S14 E5 "Nightmare Logic" Weave
(I didn't write the ep; don't sue me-believe me, you won't get much.)

I only own the fill-in-the-blanks parts and my characters. Oh, and I might have named some unnamed people from the episodes, because it's easier that way. ;)

In the library, Sam focused on the laptop screen, barely hearing Rachel approach from the maps room. She set down her car keys and the large brown bag full of supplies she had just bought on the far end of the desk, her eyes glued on Sam. Despite their distant tension and painful lack of communication, she couldn't help but want to know what had him so worried. "Sam? What's wrong?" she asked quietly as she approached.

Sam looked over at her, wetting his lips as he examined her. Her thick dark hair was swept back in a textured ponytail. The v-neck blush hued long sleeved shirt she wore hugged over her chest, revealing a bit of tantalizing cleavage. The top contrasted in hue with her tight, dark jeans that melted over her hips and thighs. The ensemble ended in a familiar pair of weathered hiking boots. The entire package made his throat dry out.

Seeing her in different outfits before had never failed to interest him, but there was something about the selections she had made as the "new" Rachel during her shopping trip to replace her wardrobe that made him more than intrigued. The tops had more daring cuts, the bottoms a slimmer fit that hugged her curves to perfection, and though he didn't see them, he couldn't help but imagine what her new undergarments looked like. Previously, Rachel had adopted oversized items as a wardrobe staple, which he assumed that was from her lack of confidence. However, she now seemed more than comfortable displaying her curves, and it didn't fail to catch his eye. Or Ketch's.

Sam loathed the idea of Ketch being near Rachel, seeing how he took prolonged glances at her. It made him crazed; he was more than tempted to rearrange his face on more than one occasion. But the airports were still suffering from the Snownado, delaying Ketch's return to London until the end of the week. Despite being swamped, Sam considered volunteering to drive Ketch several hours to the next closest airport, but he knew he'd likely kill him along the way for how he saw his eyes roam over Rachel whenever she was around. He could last three more days. Possibly.

"Sam?" Rachel asked, pulling Sam from his daze.

"It's Maggie," he explained, seeing her surprise. "She didn't check in."

"She's in Oklahoma still?"

"Yeah. I'm connecting to her body cam feed," he explained softly.

Rachel looked over her shoulder, hearing Dean's heavy booted gait approaching behind her. He paced near her as he pressed his phone to his ear. "Come on, kid, answer the phone." When he got the voicemail, he sighed and hung up, glancing at what Sam was working on. "You got them wearing body cams now?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, they're new. I figured watching each other hunt is the best way to learn. Okay, so … they upload directly to the server."

Maggie's feminine voice seemed to chill them even through the screen. "In delightful Claremore, Oklahoma."

"And if something goes wrong," Dean added, "you got a place to start."

Sam grit his teeth in dread. "Yeah, that too."

"Here we go."

The three were silent as they peered at the screen. Rachel didn't realize she was gnawing on her lip as hard as she was until she felt a bit of pain. She jumped slightly when Maggie screamed, quickly regaining herself as Sam flurried over the keyboard to rewind the footage.

"Something jumped her," Dean concluded.

"The ghoul?" Sam asked. "Dean, if she's hurt or dead—"

"We don't know that, okay?" Dean interrupted. "We don't know anything yet."

Sam scoffed. "You just watched the same thing I did."

Dean eyed his brother, seeing the impossibly heavy burden on his shoulders. He knew how badly the situation with Rachel was affecting him. He didn't like Sam's choice to keep secrets from Rachel, knowing it was what drove them apart before. Maggie being vulnerable was something he knew Sam was not going to handle well. If she wasn't alive, it would only keep him from being able to fully rest. The guilt would crush him, and his worries about Rachel would multiply. Dean took a breath. "I saw a ghoul, okay? And, yeah, they're nasty little sons of bitches, but they're also scavengers. They don't usually feed on the living."

"Yeah, so why attack her?" Sam countered.

"I don't know." Dean glanced to Rachel, seeing the concern in her eyes. "But I bet if we go there and find out, we got a shot at bringing her home."

As Dean left to pack a bag, Rachel moved a step closer, watching Sam shut down the laptop. "Are ghouls … hard to kill?"

"Nothing we can't handle," Sam replied with a small smile. His assurance didn't seem to be at all convincing, Rachel's concerned expression remaining unchanged. Sam stood as she traced her fingertips over the chair next to her.

"She's just a kid," Rachel murmured, focusing on the desk.

"We'll find her," Sam said softly. He moved in closer to her, aching at her fear.

Rachel nodded, looking up and giving him a forced smile back. "I know you will." Her heart clenched at the palpable tension that lingered between them. "Just be careful," she added.

"I will be," he replied. He swallowed. "Would you, uh, mind looking after Robbie?" he asked, trying to test the waters.

Rachel's lips parted. He was trusting her with the most important job one could have while he was gone. And she didn't even trust herself to hold more than a five minute conversation with the boy out of fear of somehow hurting him. "I … I don't think that's a good idea." Sam nodded quickly, and she felt horrible. She let him down. Again. She was even more of a failure. "I-I just … I'm just afraid I … might …"

Sam stepped closer, nothing but sincerity in his expression, though he was more than pained at her apparent lack of self value. "It's okay. Really. I'm sure Julie won't mind."

Rachel felt tears come, hating to disappoint him. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Rachel, it's okay," Sam assured gently, silencing her. "I understand."

He held her gaze longer than Rachel knew what to do with. He had trimmed his beard, something she was still adjusting to. Despite having known him—or remembered knowing him—for longer without one, her first sight of him when she woke was of him with one. The loss of the beard seemed to make Dean happy, but for her, it was different. With the cleaner cut came a man she didn't really speak to, save for a few cordial words here and there. He became a man who was distant and stiff—certainly nothing like the one who had wrapped her in his arms and kissed her like she had never been kissed before.

His eyes, though, gave him away. They would roam over her every time they shared a room, hyper focused on her until she caught him looking. Rachel wanted so badly to give in and take the risk, to break the thick ice wall that grew between them, but she couldn't. Especially when she saw Robbie. He was such a sweet boy, and he needed his father. She couldn't risk doing anything that might harm him, or anyone else.

She avoided most everyone, in fact. Her biggest group social moments of the day were usually during supper, and training with Mary, who was the only hunter consistently at the bunker willing to help her with her combat skills, besides Sam and Dean when she wasn't around. Other than that, she stayed to herself, either in the range, the gym, or in her room. Her distance kept people safe, in her mind.

And his distance kept her safe in Sam's. He gave her the space she felt she needed to keep people safe. And it felt like utter torture and hell for him. Still, if she left out of fear, trying to track her would be far too hard, and being alone would be far too dangerous for her with all of the enemies bent on using or hurting her.

Still, he had never meant for them to grow apart as they did over the weeks that followed their return to the bunker. Somehow, between all of the demands as the bunker leader, and his fears of Rachel running away, Sam had unwittingly helped to construct a deep divide between them. Their passionate kiss and fiery intimacy was but a distant memory, one he repeatedly replayed with the other memories of his time with her.

"We can work on those blocks when I get back," Sam said after a pause. He cleared his throat. "If you want to," he added softly.

Rachel nodded, feeling awkward. "Yeah. That … that works. In the meantime, I'll, uh … clean some weapons. Again. If you, uh, need lure, I'll be … here."

Sam's lips parted; he readied to apologize for the isolation he made her undergo, but couldn't. His cowardice won out, his voice escaping him. "I'll see you when we get back," he said, giving her a smile that felt more than out of place.

She returned it, backing away with a nod. Silently, she left the room. Slamming the laptop closed, Sam sighed, feeling his entire body tense. She would be alone with Ketch. He wouldn't dare … would he? Sam swiped a hand over his face, hating the thoughts that floated in his head. If he did, and she moved toward him because of it, it was no one else's fault but his own. He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't bear the distance, or the way she looked from it. More than anything, he wanted her in his arms, in his life. He would tell her the truth when he got back, and figure out a way to make her stay. He had to.

"Polishing weapons again?"

Rachel looked up from her rag at the library desk hours after Sam and Dean left, gun in hand as she saw Ketch enter. She felt her stomach clench. There was something about him that made her very confused. She couldn't discern the exact feelings, but there was a definite undercurrent of tension whenever he was around. He had been friendly, though. He was one of the only people to talk to her regularly besides Sam, Dean, Castiel, Mary, Jack, and Robbie. "Just trying to be helpful," she replied, resting the cleaned portion of the gun onto the desk.

"You'd be far more helpful in the field," Ketch countered, stepping closer.

"No I wouldn't," Rachel quickly replied, her eyes darting back to her work. She resumed polishing, tightening her fingers on the rag in her hand.

"You're still afraid." Ketch watched her for a long moment, patient through her silence. "From what Mary says, you've nothing to be afraid of, and haven't had to be since the beginning."

Rachel's jaw flexed. "I've got plenty. Besides, I'm here for lure. Since most everyone else is gone."

Ketch pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, observing as she put the gun back together she had painstakingly cleaned for the second time that week. "Perhaps, then, you need a bit of a break," he suggested softly, seeing how her hands slowed a bit as she listened. "You're not a machine, you know. When was the last time you got out of the bunker for something other than supplies?"

"I'm fine," Rachel insisted, clicking the gun parts back into place harder than necessary.

She froze when Ketch's hand rested on hers, her focus still on the gun. "It's been three weeks," he continued softly. "You've barely said a word to anyone. It's not fair to you."

"It's my choice," she reminded him, though her voice was too soft to seem convincing.

"And maybe it's time to make another."

Rachel suppressed a shiver from Ketch's warm touch, too scared to look at him. She wet her lips, feeling weakened by his words. Her resolve to stay away from everyone was crumbling, her need for connection gaining power. Ketch was more than right-it was three weeks, and she had left the bunker two times, and only for supplies. And the only reason she did was because nearly everyone else was out on cases. "Why does it matter to you?" she asked, eyeing him, trying to resist the temptation.

"Because I'd hate to see such an incredible woman fade into nothingness," Ketch replied, remembering the first time he told her the same words. Before, she fought him, even though he could tell she contemplated his words. This time, though, it was different. She didn't resist his advice—or his advances. "A drink," he offered. "Nothing complicated or rash. A sensible person like yourself knows the benefit of a bit of recreation every now and then. What do you say?"

Searching his dark eyes, Rachel caved. She nodded. "A drink," she repeated back, as if still trying to convince herself. She needed to feel human. She was human, after all. And Ketch seemed to be the only person to remind her of that. A lingering nervousness remained despite the soft stroke of his thumb over the back of her hand. His touch was far different than Sam's, but a welcomed shower of interaction to her self-imposed drought. "One drink. Then back here."

A smile curled the side of Ketch's mouth. "Of course."

When Sam and Dean followed the lead on Maggie, they discovered that Mary and Bobby were one step ahead and already at the residence. Sam didn't miss Bobby's look of annoyance at their arrival, or the contempt he held as they left the house after their interview. The four stood around the Impala's trunk, trying to regroup.

"Well, it ain't a ghoul," Bobby concluded outside of the house. I checked the old guy out pretty good back there - no bites."

"Maybe we're looking at a shifter," Mary suggested.

"I don't know," Dean countered. "Shifters don't usually hang out in graveyards."

Sam drew in a breath. "Maybe he was possessed, you know, or maybe a demon took his body for a joyride?"

Bobby eyed him. "Yeah, and then what? He tucks him back in like he's returning a library book?" Sam tensed his jaw, the pressures of Bobby's clear distrust of Rachel and his leadership by keeping her close irking him and making him deflated. "Anyways," Bobby continued, "I spritzed him with holy water when the nurse's head was turned." He narrowed his focus on Sam. "This case obviously ain't a milk run."

Dean stiffened at the clear dig. "Something on your mind, Bobby?"

"Yeah," Bobby said, looking to Dean. "Your brother. He let Maggie come here when she had no idea what she was walking into. She wasn't ready."

"Oh, c'mon," Dean scoffed, "when is anybody ever ready?"

"You are or you ain't." Bobby returned his focus to Sam. "A real leader would've seen that a mile a way. Just like he'd know the danger of leaving a freshly made nephilim who murdered a man alone at the bunker."

"Hey," Dean barked before Sam could even say anything. "Watch it. Rach is family."

"Look," Mary said with a glare at Bobby, "we all want the same thing. We have a job to do, so let's do it. Sam, you're with me. Bobby, you're with Dean."

The foursome split. Sam couldn't help but let the weight of Bobby's contempt sink him lower than he already felt.

Mary saw his burden, aching for him. "Look, don't listen to Bobby," she insisted as they walked through the woods together.

Sam wet his lips, glancing around himself. "Um, maybe he's right, you know? I encouraged her." He thought of how pained Rachel looked before he left. "Maybe he's right about me," he said, hating parts of what he had become. Hating how Maggie was in trouble because of him. Hating how Rachel wasn't much more than a stranger now instead of his fiancée because of his unwillingness to let go and let her in the field. "About everything."

Mary stopped, turning to face Sam. For all his height and build, he looked more than weak and defeated. "Sam. Watching you these last few weeks, you know what I've been saying to myself? 'This is what he was born to do.'" Sam glanced away a bit, trying to let the words sink in. "If Bobby can't see that, then it's not the only thing he's been missing lately."

They resumed walking; Sam wet his throat. "I wasn't gonna mention it," he said. "None of my business, but it did seem like you'd gotten pretty close lately."

Mary sighed. "Yeah, and I thought so, too. Maybe, but since we've been back, things have changed."

"Changed how?"

"We're hunting all the time. He won't take a break, not even for a second. There's something on his mind, and ... he doesn't want to talk about it."

"Have you asked?"

"Bobby's not open like your dad."

Sam stopped, a confused look on his face. "Wait. Like my dad?"

Mary smirked. "Okay. At least he's not like your dad was when I knew him."

"Right," Sam smirked back, continuing forward.

"Bobby's got walls," Mary continued. "Big ones. I just don't know if I can do that if I even ever put myself out there again." Seeing Sam's display of awkwardness, she chuckled. "I shouldn't be talking to you about this."

A silence fell between them. "I'm going to tell Rachel," Sam said softly, gaining Mary's attention. "About Robbie. When we get back."

Mary nodded. "I think that's smart."

"I expect her to freak out," Sam sighed.

"She may." Mary looked over to her son. "She's strong, Sam. Physically. Mentally. Her natural instincts are still there from before, maybe even sharper. She could be in the field."

"She doesn't trust herself," Sam replied. "Not after Missouri."

Mary remembered the way she found Sam when they went to rescue Rachel from August. It was more gruesome than she ever thought he was capable of. "You never told me what happened in the house with August," she said quietly.

Sam drew in a breath through flared nostrils. "I …" He released it softly. "I lost it. When I heard what he did to her …" His throat dried out as he reheard Rachel's recounted story, and the details she became aware of after taking grace. "He was a monster," Sam concluded. "And he got what he deserved."

It wasn't what Mary had hoped to hear, but it was something nonetheless. "Her life has been nothing but pain, hasn't it?"

Tears threatened his eyes. "I'd do anything to give her some peace."

"Telling her the truth won't do that."

"No, it won't." Sam wet his lips. "But me telling her the full truth and being there for her through her fear will." He looked at his mother. "She'll probably never get her soul back. I can't hold on to the hope she will come back to me as she was before."

"Do you think Michael has her soul?" Mary asked, nauseous at the thought.

Sam swallowed back the bile the truth caused. "I have no doubt that he does."

There was something oddly familiar about Morley's Bar to Rachel; she had to assume it was from her past time before her memories were lost with her original soul. In truth, when it came to the discussion of her soul being restored, she wasn't any longer sure it mattered. People seemed to have their opinions about her before anyway, after she consumed grace the first time. Castiel said removing her grace now would kill her, so that wasn't an option. And she wasn't allowing herself to be close to Sam. What else could be different if she had her original soul?

Still, she worried what the implications were of it not ever coming back to her since the cabin. And she knew Sam was too. She also couldn't help but feel tense as she and Ketch made their way to the bar, knowing the demons who had been gathering near to the bunker suddenly fell off the radar for weeks. What were they planning? Were they waiting for her to leave the bunker, like she was now? She knew with her grace she'd recognize their horrid faces, but it didn't stop Rachel from halting, digging her feet into the ground. "I can't," she said softly, gaining Ketch's attention.

Ketch looked back at her, his brow creasing as he saw her stress. "What's wrong?"

Rachel looked at him, taking a step backward. "I need to go back to the bunker."

Moving to her, Ketch took her hand. It was clammy, shaking. "Nothing will happen," he assured her.

"If I lose control, there are so many people here and-"

"Breathe, darling," Ketch urged, offering her a small smile. "I promise you, it'll all be alright. Just breathe." He saw her take in a deep breath and felt her relax a little as she released it. "There you go. Come on. Let's get you a drink."

Rachel let Ketch lead her to the bar, taking a seat on one of the few empty stools left. She glanced around herself as Ketch sat next to her, gulping. There were so many people. Just like Missouri, when she killed a man.

"A Bramble for the lady," Ketch told the bartender, "and a Scotch on the rocks for me, please."

"I-I can't drink right now," Rachel said quickly, halting the bartender. Her stomach churned with nausea, her mind still on overdrive. Something in her head told her not to indulge, that she shouldn't. "Can I just have a club soda with cranberry?"

The bartender nodded, leaving Rachel and Ketch to make the drinks. "Sorry," Rachel murmured, looking over at Ketch. "I just-"

"There's no need for an apology," he assured. "The point of this evening was to get you out of the bunker, and here we are."

"... Yeah."

When they got their drinks, Rachel quickly snatched it and took a hardy pull from the slim straw in it. "Good thing that's non-alcoholic," Ketch teased. "Otherwise, you might need me to carry you out."

Rachel chose not to reply, instead tracing the dots of condensation that collected on her glass, letting the moisture roll down her finger. She shut her eyes with a sigh, the jukebox music flowing over her. An artist she didn't know crooned a melancholy tune about losing their lover. Even though she knew nine out of ten songs written were likely about the same topic, she could help but feel the sentiments were timed for her to hear.

But she couldn't remember Sam in that capacity. The closest she got was their whirlwind kiss in the cabin three weeks prior. After that, they moved apart—partly her choice, and seemingly partly his. She had wondered if she was being too cautious about keeping distance with Sam, but when he started to keep his own, she took it as a sign. Rachel opened her eyes and looked down at the ice bobbing in her drink. He was right to stay away from her. It didn't matter how badly she wanted to be with him. His son had to come first. And I guess now he realizes that.

"Deep in thought," Ketch mused, sipping his Scotch.

"Just … trying to relax." Rachel shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm shit company." She shifted her focus to Ketch with an apologetic look. "Thank you for trying, though."

"Well," Ketch said, taking another sip of Scotch, "if I can't interest you in some spirits, then maybe I can in a friendly game of darts?"

Rachel's mouth quirked into a small smile. "You play?"

"Any good Englishman spends more than enough time at pubs in uni. Learning darts is nearly mandatory."

Her smile widened. "Okay," she replied, looking him over. He wore a black turtleneck over a pair of black pants. She rarely saw him in anything but a button-up and suit slacks. "You're on."

Ketch downed the rest of his drink and slid off his stool, holding out his hand. Rachel took it, stepping down off the small platform and into the thickening crowd. He let go after ushering her to lead the way, watching her hips sway from behind in appreciation.

Once at the dart board, he handed the three darts to Rachel. "Five hundred one, yes?"

"Sounds good."

"Ladies first," Ketch said, gesturing to the throw line.

Rachel stepped up to it, taking up a dart and rolling it between her fingers. She aimed, then threw it, sticking it in the treble 20 ring. With her second and third dart, she totaled 142. "Impressive," Ketch said, going to the board and taking the darts down. "You're not giving me an inch, are you?"

"Nope," Rachel smirked, sipping her club soda as she watched Ketch assume his position.

By the time the third turn came, Ketch ended up with 76 points left points left, Rachel with exactly 50. "We can bypass the bullseye rule," Ketch suggested, having yet to see Rachel land one.

"Hell no," she replied, narrowing her eyes. She stepped to the line, taking a deep breath in. As she went to throw the dart, she froze, her lips parting as vivid imagery washed over her. She would call it a memory, but she wasn't even sure she remembered it. The room seemed to shift, morphing into something she knew and didn't. It was the most bizarre feeling she ever had.

Her face was on fire. From what, she didn't know. She swallowed, her heart racing. Sam stood next to her, a cocky smile playing on his mouth. Next to him stood two half finished Heinekens, and two twenty-dollar bills on a ledge. It was a different bar, a different atmosphere. Yet, somehow familiar all the same.

Sam handed her three darts. "Ladies first." He grinned. She could feel his eyes skimming over her from behind as she moved into position. She focused, channeling her practiced skill.

Every hunter had to have a hustle angle, and hers was darts. She spent many hours perfecting her game, using her youthful looks to lure unsuspecting men into placing large bets. Only once or twice did any of them get mad. Most were usually just far too forward, trying to cop a feel of any curve they could to make up for their loss of cash. She had definitely broken some wandering fingers to show how capable she was of taking care of herself.

She threw one hundred and fifty five points in the first round. "Nicely done," Sam said, removing her darts.

"Thank you," she smirked, unable to help but look at his backside as he stepped to the line. Her eyes rounded when he threw two hundred and twenty points in the first round. "Damn," she muttered.

"You might want to start thinking of how you'll hide from Dean."

She grabbed the darts. "You're awfully cocky."

Sam shrugged. "I'm just thinking about my inevitable prize."

She focused, throwing two hundred and forty points in the second round. "So am I," she replied, catching Sam's arched brow.

He threw two hundred points after her. "Sixty one points from victory. Hope you can get that one-oh-six."

She took a long drink, plucking the darts from the board. She sunk the first one in fifty-five, the second in fifty. Then, she grinned at Sam. "Can't wait to see Cas' face." With a sure throw, she landed the single point mark dead center.

Sam applauded her, then took a long drink. His first dart landed a twenty, his second just making it into forty. He paused, looking back at her. "We didn't say what we'd do in the event of a tie."

She pursed her lips. "Sudden death?"

Sam shook his head. "I vote we combine our prizes."

"How?"

"You'll see."

Sam turned back, landing the single point mark with his last dart. Her eyes widened as she watched Sam finish his beer. "Nicely done, Winchester."

"You too, Lentz." He moved in toward her, a devilish grin playing on his lips. "I'm ready for my prize."

"Which is what, exactly?" she asked, her breath a little shaky as his hand slid up her waist.

Sam grabbed their cash, taking her outside with him with urgency. They rounded the corner, coming to a poorly lit alley. He stopped, turning her to face himself. Pressing her to the bricks, he devoured her mouth, swallowing her moan as he pinned her with his body, his lips hungrily tasting hers.

He was ravenous, nearly feral as he pressed into her, her little pants and gasps seeming to make him insane. Sam's mouth moved to the space just below her earlobe, suckling her jaw as he thrust against her. "You," he whispered between kisses. "You're my prize. You always have been. And always will be."

"Rachel? Are you alright?"

Rachel blinked hard. The bar scenery shifted, the alleyway bricks and chain link fence behind Sam disappearing, along with Sam and his electric touch. She wet her lips, trying to focus as the memory faded with a bit of haze, revealing a concerned Ketch standing in front of her. "Can you hear me?" he asked, worry wrinkling his brow.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out for a long moment. "I think I just remembered something," she whispered after a long pause. Was it a daydream, or a real memory? Only Sam would know.

"What did you remember?" Ketch asked, stepping closer. He took the darts from her, keeping his focus on her as he set them aside.

"Sam," she replied, still feeling jumbled in her head. An ache grew in her temples, rising with steadiness amidst the confusion the memory left.

Ketch lifted his chin a bit; it wasn't what he had hoped. "What about him?"

Rachel shook her head, trying to remember the pieces that came before for context. "I don't … I think we should go," she said softly. Something felt wrong. Off. Weird.

Not waiting for him, Rachel turned and headed for the entrance, more than confused. The memory was so vivid, so clear—like it happened right then in real time. She felt him. Tasted him. It was him … almost. As she opened the front door and exited the bar, she rubbed at her temples. The pain built in her head, not seeming to relent even with fresh air. Was it a side effect of the memory?

Before she could think any more about it, she was snatched by a thick pair of arms and dragged away.