Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its characters belong to The CW and Eric Kripke.

Suggested Songs:

- "Looks Like Rain" by The Grateful Dead

- "Sweet Melissa" by The Allman Brothers Band

Chapter Fifteen: Part Two

An ache was forming behind her eyes as she tried to shake the memory off. The kitchen table in front of her was cluttered with newspapers and lore books. She sat with her sandwich atop some half-destroyed mythology book that reminded her of the countless hours of reading when they were trying to find a loophole for Dean's deal. Biting at the skin at the corner of her thumbnail, she wished for a cigarette. But that was the deal. If Bobby wouldn't drink, she wouldn't smoke. It was the only way they could handle living in the same house.

She'd tried so hard with Sam. Harder than she'd ever tried with anyone. But after a few exhaustive hunts, torturing demon after demon, many at the crossroads, Sam disappeared. Slipped out of a motel room one June evening. No note, no trail. Baby was gone. And Melissa was alone. And that's how she'd ended up on Bobby's doorstep, after hitchhiking for a day or two. They got her truck back up and running. For a while she'd tried to find him. But he didn't want to be found.

And she would have gone completely, just like Sam. She would have run away just like she had before. But there was something about the smell of Bobby's house, his familiar trucker hat, and his frequent sass that kept her there. It reminded her that there was good. And she knew what she'd do to herself if she went at it alone. This time she'd probably end up dead. And she didn't wanna face Dean in hell knowing her death had been her own foolish fault. She would go down swinging. So, no smoking and almost no drinking.

It had been a sober summer save for the nights after successful hunts when Melissa went out to a bar or two. Her dark hair done up and her face painted. Men with greased hair or sharp jawlines or mouths that tasted of scotch. Trying to fill the hole inside of her.

. . .

"Hey, pretty lady," the man drawled as he took the stool next to her. She cleared her throat and hid her uneasiness behind the smoldering of her eyes and the breathiness of her voice. The dress was black and cheap and low cut, both in the back and the front. But it did the trick just fine.

"Hey sailor," she said, downing her second shot of vodka. She looked over at him in the soft green light of the overhead lamps. It was decently crowded, but she could still hear him over the Southern rock playing. He was tall and dark, his hair falling slightly over his eyes, long on top and cropped short at the sides. His voice was smooth. No gravel. She smiled widely at him. Perfect, she thought.

"You wanna get out of here?" he whispered close to her ear. He smelled of alcohol but didn't seem too wasted.

"Not into the foreplay, I see?" she asked with a low laugh.

His face fell a little but the corners of his mouth never turned down. "Not tonight. My wife ran out on me."

"Well, well, well," Melissa turned back to the burly bartender and motioned for the check. "She must be the stupidest woman in the world."

. . .

The motel was grimy and fit her mood perfectly. The man threw his keys on the table and took her leather jacket graciously as they walked in. She smelled the musty age of the place, and saw it in the cracked wooden table and the worn, navy blue carpet. He started to undress in front of her, his suit and tie soon strewn across the floor. As he stood in the nude, she smirked, then kicked off her back heels and began to unzip the dress. But she almost forgot. She stopped halfway and let out a long breath as she took the leather cord from her neck and strolled over to the coat rack. She made sure the small gold face was safe inside the pocket of her leather.

The dress fell around her ankles and she stepped out of it quietly as he watched her.

"What was that necklace about?" he asked. She saw his age in the harsh lighting. He was older than her. At least 35. But she didn't care. As long as he didn't wear flannel.

"Don't ask questions you don't need to know the answers to," she shot back. She took the barrett from her hair and threw it aside carelessly and shook out her head. She came forward and kissed him with all the force she had in her before he would respond, hoping they would both forget their lives for a moment. They ended up on the bed soon after. Her hands were at her hips, ready to pull her underwear down as she straddled him, when he spoke again.

"What's your name?" he asked, his lips stained slightly red with her lipstick.

"Rose," she replied. He noticed that the alcohol must've been taking effect on him now. HIs words were starting to run together.

Then, he did something she didn't expect. He took her face in his hands and hummed a little. "Rosie," he mused.

But this time the gesture didn't make her shiver as it had that night Dean got drunk off that vodka. Her stomach did a flip and she sat in shock for a moment before she quickly dismounted him and hopped off the bed, pulling her dress back on shakily. She didn't even bother with the zipper, leaving the tattoo on her back exposed.

"Hey, where ya goin'?" the man asked drowsily from the bed, not bothering to get up.

"Oh, sleep it off, asshole. Maybe call your wife in the morning," she hissed at him as she pulled on her shoes and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Come on, Rosie, don't you wanna piece of this?" he smirked at her sloppily.

"Can I tell you a secret, no name?" she asked with a wicked smile as she donned her leather and took out the necklace once again. "That ain't my name."

She shut the door loudly behind her and managed not to cry at all on her mile walk back to the bar. She made it until she got back to the truck, a familiar track playing through the speakers. Jerry Garcia's voice destroyed the wall she'd put up and she sobbed silently against her steering wheel. The night sky above began to darken even more. It surely did look like rain.

. . .

Bobby didn't know about the men. But, she knew they were what smoking had been replaced with. They all meant nothing, anyway. And if Dean was dead, she knew she had to move on somehow. Maybe it was a good stepping stone. Though in the mornings, when she would slip out of the motel rooms quietly, her makeup looking much messier in the clear morning sunlight, she felt just like she had in her teenage years. Once a junkie, always a junkie. It was something she thought about often about. It didn't always have to be drugs.

A knock at the door surprised her. She nearly jumped out of skin as she came back to reality, her untouched grilled cheese now cold and the clock still ticking. But she'd been too inside her head to notice. She got up from the table tiredly, rubbing at her eyes. Blasts from the past often made her tired. The second knock was more urgent, though, and her hand immediately went to the silver knife in the waistband of her jeans. Her eyes flicked to the coffee table in the living room as she past it. There her flare gun and her shotgun laid, but she decided not to jump to conclusions. The month of hunting demons with Sam had instilled even more paranoia in her than she already had.

She bit her lip as she opened it, expecting another pie or something from one of Bobby's perky neighbors. But instead, she was met with a phantom of the past. It was Dean. And she remembered his clothes. She saw them every night in her dreams, thinking back to the night he died.

"Surprise," he said. It was his voice. It was really his voice. He smiled at her cautiously. He seemed a little out of breath, but nothing else seemed wrong. His guts had been replaced, it seemed.

Her mouth hung open and she didn't say a word. She blinked her glassy eyes at him. "You're not...I don't…"

He smirked at her stammering and brushed past her slowly, pouring his weary eyes over the familiar sights of Bobby's house. "Yeah, I don't either," he finished for her. "But here I am."

She narrowed his eyes at him, watching his back as he stepped further into the house. As fast as she could, she reach up and locked her arm around his neck, holding the knife over his jugular vein. Dean coughed in surprise, but didn't struggle too much.

"Who the fuck are you?" she demanded coldly in his ear.

"Missy! It's me!" he yelled in a strained voice. But hell had made him stronger. He grabbed her arm and twisted it, turning back to her and holding his grip. She slapped him harshly with her other hand and backed away.

"My ass, it's you!" she shouted back at him.

Fake Dean stepped behind the couch, hoping to create some distance between the two of them. He knew not to mess around with that kind of fire in her eyes. He'd have to prove it to her first.

"Your name is Melissa Jane Lowry. You became a hunter after the ghost of your little sister killed your boyfriend, Allen…" he paused for a minute, searching his mind for something truly only he could know. Hunters were a gossipy bunch, and origin stories were not often off the table. "And...you've got a birthmark shaped like a cloud on your ass! Missy. It's me."

His last words were pleading, and he saw her face soften as he stepped back out from behind the couch and she got closer to him. They were an arm's length away from each other. Melissa put a soft hand on his shoulder, and he was just about ready to smile when she lunged at him with the knife. He took it from her quickly, guessing this all too close to homeness was making her a little slowly. She backed away from him again with wild eyes.

"I'm not a shapeshifter!"

"Then you're a revenant!" she insisted, glancing over at the coffee table. Fake Dean was too in her way at the moment for her to try for the guns.

He sighed, then began rolling up his sleeve. "Alright...if I was either of those, could I do this-with a silver knife?"

He slowly dragged the knife across the flesh of his forearm, creating a thin red line. He grimaced at it but looked back up at her expectantly.

"Dean?" she managed.

He nodded and lowered the knife. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

It took only a moment for her to get over to him and throw her arms around his neck. He could feel her heart pounding in her ribs and smiled into her hair.

"It's good to see you, darlin,'" he whispered huskily.

"You too," she said with a teary smile, pulling away from him too see his face again. She kept her hands on the sleeves of his red flannel as she finally saw his face again. It had been only four months, but it felt like forever. She almost felt like she couldn't breathe from happiness. She knew it was too good to be true, but she ignored it for just a minute. She just needed a minute of being his again.

He stared into her icy eyes and kept his small smile. It had been the first time since hell someone had touched him out of love instead of hate. She ran her hand through his hair behind his ear and he shivered, looking down and letting happy, weary tears fall. Melissa wiped them away with her thin finger and he grabbed her around the waist again, needing to hold onto her desperately, needing to hold onto her for forever. They stood like that for a long time; minutes past with neither of them moving, only relishing in the closeness.

It was Melissa who pulled away once again. Her eyes were watery but she didn't cry. "But, how'd you bust out?" She put her hands in her back pockets and furrowed her brows.

"I don't know...just woke up in a pine box," he said, gazing again at the stacks of lore books and the drab wallpaper. Suddenly, Melissa splashed what he instantly knew was holy water in his face. He spit it out to the side and looked back at her dejectedly.

"I'm not a demon, either, y'know?" he deadpanned.

She smirked mischievously. "Better to be safe than sorry, ain't it, Winchester?"

Author's Note: Alright, that's what I've got for you today. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

PLEASE review down below to let me know what you thought!

Peace and love.