loved the whiskey-drenched aftermath, the self-congratulatory celebration of one. Or, this time, of three. She wondered if they went out for drinks after a hunt, if they got laid, split up for a few moments, or came together. Would they alter their system for her?
"Try to get some rest, I'll pull over in a few hours to switch with Sam. We need to be half alive if we're gonna put up with Chuck," Dean said to her, eyes catching the rearview like it substituted for real eye contact. She nodded dumbly, leaning down to grab her sketchbook and essentially ignoring him in favor of a graphite pencil and another sketch of his eyes. She felt like she could never get them right, that depthless shade of overlapping greens.
Maybe it was the expression, that mixture of feigning calm and hidden exhaustion, pushed away until only Sam could see it clearly because he knew Dean the best. She was beginning to catch hints of it, fleeting expressions of bone-deep weariness that came with too many hunts too close together. He needed sleep. She needed a kill.
And Sam, Sam needed a break from the pressure. Dean didn't completely trust him, the world was ending, and now they had a tag along, another person to drag down with them. And now Chuck needed their help.
The younger brother sighed, leaning against the passenger's window and let it support his weight. He would be allotted two hours of sleep before Dean would pull over, finally admitting that he was about to die of exhaustion. Sam would drive until they passed into the county and Dean would take over again, if only so that when they arrived, it would seem as though Dean never stopped driving. To a certain extent, it would be true, since Dean wouldn't really find sleep, eyes moving restlessly beneath his lids. Kat, he had no idea what she would do, but right now she was drawing. She should be sleeping.
Maybe the world was starting to weigh on her too. He knew it was starting to hurt his shoulders, this fear that one day, Dean would decide it had been enough, that he'd taken enough from his younger brother. Because Sam had made the wrong choices, and Dean was getting tired of cleaning up the mess. He wondered how he could show he was better now, he was willing to help fix things. He wondered how he could come out and say it when they had a new body in the back seat to be hesitant around. But Dean was spilling more than he should and neither of them knew why. She was easy to talk to, and that was dangerous.
He liked her, though, he thought they both did. But he didn't want to drag her into his life, this life where she would undoubtedly end up dead, dying in their arms because they couldn't protect her. Not from the dark storm of feathers and black eyes swirling around them. Angels and Demons alike, converging on them, the dying breed of hunters left in a rag-tag group of humans. Humans against the Devil, against layers of evil only Dean and Kat really understood, but no one wanted to face. The world was going to split down the middle, and when it did, it would be their faults.
Things could only get better from here, right?
Maybe this next hunt would be lighter, nothing that would hold the fate of the world, just enough to keep them engaged, distract them from the rest of everything. Just for a few moments. For just long enough to take a deep breath and handle something normal, easy, as routine as the hunts before the angels. Sam wished this hunt wouldn't be complicated, that they could go in, save the prophet and get out. No Lucifer, no angels, no demons, no breaking of the fourth wall. Just a mission to help an alcoholic prophet out of a life or death situation. You know; Tuesday.