How the Light Gets In

by Becks Rylynn

History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story.

18. The Mess You Left When You Went Away

AN: And the separation arc officially begins...

Just a quick note: these next couple chapters are going to be a bit different as they are going to be covering the same time period from different points of view. Up first we've got Dean in his solo outing and the next chapter will cover Laurel's POV. So, if you're a Dean fan - hey, this chapter is for you! If you're a Laurel fan, hang in there, she's got a BIG outing coming up next.

Please note that parts of this chapter deal with suicide (specifically the aftermath of a suicide attempt), depression, and anxiety. Proceed with caution and maybe read the spoilery warnings at the end if these things are at all triggering for you.

And, finally: I am so sorry for the even longer than usual wait for this chapter. I sincerely hope it won't happen again.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Eighteen

The Mess You Left When You Went Away

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February 2017

Being separated isn't all bad when you think about it.

Over the past few weeks, Dean has had a lot of free time to do nothing but think about it.

It's a strange new reality, not one he ever expected, not one he ever wanted, but you know what? It's not that terrible.

Laurel isn't dead so there's no need to fill his days with mind numbing, soul crushing grief, which is a nice change of pace. He hasn't had to touch an avocado in weeks. He moved all of her shampoo and conditioners and various other crap under the sink, which really helped to declutter the bathroom. She's not around to steal his coffee or touch the food on his plate and he doesn't have to make anything with quinoa in it. He can sleep in the middle of the bed now. It's great. It's freeing.

And everyone's been so nice to him. Charlie keeps bringing him pastries. Sara has been less annoying than usual, even going so far as to let him pick what to watch on TV. Sam has accepted that he doesn't want to talk about it and hasn't pushed the issue. Thea keeps making breakup playlists. Cas won't stop sending him memes. Most of them cat ones. Though it is possible that's unrelated and he might have just discovered memes.

Claire kept spamming him with the link to Beyoncé's Hold Up music video and wouldn't stop until he agreed to watch and listen to the entirety of Lemonade - as if he'd never done that before. Seriously, who hasn't listened to Lemonade? Can't help but feel that, as a white dude, he may not be the target audience. But it still helped. Because, I mean, it's Beyoncé. And it was a nice gesture by an otherwise surly teen.

But the biggest bright spot?

No Valentine's Day.

No rushing to find a babysitter. No stressing about getting a reservation at whatever trendy restaurant Laurel wants to try in the city. No spending insane amounts of money on overpriced and undersalted hipster meals that are too tiny to be worth it. No sitting in crowded and dimly lit restaurants having to repeatedly tell the server that they don't want to see the wine list. No paying for parking or being forced to hand over the keys to some bored valet or parking blocks away and listening to her complain about her heels on the walk back.

It's a relief, really.

Valentine's Day is the worst.

Everyone knows that.

It's just another holiday that's been co-opted by capitalism and turned into a cash grab full of garish pink and red, shitty candy, and excuses for corporations like Amazon and Walmart and fucking Hallmark to be obnoxiously greedy.

Who needs it anyway?

Fuck Amazon, fuck Walmart, and fuck Hallmark in particular. And you know those little candy hearts with the stupid lovey dovey sayings on them that taste like eating sugary sidewalk chalk? Yeah, fuck those too.

Dean, personally, would much rather be here. At home. All alone. Washing dishes, scrubbing grass stains out of his kid's clothes, and contemplating burning his estranged wife's garden out of spite and sheer boredom. Aimlessly wandering around his dark and empty house like some sort of sad Victorian ghost bride, doomed to wait for her stupid chump of a husband to come back from the war for all of eternity.

It's fun. Good times. Super fulfilling.

When you think about it, he's always been a sad Victorian ghost bride. He's finally just leaning into it.

It's fine.

He's doing fine.

Being ''single'' - or whatever this bizarre state of suspended animation can be called - is a real laugh riot.

It's just that there's nothing on TV. That's the problem. He's been sitting here for fifteen minutes now, flicking through the channels and there's nothing on.

But that's it.

That's the only reason he's stewing. Certainly couldn't have anything to do with being stuck in the wishy washy plot of a pathetic Nicholas Sparks novel. Because why would that bother him? That's what everyone wants, right? That's the dream. Nah, it's just the TV thing. That's it. And maybe that she took his favorite shirt when she left. But he's not bitter about it.

Honest.

She did what she thought she had to do to protect her family. He gets that.

Besides, it's not like he is totally in the dark regarding her whereabouts. She's in California. The Los Angeles area to be exact. She has been all over the map there. Culver City, Santa Monica, Van Nuys, Pacific Palisades, Venice Beach, Compton. Completely random places, from higher income areas like Calabasas to lower income areas like South Los Angeles. All in two weeks. At first, he had just figured she was squatting in Rebecca Merlyn's beach house in Malibu, but as far as they can tell, she hasn't gone anywhere near it. It was confusing, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing zigzagging all over the LA area nonstop, going full Black Canary, popping up in random news reports and newspaper headlines and blurry faceless twitter videos of fights.

It's less confusing now.

The last report of a mysterious woman beating the shit out of an attempted rapist came out of Central City East in Los Angeles. Also known as Skid Row. Because of course that's where she would go. Of course it is. He has tried, for the record, not to worry about her. He has very firmly told himself that he is not some common suburban yuppie and neither is she and he shouldn't be worrying about his wife, a literal superhero, just because he got sucked into a fearmongering pro-gentrification internet article written by some white woman named Sherri with an I about Skid Row. But it nags at him. Even knowing all that, it nags at him.

The idea of her out there all alone aches, and - yeah, sure, he is aware of the potential for violence, but he's not particularly worried about that. She can take care of herself, for one thing, and, more than that, she is freakishly good at adapting to her surroundings. That's part of what makes her so effective as Black Canary. She has learned to melt into the world around her. He also knows she has money, however much Dinah gave her. She has the clothes she took with her and the bike she swiped from Oliver's garage. She has enough to survive.

It's the drugs that concern him. The potential for a slip up, a lapse in judgment, one night of being too cold or too hungry or too depressed. He doesn't think she would immediately jump to using hard street drugs, that seems like a bridge too far, but the truth is he just doesn't know. He can't say for sure one way or the other. That's the scary part.

Addiction is a sticky thing. It runs deep. Every part of your body is affected by it, from your trembling hands to your churning stomach to your desperate mind. You can never truly get away from something like that. It's always there, always lurking, crawling under your skin, that desire, that need, that itch that you know how to scratch but can't. You can run from a lot of things, but you cannot run from yourself. He knows that feeling well.

Recovery is hard on the best of days.

And Laurel hasn't been having a lot of those lately.

It's not crazy to wonder about the possibility. He's sure if the situations were reversed, she would be worried about him holing himself up in some shitty dive bar in a bad part of town. Even still, it's probably an overreaction on his part, right?

Yes, there is a lot of darkness and a lot of drugs in a crowded, fast paced, sharp edged city like LA. It is a dangerous place for a depressed addict with crumbling resolve to be. However, on the other hand, he can understand why she would choose Los Angeles as her hiding place. Here, in Star City, her hometown, she is everyone's daughter, the resident martyr, everyone's favorite dead white girl. People know her face now. They like to think they know who she is. They tell themselves she died for their sins. They love her because they believe they can see her.

In Los Angeles, a city at least three times bigger than this Dollar Tree Seattle, nobody can see her at all. She is nobody's daughter, no one's monument, no one's beloved corpse. There are no street art memorials, no statues, no stones left on her grave. Just the sun, a fuckload of people, and all the room in the world to breathe. She's just another faceless person moving through the masses, untethered and unchecked. No one on Skid Row is going to ask questions. No one in the City of Angels is going to look twice at a random nobody when they could be looking at whomever TMZ is swarming around outside of Nobu.

Despite being a city full of people who want to stand out, Los Angeles is the perfect place to go entirely unnoticed. Become anonymous. You could disappear there and no one would ever know.

Regardless, any way you slice it, Laurel has a plan. She's there for a reason. She's fine. She's made it clear it's not his business, so... Godspeed, babe. Not his problem. Only problem he has is the current predicament with the television.

There is nothing here to save him from his boredom. He doesn't have the emotional bandwidth needed to process a Shonda Rimes drama right now so that's out of the question. He could scroll through Netflix for an hour and then inevitably give up trying to pick something to watch and just go to bed.

This is all Sara's fault.

He wouldn't be in this predicament if she hadn't deleted all the episodes he'd recorded of... Nothing. Just a show that he watches sometimes. Only when there's nothing else on. It's a documentary series about human behavior that examines the similarities between wolves and humans. Laurel likes to tell him he should watch more documentaries.

...Okay, it's the Real Housewives franchise.

Maybe he shouldn't have loudly exclaimed well, it wasn't me when Sara asked who recorded them. Though in his defense, she definitely knew it was him and she deleted them anyway. To make room for a True Blood marathon. Which is, for the record, worse than any of the Real Housewives shows.

Dean circles back around to Channel 52 and grudgingly settles on the local news. He slouches in his seat and glares at the oddly British-tabloid-esque Star City news station that once, in all seriousness, used the portmanteau Olicity. In a news report.

Occasionally, though not that often anymore, he gets himself in a mood and ends up thinking, What if I'm dead right now? What if I never woke up from that car crash in '06 and this is all some coma dream my brain's coming up with to protect me from the trauma of what's really happening? But then he thinks -

Nah.

Surely he could have come up with something better than this weird as fuck city that only manages to semi function as a punchline to a bad joke.

He's been thinking about moving a lot more lately. Sure, it's expensive, but do you know what the Seattle area has to offer? A shit ton of Starbucks and far less shenanigans. He is really starting to hate all these fucking shenanigans.

I mean, just look at what happened last week with the vigilante crowd and their weird superhero get together they do once a year. There was an alien invasion. His brain about short-circuited when he heard about that one. And he wasn't even a part of it. Thea and Sara just didn't come home one day and all he got was a vague I don't think I'm going to make it home for dinner, there's an alien invasion phone call from Thea and an even vaguer text from Sara that just said: yearly xovers late this year. dont wait up.

He thought they were joking until they didn't come home for days. The only reason he doesn't still think it was just some kind of elaborate joke is because - well, he met Supergirl.

Thea somehow managed to entice Earth-38's heroine to come meet Mary, thinking it would cheer her up. Which it did. It really did. The Flash has officially been usurped as her favorite hero now. Supergirl is very sweet. She was a little disappointed she didn't get to meet the Black Canary she had heard all about, but she was great with Mary. And man can she ever put away the pot stickers.

She is also, it would appear, an alien.

Because aliens are a thing now.

See, these are the kinds of shenanigans he's talking about. Honestly, he is still not entirely convinced that any of it actually happened.

In any case, whether it was a gas leak hallucination or real life, aliens are too much for him right now, so he has elected to ignore that brand new piece of their twisted reality. He'll process it later, after the whole Edie situation has been resolved.

Not that they've made any real progress there as of late. It's not that Edie has been quiet because he knows she's been tracking Laurel, but ever since he handed Kaylie and Wyatt over to Marissa Marlowe, he has done his best to dedicate all his free time to finding Clementine Raymond. Whether she's alive or dead, he has made it his mission to bring her back to her family. Wyatt, seven years old and wise beyond his years in a horribly sad way, Face Times him every evening at the same time for updates. Dean never has anything new to tell him.

Maybe he should lean into the wackadoodle comic book shenanigans after all. Maybe he would actually be useful there.

He yawns and grabs the remote, changing the channel from the weather report. He's been having trouble sleeping lately too. Add that to the list. He keeps having weird dreams. He keeps dreaming of Tessa. She's always trying to tell him something. She's always reaching for him. He always wakes up before she can get to him.

Restlessly, he cycles through the channels again. He still winds up right where he began. Channel 52. He puts the remote down. Maybe he should just go to bed. It's gotta be getting late by now. He grabs his phone from the coffee table, pausing only to scowl at the Valentine's Day commercial on the screen and checks the time.

It's 8:45.

''Son of a - '' He cuts himself off, biting his tongue. ''Fucking hell.'' He slumps into the couch, tilting his head back, scrubbing at his face. 8:45 on Valentine's Day and he's home alone watching the news. About to go to bed. And you know what?

Screw it.

He loves Valentine's Day. He loves the chocolate and the flowers and the shitty movies. The whole vibe of it. Maybe he just has a sweet tooth. Maybe he's a romantic at heart. Or maybe it's her. The look on her face when he brings her flowers. The way she looks across the table in one of those insufferable restaurants, lit by candlelight. It makes her happy, this silly little holiday, and he loves making her happy. He used to be so good at it. It feels like it has been so long since he could do that.

Last year, on Valentine's Day, they were talking about trying for another baby, buying a bigger house, looking forward to the next chapter. Because they truly believed there was going to be a new chapter. There was no reason to think otherwise. Yes, there was the looming threat of Damien Darhk, but in their lives, there would always be a looming threat. You learn to live around that. What else can you do?

She convinced him to go to this vegan restaurant downtown last year. It was brand new, everyone was talking about it, and she wanted to try it. If anyone else in the world had tried to get him to go to a vegan restaurant, he would have laughed in their face, but she was not anyone else, so he made the reservation.

It was a disaster.

The whole night. The food was godawful and the place was so pretentious and unbearably hipster that it was impossible to keep a straight face. Nothing they ordered was served on an actual plate. Just planks and mason jars and, at one point, a hubcap. The location was terrible. No parking anywhere. They had to park two blocks away and she had worn these insane heels that she had never worn before and wound up barely being able to walk in because they hurt her feet so much. Complete disaster. Nothing went according to plan.

But they laughed. They laughed a lot. All night long. Spent the entire time giggling and snickering, completely unable to control themselves. He remembers the terrible food and the comically, absurdly clichéd surly waiter and the walk back to the car where he had to give her a piggy back ride because she couldn't walk in her heels and he remembers these ridiculous things with fondness because the thing that sticks with him the most is the sound of her laugh. She used to tell him that she had never truly belly laughed until she met him.

When she was pregnant and they were newly married, he made the decision to get clean and sober. He wanted to be a man worthy of being a husband and father. When he made that choice, he did go to AA meetings. Yes, it took hallucinations and withdrawal seizures for him to realize he couldn't do it alone, but he did go to the meetings. It was not, in all honesty, his thing. But he went. Got his thirty-day chip and everything. Everyone made a big deal about that chip. They were so proud of him.

He didn't get what the big deal was. Not until Danny de la Vega came over for dinner one night with Joanna, picked up the chip and said, holding it up to the light, ''You know what this means? You can have any life you want now.''

That was the jolt he needed. You can have any life you want. It was like waking up. No one had ever presented that option to him before. Never before had he been given a choice. He still thinks of that often. He remembers thinking about it last Valentine's Day, when they were stuck in traffic on the Star Bridge on the way home. He looked over at Laurel, sitting in the passenger seat, looking down at her phone, the glow of the city lights and the rain sluicing down the windows, making shadows on her face, and he thought to himself, Any life I want. He remembers being happy. He remembers being at peace with his life, which was, at the time, so full. He remembers having nothing to complain about.

He has always been acutely aware of how lucky he is to have this cozy life of his. Most hunters don't get this ever again. Once something has been ripped from you, it's gone. Once you know what's out there, you can't unknow it. Being a hunter essentially means being a casualty. He is a rarity. His peace is something precious. It's a gift.

On every birthday, every anniversary, every Christmas and Valentine's Day, with every New Year's Eve kiss from his wife and every hug from his daughter, he makes sure to thank his lucky stars, to thank whatever it was - fate, chance, dumb luck, a misstep of the universe that brought him to Washington the summer after Stull Cemetery - that got him to this life.

But now.

Well.

Now.

In the year since that Valentine's Day, since all that laughter, he has been widowed and dumped, his wife has been dead and resurrected, taken and given back, had choice stolen from her and then stole it from him. Now, once again, it's Valentine's Day and here we are. Laurel is in California and Dean is where he always is these days: home, alone, waiting. He has never felt trapped by this life, the life he wanted, until now. How dare she take that from him.

He snatches his phone off the couch and, without even thinking about it, calls her number. It's a dumb and inevitably pointless thing to do. It's not like she's going to pick up. She hasn't so far. He does it anyway, listening to it ring and ring and ring, mumbling ''come on, come on'' under his breath, trying to hold onto anger, to focus on the burning instead of the painful knot of desperation in his chest that just lives there now.

She doesn't pick up.

Not only that but her voicemail is full, clogged up with mostly messages from him, some of them angry, too many of them pathetic and pleading. He drops the useless phone back onto the coffee table and shoves everything he wants to say to her to the back of his mind. He rubs at his tired eyes with the palms of his hands and thinks, for about the billionth time, that it would be so much easier if he could just be angry.

On the news, the reporter is doing the nightly Vigilante Report. Because that's a thing that exists in this city. When he hears her mention the Green Arrow, he raises his head just as the report cuts to what looks like an amateur cell phone video taken by teenagers. It's shaky and the only audio is the obnoxious, often bleeped commentary by the kids, but the video is of Green Arrow in his natural habitat - fighting some random low level criminal in a darkened alleyway. There is nothing special about it other than the fact that the random criminal is huge. Seriously hulking. Built like a damn tree.

Dean raises one eyebrow, but still isn't entirely sure where this is going or why it's newsworthy. It's not like it's rare to catch the vigilantes on video from afar. There are pathetic wannabe paparazzi scumbags running around at night trying to catch one of them unmasked so they can sell the video to major news networks.

Then, unexpectedly, realizing that he is not going to be winning at hand to hand combat, the big guy rushes Green Arrow, physically picks him up, and throws him into a nearby dumpster. It happens so fast that even the teens taking the video are shocked into silence. For about two seconds. Then they erupt. There is an uproar of hysterical laughter and the camera shakes.

Dean is not far behind them. He doesn't even feel bad about it.

The best part is when the camera zooms in just as discount Robin Hood over there is sheepishly pulling himself out of the dumpster with a banana peel on his shoulder. By then he is fully losing it.

Who would've thought Oliver Queen would be the one to cheer him up?

Listen, he knows he can be an asshole when it comes to Mayor McCheese but in his defense -

A) Guy's a douche. Full stop. Dude is consistently The Worst.

B) Come on, that was funny. Who wouldn't laugh at that? Even the news anchor is trying not to laugh, cracking a cheesy joke about ''the city's resident dumpster diver.'' How can he not laugh?

It's not enough to pull him out of his dark mood entirely, but it's enough to get him off the couch. Feeling strangely reinvigorated by the video of his arch nemesis getting chucked in the trash, Dean makes the decision to turn the television off, quit his moping, and find something to do. And, yes, one of those things he finds to do is find the original video on Twitter and send it to everyone he knows. He's fine with his level of maturity.

Charlie texts lmao Nyssa just said she's always wanted to do that and then follows it up with you two should hang out more.

Thea says so that's why he came back to the base with gum in his hair last night. Which is a little sad. Sure, he's alone and lonely but at least he's not twenty two and spending his time picking rotting lettuce out of his brother's fetish suit and slathering his head with peanut butter.

Sam, speaking of weird brothers, takes the longest to respond. It's a one word text. All it says is: Dean. It's very disapproving.

Cas responds with a video of Keyboard Cat from 2007.

Dean does not use his renewed energy to burn down his estranged wife's garden out of spite - mostly because that seems like it would make an awful mess - but he does putter around needlessly in the kitchen, wiping down the counters, searching for light bulbs to replace the porch light. He tells himself the only reason he needs to change the light is because it's tradition. He keeps the porch light on every night. Always has. It's not because of Laurel.

He steps out onto the front stoop without putting a jacket - or even shoes - on and automatically scans the neighborhood. He's just finishing up, new lightbulb screwed in, dead one in hand, when a car pulls into his driveway.

Aw, fuck.

Quentin Lance.

Because this day needed another reason to suck.

Quentin shuts the car door and turns, looking visibly disheveled, halfway to scowling, with that familiar look in his eyes.

Dean is preemptively exhausted.

Quentin is a difficult man to be around when he's sober, downright impossible to be around when he's drunk, and it's getting harder and harder to tell which is which. He's also the most emotionally violent motherfucker Dean has ever met. He is paranoid and aggressive, permanently angry, constantly weaponizing his emotions to control his daughters. And he hates his eldest's degenerate husband.

So, yeah, uh, no.

Not exactly a welcome V-Day surprise.

Dean elects to ignore the new presence, turning back to unscrew the new lightbulb just to screw it in again to have something to do. He works slowly, standing there in the chilly February air in nothing but a t-shirt, sweats, and socked feet. He doesn't speak until spoken to. When Quentin says his name as he's strolling up the path, all Dean says is a terse, ''Mary's asleep.''

''I'm not here to see Mary,'' Quentin says, coming to a stop at the bottom of the front steps. ''We need to talk.''

Dean turns to his father-in-law. He doesn't want to be an asshole here and he does not want to start shit with a volatile drunk, but... He just doesn't want to deal with this tonight. ''About what?''

Quentin narrows his eyes at him, likely trying to discern what kind of mood Dean's in and if he knows what he's about to bring up. He hands over his phone. ''Felicity Smoak sent this to me today.''

Dean reluctantly accepts the phone, takes one look at the video pulled up on the phone, and cannot quite manage to bite back that sigh. Okay, yeah. Should have seen this one coming. He's seen this. Watched it several times. He presses play anyway. No matter how many times he watches it, despite knowing how it ends, he still flinches at the sight of her standing there with her back to the camera; hands held up, shotgun pointed at her chest. Chasing after muggers with pocketknives is one thing. Putting yourself in front of two angry men with guns is another. She got lucky. She's fine, ended up quickly and easily wiping the floor with these guys, but he still stops the video when the shot goes off, missing her by inches and only because she rushed the guy with the gun.

''Taken last week in Culver City,'' says Quentin. ''Two kids shot up a Circle K and - ''

''A mysterious woman leapt into the fray, laid 'em out, tended to the wounded, and disappeared into the night before anyone could even get her name.'' Dean hands the phone back over. ''I know. Charlie sent this to me the second it popped up. I saw the news report too.''

Quentin's lips thin. For a second, he looks like he is going to complain about not being notified, but then he moves on. ''She's leaving a trail.''

Dean forces out a laugh. ''You think that's bad? Wait until you hear about the thing on the Santa Monica pier.''

Quentin does not laugh.

''Come on,'' Dean says, deliberately trying to keep his voice light. ''What was she supposed to do? Two jittery, raging guys had guns. They shot two people before she even stepped foot in the store. She had to step in. It's not like she created the situation. She just stopped it. End of story.''

''What is she doing? She's put herself everywhere.''

''Well, everywhere within the LA area.''

''It's starting to get a lot of attention. What is she doing?''

Exactly what she said she would.

''Nobody knew it was her,'' Dean says.

''Yet,'' Quentin argues. ''But people are paying attention to this and they're already starting to bring up Black Canary - ''

''Black Canary is dead,'' Dean says firmly. ''She died almost a year ago. This is just a copycat. That was bound to happen. The camera barely caught a glimpse of her face and the quality is shit.''

''Barely being the operative word,'' Quentin fires back dryly. ''That's more than enough. We live in a digital world.''

''Says the guy who can barely work his iPhone.''

''It's like she's not even trying to hide,'' he insists. ''How does this not worry you?''

Dean presses his lips together, nostrils flaring in annoyance. This was never, for the record, about hiding. That's not what she was doing. That was never what the plan was.

He looks past Quentin and out to the sidewalk where Joanie and Phil Rourke are taking their dog, one of Mary's only friends, out for a walk. They don't seem like they're eavesdropping, but Joanie does look away from Phil momentarily when she spots Dean, smiling and waving cheerfully.

He smiles back, as nonchalantly as possible, lifting a hand in a wave. As soon as they've passed by, he turns back to Quentin, eyes flashing in irritation. ''All right,'' he hisses. ''Come on. Get inside.'' He ushers him inside, pausing to take one last look around the neighborhood. Mostly because he is trying to make sure Gretchen Henderson across the street isn't trying to be the neighbor from Bewitched. He steps back inside, out of the cold, and turns back to Quentin. He doesn't even get a word out.

''Sooner or later, someone is going to put two and two together,'' Quentin sounds insistent. ''Internet sleuths have always been interested in identifying the vigilantes.''

''You really think anyone is going to be taking a random Reddit comment or Twitter thread seriously?'' Dean rolls his eyes. ''I once saw someone on Twitter try to make a case for Bruce Wayne, King of the Bores, as the dude who dresses like a bat in New Jersey.''

''If teenagers on social media can figure it out, so can the SCPD.''

''Yeah?'' Dean crosses his arms. ''Can they?'' As expected, he gets a glower for that one. He's not particularly sorry. ''Just saying,'' he says. ''Bold to assume competency from that crack team. No offense.''

Now it's Quentin's turn to roll his eyes. ''When she reveals she's alive, it needs to happen on her terms.''

''What if these are her terms?''

''I've been talking about it with Thea - ''

''Thanks so much for including me, the husband, someone who will actually be affected by this, in that conversation.''

'' - And it needs to be done carefully if she wants to avoid charges. We need her out of the public eye. Not beating up thugs in California.''

''Oh, come on.'' Dean scoffs, but does successfully stop himself from rolling his eyes. ''Charges? They're not going to charge her.''

''She's a criminal.''

''She's a folk hero. Arresting her would be a PR nightmare. That's not something they can afford right now. Even I know that.''

Quentin looks like he really, really wants to believe that. ''You don't know Ike Mitchell like I do.''

''I know the SCPD is a public laughing stock,'' Dean says bluntly. ''I'm not saying that to be an asshole,'' he has to add, because he really isn't. ''It's just a fact. They're weak. They know they're weak. They have no credibility. They can be as anti-vigilante as they want but if they hope to gain even a little bit of public trust and support back, they are not going to arrest the city's Golden Girl after she mysteriously and miraculously returns to the land of the living. They built her a damn statue, for Christ's sake.''

''Oliver built her a statue,'' Quentin retorts crisply. ''There's a difference.''

''Not much of one,'' Dean counters. ''There were plenty of cops at the dedication ceremony. Plenty of city officials.''

''It's not that simple.'' Quentin is, as usual, a relentless hypocrite. ''She was dead then. Things were different. Police can't just pick and choose when to follow the law and when to look the other way.''

Dean stares at the older man for a moment, certain he's being Punk'd or something. ''Are you kidding me?'' He lets out a biting laugh. ''All they do is pick and choose. All due respect but you can't seriously be coming at me with your not all cops bullshit. Yes, all cops. Especially these cops. The SCPD is one of the most corrupt branches of law enforcement I've ever seen. And that's saying something considering they're all corrupt. Every one of those cops has either willingly aided and abetted a vigilante or willingly worked for a villain. Hell, look at you. You've done both.''

Quentin pales at the dig, but only for a second. Then he just looks spitting mad.

Dean doesn't feel all that bad about it. They've butted heads from the beginning. It was never likely to improve beyond tense civility. Quentin will never see Dean as anything other than the useless homeless drifter who mooched off his daughter and trapped her into marriage by knocking her up. In the same vein, Dean will never see Quentin as anything other than a blatantly abusive father and the root cause of Laurel's low self-esteem and persistent sadness.

All they see when they look at each other are the damages.

Maybe, at one point, there was a chance to better things, but then Damien Darhk happened. Everyone else, including Laurel, has apparently elected to bury Quentin's part in his daughter's murder and never talk about it again. Dean is not willing to do that. Not now, not ever. He doesn't give a shit if Edie was the mastermind, he doesn't care that Laurel's forgiven him, that everyone wants to sweep it under the rug. She was fucking brutalized. And it happened directly because of him. You don't get to kill your kid and then expect everyone to forget about it.

Frankly, Quentin is lucky he's even allowed in this house. It's bold of him to come storming in here, acting like anything he has to say matters to Dean. Oliver would have been a better person to whine to. Those two seem to be all buddy-buddy these days. Bet they bond over their hatred of Laurel's shitty husband.

''Look,'' Quentin starts, spitting it out in that familiar tone of voice that says he knows he's fighting a losing battle and he's bitter about it. He uses that tone a lot. ''I didn't come here to fight with you,'' he says, which - doubtful. ''But what she's doing is dangerous. This,'' he holds the phone up, ''is dangerous. She's just putting herself out there like she doesn't care who sees her.''

''Because she doesn't.'' Dean puts the burnt out lightbulb in the dish on the shelf by the door that's meant for keys. ''She's not hiding. She tackled a petty thief off the Santa Monica pier in broad daylight. There was no reason to be that aggressive with a purse snatcher unless she was trying to get attention. She's trying to draw Edie away from here. Away from me, away from Mary, away from you.'' He crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling inexplicably uncomfortable, guilty that she's out there doing this all by herself while he sits on his ass, fighting with her father and giggling at her ex-boyfriend falling into dumpsters. ''That's why she left in the first place. It's tactical,'' he says. ''It's strategy. Every move she makes is calculated for just enough exposure to get back to Edie. That includes,'' he gestures to the phone, the video of Laurel playing Action Movie Barbie, ''allowing herself to be filmed. She wants the danger out of her home. She doesn't care if the public knows she's alive. She doesn't expect to live long enough to deal with the fallout.''

Quentin does not appear to be particularly placated by that. ''That's exactly why you need to reach out to her,'' he pleads. ''Tell her to stop this now. Tell her to come home.''

''You think she's taking my calls? I'm what she's running from.'' Dean looks away, leaning out of the dining room to peer down the hall, making sure Mary's door is still closed. ''Even without Edie, she's not going to stop fighting. You and Thea can tell her whatever you want, but she is who she is. You know that. She will be the Black Canary until the day she dies.''

Quentin huffs out a hollow laugh. ''You mean until the day she dies again.''

Maybe he has a right to be resentful and afraid. His girls spend their lives dying for other people, leaving him in pieces, completely shattered and full of grief too big for his failing body. Father to father, maybe Dean should cut him some slack. He can't imagine what it's like to be in his shoes. To lose your children over and over and over again. That sounds like a waking nightmare. Maybe he should be more understanding. Except how can he be?

Yeah, sure, maybe Quentin's just scared for his child. Or maybe he just spirals whenever he starts to lose control. He could never control Sara, that much is obvious. She was obstinate and stubborn, marched to the beat of her own drum, put herself on her own path no matter what, regardless of what her father's opinion was. She did what she wanted to do, not what other people wanted for her, especially not what her family wanted for her.

But Laurel.

No, she was something softer, something pliable, easy to mold, to influence. She was a pushover. She lived to please. And she loved him desperately. She would have done anything for him if it meant he loved her back. If she could get one of her parents to look at her and see her. Kids like her are easy to control. Dean would know. He was one of them.

So - fear?

No.

Quentin Lance is just John Winchester in a rumpled suit.

He loves his girls. He just loves the control more. Life is cleaner that way.

''All due respect, sir,'' he starts, voice terse, ''but your concern means nothing to her right now. This isn't up to you. Nothing is going to change her mind about what she's doing. Not you, not me, not even...'' Not even Mary, is what he was going to say. ''Just the way it is.'' He clamps his mouth shut and tries not to say anything else, even though there is so much more simmering away inside.

Quentin looks downtrodden, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks off into the living room, his eyes seeking out the family picture above the couch. He is silent for a long time, although Dean can see the gears moving in his head. ''How's Mary doing?''

Dean hesitates before he answers, unsuccessfully attempting to untangle what the angle is here. ''Better, I guess,'' he says. ''Still asks about her every morning, but...'' He tries a shrug. ''The meltdowns have settled.''

There is something like heartbreak on Quentin's face at that. It's the only thing Dean trusts. He is a much better grandfather than he ever was a father. That's never been a question. ''My daughter,'' Quentin says after a beat of tense and uncomfortable silence. He sounds reluctant to say what he's about to say. ''She's not well, Dean.''

And that is, as usual, the wall.

''That's not a discussion I'm willing to have with you,'' Dean says, calm but forceful, almost sharp. ''Not ever. You know damn well you burned that bridge.''

Quentin actually has the audacity to look startled by the reaction. ''I meant physically.''

''No,'' Dean deadpans. ''You didn't.'' He scrutinizes the other man thoroughly. It's bothersome that he can no longer tell when this guy's been drinking. It used to be easier to tell. He was a messy, sloppy, mean drunk. Over the years, through various bouts of sobriety and hypocrisy, he's gotten better at being a functional liar as well as a functional alcoholic. The sober and drunk versions of him have blurred together. ''If you're afraid she's going to get herself killed, you can relax,'' Dean says. ''If she dies, Oliver dies. She's not going to take anyone with her if she can help it. I don't think Edie's going to let her die either.''

''That's not exactly what I would call comforting,'' Quentin retorts dryly.

''Look, can I - '' Dean stops, torn between frustrated exasperation and pure exhaustion. He could ask Quentin to leave. He could lock him out and go to bed. He doesn't owe this man anything. But... He was a desperate child once too. You never really lose that. ''Do you want some coffee? Have you eaten anything tonight? I could - '' He rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes slipping down the hall. This is for Mary. She deserves at least one grandparent. ''I could fix you a plate. There's plenty of leftovers.''

Quentin does not appear to know what to do with the olive branch. In the end, he doesn't give it much thought. ''I don't want to eat,'' he says. ''I want my daughter home. Safe. Where I can see her and know she's all right. I want to know where she is when I go to sleep at night. I want to know she's warm and fed and has a place to sleep. I don't want to think of her out on the streets all by herself.''

''Neither do I,'' says Dean. ''But she made her choices.''

''Out of fear.''

''Yeah, but she still made them. Now we all have to live with them.''

''Dean - ''

''What do you expect me to do here? What do you think I can do that you can't? She's not taking calls. I tried chasing her, but it was a dead end.'' He throws his arms out, more exhausted than frustrated at this point. ''I don't know what you want me to do,'' he says. ''I can't just leave my life and run after her. I have responsibilities. I have a child. I don't get to go play martyr the way she does.'' He turns his back on Quentin, marching into the living room to shut the curtains. Not because it's urgent but because he needs something to do with his hands. With any luck, his father-in-law will get the message that it's time to go.

No such luck.

''She barely took anything with her,'' Quentin states. ''How is she getting by?''

''She's resourceful,'' Dean says, passing by him on his way to the dining room. He peeks out the dining room window and then pulls the curtains shut.

From behind him, more to himself than to anyone else, Quentin says, ''She wasn't supposed to do this to me.''

It's ridiculously hypocritical for Dean to be bothered by that statement. It's not like he hasn't had the same thought over the past couple weeks. It's not like he hasn't had the fuck you for doing this to me thought. But he still stops when he hears it, one hand still gripping the curtain. He lets go and turns around. ''You're worried,'' he says. ''I get that.'' He wraps his hands around the top of one of the chairs at the dining room table. ''When you used her as bait - without her consent - to catch the guy you thought was a ruthless and unpredictable serial killer,'' he starts. ''Were you worried about her then?''

Quentin looks like a trapped rat. ''I knew it was Queen.''

''You didn't know shit.''

''She forgave me for that.''

''Bully,'' Dean sneers. ''I haven't. What about the years of insults and cruelty? Any of that worry you?'' He tilts his head to the side. ''What about that time you used her mental illness to successfully Rear Window her? How about when she was pregnant and still waking up in the middle of the night to scrape you off the bar? She was miserable for nine months, puking her guts out, sick as a dog, sore and in pain, but none of that mattered. You had her trained real good. You called and she came running. Or - hey, what about when you pointed a gun at her head? Tell me. That worrying to you? Or does the worry only come when she inconveniences you?''

For a moment, he fully expects Quentin to jump across the table and bitch slap him into last Thursday. He doesn't. He just looks like a kicked puppy. ''I know I've made mistakes.''

''Mistakes,'' Dean laughs incredulously. ''A mistake is something you learn from. You made choices. Bad ones. And you keep making them. The same choices, the same shit. That didn't end well for Laurel, did it?''

Immediately, Quentin starts shaking his head. ''Edie - ''

''If you think what Edie did is going to get you out of this one, you're dead wrong,'' Dean snarls. ''Laurel's going to rug sweep what you did and never bring it up again, just like she always does, but I'm not - ''

''You're not what? You're not going to let me forget what happened?'' Quentin smirks humorlessly. ''Do you really think I can ever forget?''

''And yet you still waltzed into my house to whine about the pain she's causing you,'' Dean snaps. ''You picked the wrong audience. I stopped caring about your pain the second I realized you were the cause of hers.''

''Always so dramatic, aren't you?''

''Oh, you haven't seen me dramatic yet. Keep going. We'll get there.'' It's so far beyond pointless to be having this argument. Dean is well aware of this. It's the same argument they've had repeatedly over the years. It's always the same pattern. Dean calls Quentin out on what an asshole he is, Quentin cowers and balks and says he'll change, he does the bare minimum for a pathetic amount of time, and then everything goes back to the way it was.

''Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough for you, is it?'' Quentin shouts, which is also, by the way, part of the pattern that never changes. ''Doesn't matter how hard I try.''

''Oh please,'' Dean snaps, somehow managing to refrain from rolling his eyes. ''You're not trying. We both know that. You say you are, you last a week, and then you go back to how it was. It's who you are.''

Quentin looks at him accusingly. ''Why do you want me to be the bad guy here?''

''Sure,'' Dean deadpans. ''Because this is what I want. A drunken father in law who can't see the forest for the trees with a nasty habit of unleashing verbally abusive diarrhea all over my wife because he knows she's just going to sit there and take it.''

In hindsight, it's the word abusive that must get under Quentin's skin. He stands there for a second, sputtering, growing increasingly red faced, looking like he is trying to decide between indignant and guilty. He eventually settles on anger. He usually does. ''I did the best I could!''

''See, that! Right there!'' Dean points a finger at him. ''You did the best you could,'' he mocks. ''No, you fucking didn't, you miserable bastard.''

The logical thing to do would be to shut this down right now before it goes too far. It's undoubtedly for the best. But here's the thing:

Dean is not having a good day.

Or week. Or month. Or year. Everything is going wrong, Laurel left, he is technically recently deceased, and everyone keeps tiptoeing around him, performing kindness to get points, afraid of him showing too many emotions, and he's tired of it. He wants to be angry and he wants to be hurt, but there's nowhere to put it, nowhere for it to go. So, fuck it, why not take it out on the guy who regularly takes his own crap out on his daughter? Quentin burdens everyone with his pain and anger, suffocates everyone around him with it, drags them down into the mud with him because he's so fucking terrified of being alone. Maybe it's time he got a taste of his own medicine. It's not like it matters. It's not like anything will change either way.

''I think this is the part where I'm supposed to give you some big speech where I tell you all about how strong she is and how it doesn't matter what you've done because she survived it. I'm supposed to say you didn't have the power to break her. But the reality is you do and you did.'' He pauses because he wants to know if the other man has something to say. He wants to know if this will be the one thing that gets through. He gets nothing in response. ''You're her father,'' he goes on. ''There's an inherent power imbalance there - and I know you know that because I've spent seven years watching you use it to denigrate, control, and isolate her.''

''Isolate her?'' Quentin laughs an ugly laugh. ''You think I'm the one isolating her? That's you, kid. That's always been you.''

''Me? How the - ''

''You shoved your way into her life and took over. You had nothing,'' Quentin barks out. ''You had nothing and then she came along and gave you food and shelter and - ''

''Oh, for - ''

''She was lonely and depressed and vulnerable and you took advantage of that. You think I couldn't see what you were doing? Maybe she couldn't, but I could.''

''Yeah, you've really got your eyes wide open there, chief.''

''Ever since you came into the picture, she's - It's like I don't even recognize her.''

''Oh yeah, yeah, here we go again, right? I'm the devil who baby trapped your weak little girl. I'm nothing. I do nothing. I just sit around on my ass all day and online shop like a useless trophy husband. It's not like I'm your granddaughter's primary parent or anything.'' Dean is suddenly glad there's a table between them. ''You know, I got a question for you. If the situations were reversed and I was the one working and Laurel was the stay-at-home parent, would you look down on her too? Or is it just me?''

''Oh,'' Quentin's face screws up in disgust. ''Don't even play that card with me. You know it has nothing to do with that.''

''No, I don't know that,'' Dean says. ''You and your ex-wife hate that I'm the one who stays home. Don't lie to me and tell me you don't. Dinah has outright said - ''

''I'm not Dinah!''

''You might as well be. And, by the way,'' he adds, ''vulnerable and weak are not the same thing. You seem to have trouble with that distinction. She's a grown woman. She was a grown woman then. We were two adults who started a relationship because we wanted to. You don't get a say in that. We had our issues, obviously we still do, but we work them out like any other couple. Our marriage is solid. As much as that pisses you off. No one is isolating anyone. What you think is abuse is just you losing a little control over her. Sucks, huh?''

Quentin, not ready to lose this fight, huffs. ''Yeah, well.'' He looks around the empty house, spreading his arms wide. ''You still think your marriage is all that solid?'' When he gets no answer, he seems emboldened. ''You know you used her. You know you took advantage - ''

''I know you annihilated her.'' Dean says it quietly, but it shuts Quentin right up. ''I watched you,'' he continues. ''You made her feel broken and worthless. You made sure she would never leave you the way Dinah and Sara did. You made sure she felt like she deserved every bit of the crap you piled on her. And she did. She believed that. You wanted her small and weak, so she became small and weak. You did that. You.''

Quentin looks like he wants so badly to defend himself, keep denying it and rage against his no good son-in-law, make him the bad guy, but, curiously, he doesn't. He even looks vaguely ashamed. Then again, he usually does. It's his one party trick. He always looks the part in the moment. He just never follows through. The performance of shame and guilt that never matters is starting to piss Dean off.

''You have no idea how many times I've found her sobbing on the bathroom floor or curled up in bed in the middle of the day after a fight with you, angry at herself for making you hurt her. And I can't do anything about it. I never could,'' he admits. ''I couldn't convince her that it was you not her. I couldn't make it stop. That was all she wanted. She wanted it to stop. But you never stopped, did you?''

''I - ''

''She loves you,'' Dean interrupts, calm, resigned. ''That will never change. It doesn't matter what you break. You'll always be right where you are.'' It's not helping. Turning all his anger on this crappy joke of a father. It doesn't make her any less gone. It doesn't make him any less abandoned. It's just making his skin crawl with something all too familiar. Something that's supposed to be ten years gone. ''I've never wanted you to be the bad guy,'' he says truthfully. ''If you're the bad guy, that means nothing will ever get better for her. The pain won't ever stop. I don't want that for her.''

What he doesn't say, what he will never admit out loud, what he actively tries to ignore is that the pain won't stop either way. Quentin could become softer, kinder, true father of the year material, he could leave or die, Laurel could stay gone or cut him off, but none of that would matter. It's too late. It's been years of this. Those years happened. The damage has been done.

Dean is familiar with this kind of damage. He is over ten years removed from his father and he still lives with what remains of him. He loved that man. He still loves him. He will always love him. What his father did, what those years were like - it doesn't matter. It didn't then and it doesn't now.

He would like to believe that having a child of his own has provided him with some much needed clarity regarding his fucked up childhood, but the truth is, the water will always be murky. There will always be a part of him that makes excuses. He will always be that needy, hungry child who wanted nothing more than his father's love and approval.

That's the thing about living with shitty parents. The pain only stops when the love does. And the love doesn't stop. Even when you get out and you look at yourself and realize what's been done to you, it goes on. For better or worse, it goes on.

''I wanted her to have a good dad,'' he says. ''I wanted you to change. I just know it will never happen. You won't change. You wouldn't know how to.''

Quentin looks guilty, but what does that matter? ''Seems like you know everything then.''

''Everything?'' Dean chuckles at the thought. ''No. Just fathers like you. Walking around thinking you have the right to destroy your kid just because you made her. Because you're in pain. Screw your pain. You had a responsibility and you failed.''

''Then tell me,'' Quentin pipes up, surprisingly calm, if not desperate. ''Tell me how to fix this if you think you know better.''

''Why? You won't hear a word I say.'' Dean sighs, rubbing at his temple. ''This is a pointless conversation. This whole thing was pointless. You want to do better? Do the work,'' he says. ''Take the time. Accept some responsibility for once instead of blaming her. Be a father instead of a bully. It shouldn't be that hard.''

And yet.

''Go home, Quentin,'' he advises after a prolonged moment of fucking nothing. ''Get some sleep. You're the Deputy Mayor. Gotta stay sharp for the next inevitable act of domestic terrorism in this hellhole.'' He tries to smirk. ''I'll talk to Charlie,'' he offers, even though he's not sure why he's bothering to offer this man anything. ''See if she can track her down near Culver City. You can let yourself out.'' He turns to storm into the kitchen, mostly because he would like nothing more than to escape this conversation.

Quentin's regretful voice halts him in his place. ''I never meant to be a bully.''

Dean pauses, hand on the kitchen door. Honestly? So what? Who cares what he meant or did not mean to be? ''Yeah, well, the road to hell,'' he grumbles and pushes through the door without looking back.

The kitchen is quiet and bright and safe from that unnecessary and entirely stupid conversation. But there's nothing to do. No dirty dishes. Nothing mindless to distract himself with.

He leans back against the counter and pinches the bridge of his nose. That might've been a mistake. No, he knows it was a mistake. He shouldn't have picked that fight. He was right, but he shouldn't have said it. Not that fight and not this night.

Ugh, is he going to have to fix this now?

He stands by what he said. Quentin Lance is a shitty father. But... He is a good grandfather. Does that make up for it? It shouldn't, no. It can't. He's lucky that he has even been given the chance to be in his granddaughter's life after all the shit he's done, but he is good at it. Mary loves the crotchety bastard. If he pulls back and breaks her heart because he wants to punish his self-righteous son-in-law...

''Fuuuck,'' he groans out.

This is all Laurel's fault. I mean, it's not. Because blaming her for this seems like the kind of thing her father would do. And it's not like this is the first - or last - time he's going to rip into that bonehead. ...But also it is her fault. None of that would have happened if she hadn't pulled a runner.

He heads back out into the dining room just as the front door shuts. He hurries over to the door, throwing it open, stepping out onto the front stoop. ''Lance!''

Quentin pauses with one hand on his car door. He looks like he can't quite decide whether he's feeling tired or pissed off.

Dean stops and takes a breath before he gives him something to work with. ''If she comes back,'' he starts, and then stops, rethinking his word choice. ''When she comes back,'' he fixes. ''She's going to need someone in her corner. I don't know if that...'' He swallows. ''I don't know if I can be that person this time. There's your opening. Be a soft place to land. That's all you have to do. Think about her and not you. That's your chance. I'd suggest you take it.''

There is a brief flicker of hope in Quentin's eyes. He nods, lips pulling back into what looks like a tight smile. He doesn't say a word. Just nods, thinks about it for a second, and gets back into his car.

Dean doesn't believe for a second that the guy will take the chance. Why would he? Why would he ever feel the need to change when he knows he'll continue to get away with his bad behavior?

Dean stays where he is, standing in the chilly February air, until Quentin pulls out of the driveway and drives away. Dean watches the car until it's out of sight. He takes in a breath of the cold air and looks out at the neighborhood. He glances over at the house next door where Dinah and Hanna are and then moves on, turning and heading back inside.

None of that made this a better Valentine's Day.

Lance family drama. Never gets any less frustrating. He wanders back into the living room and grabs his phone off the coffee table. He pulls up the Culver City Circle K video that Charlie sent him and sinks onto the couch. He pauses before he presses play. Then he watches the video twice. He's already seen it several times, but he watches it again.

He watches her, hood pulled up, sawed off pointed at her chest, her hands in the air as she tries, he's assuming, to talk the two young men down. And then he watches her attack. A shot goes off, narrowly missing her, and she lunges, disarming the man with exasperated ease, so fast it's hard to understand what exactly she does, before turning and disarming the other man aiming a gun at her before he can even get a finger on the trigger. It's quick, efficient, brutal, and it is, hands down, way more badass than any action flick you've ever seen. It's also horrifying.

She didn't hesitate.

She didn't even flinch when the shot went off. She's thrown herself back into action full force like she's doing Black Canary 2: Electric Boogaloo. He has known, for a long time, what she is capable of. He trained her. He's been training her for years. Way longer than other people think. They've been sparring since 2010. He was here before Nyssa, before Ted Grant, before Oliver fucking Queen. He was here before Black Canary. He knows what she, Dinah Laurel Lance, is capable of - with or without a mask. She has always been elegantly, gorgeously, terrifyingly ruthless.

But it's different seeing her like this. So immersed in the violence and the action of it. Throwing her entire self into this. He never fully got the chance to see her as Black Canary. Now it's... It's like it's all she is. She's out there being her best Charlize Theron and he's at home doing Postcards From the Edge with her dad.

Dean plays the video again and pauses it right at the moment she turns, the one image of her face they were able to capture. The one image of her face she let them get. It's shitty quality, blurry and grainy, out of focus, barely half a second. But yes. It's enough to identify her. He can't worry about that right now. He doesn't have room for that. As pissed off and hurt as he is, he has to trust that she knows what she's doing.

He exits out of the video and puts his phone back on the table. Then he picks it up again and brings up her name. Don't be fucking pathetic, he tells himself. She's not going to answer. He puts the phone back on the table and stares at it like a lovesick puppy dog.

''She's not going to answer,'' he mutters, but grabs for the phone anyway.

Just as his finger is hovering over her name, ready to call again, like a chump, a bloodcurdling scream pierces the silence of the empty house. His heart leaps into his throat at the sound of it. His stomach clenches.

Mary.

He rockets to his feet and takes off, racing down the hall to her room. He bursts into the room just as Mary, sobbing hysterically, reaches for the door. She looks disheveled and sweaty, but wide awake and petrified. ''The snakes have Mommy!'' Her voice is an ear-splitting shriek. ''They're taking her away!''

He is unsure what to make of that. ''Mary - ''

''The snakes have Mommy! They're taking her away! They're taking her away!''

''Mary, honey.'' He couches down in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders, trying to work out if this is a nightmare of a night terror. ''There are no snakes.''

''There are! The snakes are taking her away!'' She's insistent, voice still a breathless scream, little body trembling. ''They're taking her into the dark! We have to go get her! She's - She's in the dark! There - There's snakes! There's snakes, Daddy!'' She breaks off in a wail of what he can only describe as abject terror, sobbing so violently she's coughing and starting to hyperventilate.

It's extremely alarming.

''Mary.'' He keeps his voice calm and soft but hopefully firm enough to break through. ''Sweetheart, look at me. Look at Daddy.''

She's still sobbing, body shuddering and squirming with panic, eyes blown wide with unimaginable and inexplicable fear. When she starts wringing her tiny hands, her whole body reacting to the adrenaline and panic, it's hard not to draw a comparison between her and her mother.

''You're okay,'' he tells her, working to keep her voice soothing. ''Everything's okay. There are no snakes.''

''Y-Yes, there are,'' she gulps out. ''There are snakes and - and Mommy's in the - They put her in the - in the dark!''

''Mary,'' he says. ''Breathe.'' He moves his hands to cup her face, managing to get her to meet his eyes. ''Breathe with me, sweetie. You can do it.'' He makes a show of breathing in deeply and then letting it out.

She tries, she does, but every time she tries to take in a shuddering breath, she ends up coughing or gulping, which only makes her cry harder.

''Okay. It's okay. Take your time.'' He brushes a few strands of sweat dampened hair away from her eyes. ''Just keep trying to breathe along with me. We're gonna get there. It won't be like this forever.''

''The snakes - The snakes - ''

''There are no snakes here, Mary.''

''There ARE! They're here! They have Mommy!''

''No one has Mommy.''

''But she's in the dark! They took her away!''

''No one took her away,'' he says. He makes sure to sign it as well, just for emphasis, though he's not sure how much she is able to focus on his hands right now. She barely seems to see him. ''You're safe. Mom's safe. Just breathe with me.'' He takes her small hands. ''Deep breaths in through your nose and then let it out through your mouth.'' He does it a few times until she finally starts attempting to copy him. It takes a solid minute before she's able to get it. ''Good job,'' he encourages. ''You're doing great.''

She looks around her bedroom like she's looking for monsters, still fearful but focused on her breathing, her sobs slowly calming. ''No - No snakes?''

''No snakes,'' he assures her.

''Mommy's okay?''

''She's okay. Did you have a bad dream?''

She wipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. ''Yeah...'' She lets out a shaky breath and then she puts her hands over her face and dissolves into tears all over again. It's less frantically panicked this time. Just exhausted and scared. She physically wilts, as if she's about to collapse, but then she throws herself into his arms, clinging to him, howling into his neck.

''Okay.'' He settles on the floor and gets her cradled in his arms, opting to give her a minute here before he tries getting her back into bed. ''I've got you.'' He briefly pulls away from her to press a kiss to the side of her head. ''I'm right here.''

''Daddy,'' she moans. ''There were snakes.''

''I know, baby girl,'' he murmurs. ''It was just a dream.'' He gives her a few minutes to cry it out, rubbing her back. He doesn't say much, he's not sure she would hear him over her sobbing. He lets her take the lead. When she calms down enough to pull away from him, wiping at her nose, he catches her eye. ''You okay?''

She shakes her head no and ducks her head back down, burying her face in his shoulder.

He gives it another minute and then gets to his feet with her still holding onto him like a little spider monkey. ''Let's lie down,'' he suggests. ''We can talk about - ''

''NO!'' It's a piercing scream, directly into his ear. Her grip on him tightens. ''NO, I DON'T WANT TO!''

''Mary, I promise I'll lay down with you,'' he says. ''We can just - ''

''NO, I DON'T WANT TO!'' When he steps over to her bed, moving to deposit her back into her nest of blankets, she tightens her hold on him, legs wound around his waist, arms around his neck. ''I DON'T WANT TO! PLEASE! DADDY, NO!''

''Okay.'' He abandons the idea pretty quick. Not worth it. He's thinks if he let go of her, she would still be attached to him with how tightly she'd holding on. ''Okay.''

''I want to sleep with you,'' she sobs.

He sighs, but doesn't argue. ''Okay.'' He grabs her horse blanket, Sharkie, and Laurel's night shirt that she's been sleeping with, managing to hold onto them and her sippy cup of water.

She is still shaking and crying when he gets her into his bedroom, looking around the dark room with panicked eyes when he puts her in the bed. She cuddles Sharkie to her chest and when he tries to step over to shut the door, she screams. ''No! Daddy!'' She makes a desperate dive to grab for his hand. ''Don't leave!''

''I'm just shutting the door, honey. I'm not going anywhere.''

''Promise! Promise!''

''I promise.'' She loosens her claw like grip and in the three seconds it takes to shut the door, she's turned on the light on his side of the bed and is scrambling to turn on the other lamp. Poor kid's still trembling. ''All right.'' He grabs her cup of water and sits down on the edge of the bed, holding it out to her. ''Take a drink of water.''

She takes the cup from him but doesn't drink, pointing an urgent finger at him. ''You get under the covers, Daddy! Please, please, you have to get safe!''

He opts not to argue with her on that one, ushering her over to his side of the bed and moving around to Laurel's, climbing in with her, letting her pull the blankets over him. She scoots closer to him, taking a few sips of water, even as her wide eyes dart around the room, presumably searching for snakes. ''Mary.'' He takes the sippy cup from her when she gets distracted, tipping it enough that a few drops spill out onto the sheets. ''Can you look at me?''

She doesn't react, still looking around the room, eyes still wide.

Gently, trying not to spook her, he puts a hand on her knee. She spooks anyway, jumping and gasping, wriggling away from him with a shriek. ''Mary, it's me.'' He rubs her back. ''It's just me.'' He meets her eyes. ''You had a bad dream,'' he says, slowly and clearly so she can read his lips. Just a dream, he signs. You're safe here with me. We're both safe.

She hugs Sharkie close to her chest and buries her face the soft toy for a second, sniffling and teary. Then, slowly, she looks up, eyes still full of tears. She tucks Sharkie under her arm to sign, with shaky hands, Both safe.

''That's right,'' he assures. ''We're both safe.''

She pulls Sharkie back into her arms and ducks her face back into him. ''No snakes,'' she pleads, voice muffled by the stuffed animal. ''I don't want there to be snakes.''

''There are no snakes,'' he tells her. ''I promise there are no snakes.'' He coaxes her to lie down and she snuggles up to him as closely as she can. Her shaking is slowly subsiding but she's still a little trembly. He doesn't want to push her to talk about it took much so he gives her a few minutes to relax. He waits for her to come to him.

Once she's taken a few breaths and gotten comfortable, she lifts her head slightly to look at him and says, ''I had a bad dream.''

''You did. Do you want to talk about it?''

She shrugs at first, but then adamantly shakes her head. She pulls Laurel's shirt over to her and yanks it over her head, still flopped on top of him but hiding from sight. He's not entirely sure what comfort she gets from that shirt - it's clean so it's not like it smells like her - but she has been possessive over it ever since Laurel left. She even stuffs it in her backpack every morning when she thinks no one is looking. For a second, she's so quiet he thinks she might have fallen asleep. But then she pokes her head out from under the shirt. ''There were snakes,'' she says, still noticeably horrified. ''Lots of 'em. In my bed.''

''Oh, yuck.'' He makes a face. ''That's no fun.''

''And they were big.''

''How big?''

''Really big.''

''That sounds scary.''

She lets out a breath, relieved just to be validated. ''It was!'' She pushes away from him, sitting up and pulling the shirt into her lap. ''And then Mommy - Mommy came into my room,'' her voice grows hushed. ''And she tried to save me. But - But...'' She lowers her voice down to a whisper. ''They took her.'' She looks incredibly haunted by this. ''The snakes. The snakes took her into the closet. In the dark. And I cried and cried but she didn't come back. And then I screamed a - and I woke up. But I thought I was still dreaming.''

''That sounds really scary.'' He holds out a hand for her to take. ''I'm sorry you had a bad dream.'' She puts her hand in his and he pulls her back to him. ''But it was just a dream,'' he says. ''It wasn't real.''

She lies back down, laying her head on his chest, keeping her hand in his. ''Yeah, it was just a dream.'' She squeezes his hand. ''Daddy?''

''Hm?''

''The snakes don't have Mommy?''

''No,'' he confirms. ''The snakes don't have Mommy.''

''Okay.'' She still doesn't let go of his hand. ''When - When I was sleeping...'' She looks up at him. ''Did she come home?''

He pinches his lips. He wishes he had something else to tell her. ''No, honeybee, she didn't.''

''Oh.'' She looks dejected, but not all that surprised. ''I miss her.''

''I know you do, Mary. I'm sorry.''

She sits up again, reaching for her sippy cup. She takes a few gulps and puts the cup back, but doesn't lie back down right away. She sniffles again and plays with her hair, shoving it out of her face. She clutches her mother's shirt in her fist and lies down, staring up at the ceiling.

Dean watches her close. ''What are you thinking about?''

''Mommy never wakes me up in the morning now,'' she says, frowning up at the boring old ceiling in Mom and Dad's bedroom with no glow in the dark stars, no galaxy created just for her.

He doesn't know what he can say to her other than, ''I know.''

''You wake me up.''

''I do.''

''And - And sometimes Auntie Thea. But no Mommy.''

''That's right. Do you like when Auntie Thea wakes you up?''

''She sings a song,'' says Mary. She still sounds utterly mystified by this. ''She does.'' She rubs at her nose and then releases a warbly croon of, ''Good morning, good morning to yoooouuu!''

He laughs when she bursts into giggles. ''That's the one,'' he says, curling an arm around her, drawing her close. ''You like that?''

''Uh-huh.'' She nods and then lays her head down on his chest. She pulls Laurel's shirt up, cuddling it close to her face. ''She says her Mommy singed that to her when she was little.''

''Sang.''

''That's what I said.'' She fiddles with the sleeve of the shirt. ''Her mommy died,'' she whispers after a minute.

He hesitates before he responds to that, fully aware that they are approaching a dangerous subject. ''Yes, she did.''

''My mommy died once. She went to heaven.'' She lifts her head to look at him. ''Are you sure she didn't died again?''

''I'm sure,'' he says. ''Your mom is very much alive.''

''But how do you know?''

''You just have to trust me. Mom's okay. She's alive. She's not in heaven. I promise you that.''

Mary narrows her eyes, staring at him with that searching look in her eyes. Sometimes she looks at him and it's hard to believe she's only four. She reads people like books. And she can't even read books yet. She stares at him for an intensely long minute. It's a little intimidating. Then she just says, simply, ''Okay.''

''And you know she didn't leave because of you, right?'' He strokes her hair. ''We've talked about that.''

''Yeah...''

''She just decided she needed to give herself some Chill Out Time.''

''Oh.'' Mary nods like she understands exactly what her absent mother is going through. She seems more relaxed now, no longer visibly terrified or shaking, nightmare fading away as long as she's safe with him. He's not sure if he should be poking at this more, prodding at the issue to figure out how she's feeling. They have talked a lot about Laurel over the past two weeks. She has had a lot of questions that he has done his very best to answer. It just never feels like enough. Mary's hands grab at his left hand, her cold fingers playing with his wedding ring. ''Is Mommy...'' She stops, struggling to get her thoughts together. When she looks up at him again, she looks worried. ''Is she having a sad time?''

''A sad time?''

''Sometimes Mommy gets sad and needs to rest.''

Oh.

It was naive to think they had successfully hid that from her, wasn't it? They tried, Laurel tried really hard, but... Not how it works, is it? ''That's right,'' he says. ''She does.''

''It's okay,'' Mary says. ''Miss Daisy says everybody gets sad.''

He smiles faintly. ''She's right about that,'' he agrees. ''It can - It can be...a little different with Mom. That's probably a conversation we should have had with you by now. I'm sorry we haven't done that. We'll have to have a talk about that sometime soon.''

She looks like she has no earthly idea what he's talking about. She has other things on her mind - the snakes in her bed, the empty space where her mother should be, what to bring for Show and Tell tomorrow that isn't, as Dad has vetoed, a living being like Betty or Auntie Sara. She rubs Laurel's shirt between her fingers, her thumb wearing at the fabric. ''But...'' She looks concerned about something. ''We take care of Mommy when she's sad. I don't want... I don't want her to be sad alone.''

Dean is no longer stunned by his daughter's endless capacity for kindness and compassion, but that doesn't mean he isn't regularly awed by it, by her and all that she is. She has no business being so wise beyond her years and empathetic at only four, but she is her mother's daughter after all. Regardless of what Laurel thinks, their kid is all her. He worries about her sometimes, in between bursts of fierce love and pride, the same way he worries about Laurel.

This world is not often kind to those with tender hearts, and softness can often be a heavy burden to bear.

''You're the best kid, Mary Bea,'' he tells her. ''You know that? I'm so proud of how kind you are. But.'' He takes her hand. ''You don't need to worry about your mom.''

She pulls her hand out of his, annoyed. ''Yes, I do.''

''No,'' he insists, as gently as possible. ''You don't. That's not your job. I know it's weird that she's not here and I know you miss her - and I know she misses you too - but she's working right now. It's Black Canary stuff. And you do not need to worry about that, okay?'' He tries to meet her eyes. ''Your only job is to be a kid.''

She doesn't look convinced. She sighs, sounding more fourteen than four. He half expects a scoff and an eye roll. She is still, even now, keeping a tight grip on her mother's shirt.

See, this is why he's angry. If Laurel had just left him, fine. But it's not just him. He has had a lot of bad days in his life. An unreasonable amount. Not just bad days but horrific days. Unrepairable trauma. But the single worst day of his life was when he had to sit his daughter down and tell her that her mother was dead, that she was gone and wasn't coming back. He's had it in the back of his mind these past few months that he might have to do it all over again if they can't save Laurel, but he never thought he would have to tell her that her mother chose to leave. That she willingly walked away from them.

He can't hate Laurel for being scared and traumatized, but he can hate what she has done to their child. He can't resent her for doing what she thought she had to do to protect their family, but he can resent her for being the cause of Mary's nightmares, her recent anger, and the way she burst into tears at dinner the other night and couldn't articulate why until much later when she told him that missing her mom made her ''heart hurt.''

Laurel did this.

Whether she meant to or not, he doesn't give a damn. She did this to them. He is so fucking mad at her for that. He is so angry that she is constantly bitching and moaning about how worried she is for Mary; about how much she hates that their girl has had so much ''trauma'' and ''upheaval'' when she's the main cause of it.

Beside him, Mary rubs at her cheek with the shirt and then brings her hands up to rub at her tired eyes. ''Daddy?'' She looks up at him. ''Do you miss Mommy?''

''Yes,'' he answers honestly. ''I miss her.''

She nods, patting his cheek sympathetically. ''Okay.'' She curls Sharkie closer to her chest. ''When she's done working, she comes home, right?''

He attempts a smile. ''I hope so.''

She looks up at the ceiling for a minute, frowning, and then looks back to him. ''Will you tell me a story?''

''Sure, you want me to go get Where the Wild Things Are?''

''No, no, Daddy.'' She latches onto his arm when she thinks he's going to get up, tugging him back to her. ''Tell me a story from in your head.''

''Okay.'' He lies back down. ''A story about what?''

''Umm...'' She goes back to fiddling with the shirt, playing with the sleeves, deep in thought. ''I know! Mommy!''

''A story about Mommy, huh? What kind of story?''

''A happy story,'' she declares. ''With no snakes.''

''No snakes,'' he agrees. ''Got it.''

''Pretend - Daddy, pretend Mommy's coming home,'' she begs. ''Tell me a story about when Mommy comes home.''

''Mary, I don't - ''

''It's okay,'' she chirps. ''It's okay. I'll tell it.'' She happily burrows into his chest, thinking long and hard about what story to tell. ''Okay,'' she says. ''Mommy comes home. With her coat and her shoes.''

''Right.''

''And she rings the doorbell.''

''That's very polite of her.''

''And we open the door and she says Hi, I love you and we say Hi, I love you back! And then she gives us kisses and squeezy hugs. And flowers.''

''What kind of flowers?''

''Purple ones. And then you make dinner.''

''Sounds good. What am I making for dinner?''

''Um. Chicken. Wait, no! No, no, wait, no chicken. I meant - I meant noodles.''

''I do make a mean noodle,'' he says, and she giggles into his shirt. ''And then what happens?''

''Well, we eat the noodles, Daddy.''

He tries to laugh as quietly as possible, which is probably unnecessary considering she can feel him laugh. ''Naturally. What happens after?''

''Ummm - we eat cake!''

''What kind of cake?''

''Carrot cake,'' she says. '' 'Cause that's Mommy's favorite.''

''It is.''

''Yeah. She'll come home if we make carrot cake,'' she decides with a yawn. ''And then we'll all be happy.'' She rubs at her eyes again. ''Now your turn.''

''My turn.'' Truthfully, he had been hoping he could keep her talking long enough to tire her out. He's not sure he's arrived at the place where he can imagine a happy homecoming yet. He's still too wounded. If she knocks on the door tomorrow, sheepish and guilty, apologizing and asking to come home, he's not sure what he would do. ''All right, let's see. So, this story starts when you were just a baby.''

''That's a long time ago,'' she marvels.

''It is, isn't it?'' Doesn't feel that long ago. ''Back when you were a baby, your mom...'' He's not entirely sure how to tiptoe around the truth of what happened back then. How to phrase it in a way she'll understand. ''She was having a sad time,'' he finally decides.

''Oh no.''

''It was rough,'' he agrees. ''And I couldn't help her. I couldn't take care of her.''

''But you always take care of her!''

''I try,'' he says. ''But I can't always. Sometimes that happens,'' he explains. ''Sometimes sadness is like a dust cloud. There's so much of it and it gets so big that it just - '' he mimes an explosion with his hands '' - covers everything. It takes over. That's what happened to your mom. She was having a really sad time and she was feeling sick and scared and... The cloud just got too big. She had to go away to get help to make the cloud smaller. Which,'' he looks down at her, ''is a really brave thing to do - asking for help the way she did.''

He's not sure how much Mary is following this, but she hasn't fallen asleep yet and she appears to be listening with rapt attention so he keeps going. ''You were just a baby at the time, but you noticed right away that she was gone. You looked for her everywhere. You missed her.''

''I don't like that,'' she gets out from around the fingers she has stuffed into her mouth. ''I don't like that, Daddy. It's too sad.''

''It is sad,'' he agrees. ''You were sad. I was sad. We missed her. But you know what happened?''

''What?''

''She came home.''

She pulls her fingers out of her mouth to tilt her head back, peering up at him.

''When the cloud was a little smaller and she felt a little better, she came home,'' he says. ''You were happy to see her.''

''I was?''

''You were so happy, honeybee. I remember she walked in that door and she was still feeling sick, but when you saw her, you cheered her right up.''

''I did?''

''You did.''

''How did I do that?''

''You were so glad to see her you started screaming. A happy scream. You were squealing. You were cheering and waving your arms and calling to her and when she got to you, she gave you a big hug and told you she loved you and you held onto her as tight as you could. She was happy to be home with you.'' He ruffles her hair.

She doesn't even seem to notice, head resting on his chest, playing with his wedding ring.

Let's face it.

As angry as he is, if Laurel showed on his doorstep tomorrow, if she asked to come home, he knows what he would do. He would let her in. He would tell her to come home. No questions asked. Is that love or loneliness? Who knows? He has never known the difference.

''One day,'' he says, ''Mommy is going to come home, Mary. I'll bring her home. And when she gets here, she's going to give you a big hug and she's going to tell you she loves you and you're both going to be happy. I'll do anything to make that happen. I'll cook the noodles. I'll bake the cake. And you won't have to worry about her leaving ever again. I promise.''

Mary is quiet. She's quiet for so long that he thinks she's fallen asleep, but then she reaches up to pat his cheek comfortingly and says, ''Okay, Daddy.'' It's likely meant to be tender but she nearly fish hooks his mouth and comes this close to sticking a finger right up his nose. ''Will you tell me the story about when I was born now?''

He can't help but laugh, barely even surprised by the sudden request. She asks to hear her own birth story at least twice a month. Has for years. It makes her laugh. He's never gone into the gory details of childbirth, but she thinks his sugar coated version is hilarious for some reason. ''Of course. That's my favorite story.''

So he tells her the story all over again.

He tells her about what a stubborn baby she was. He tells her that the midwife called her a ''prankster'' when they realized she had flipped at the last minute and was coming out ''sunny side up'' and, as usual, she howls with laughter. He's sure the version of this she has in her head is worlds away from what actually happened, but she seems delighted by being called stubborn and the ''sunny side up'' part has always been the funniest thing in the world to her because she has no idea what it means.

She likes the part about the Golden Girls marathon on television in the background and she is always flabbergasted when she asks if he cried when she was born and he says yes, no matter how many times she has heard the story. She asks, every time, if she was cute and he says, every time, that she looked like an alien, which makes her giggle even more. She usually has a whole list of questions, often the same ones.

''Why were you crying?'' (''Because I was happy to see you.'')

''Where did Mommy know me from?'' (''Well, you grew inside of her for nine months. I think she knew you better than anyone when you were a baby.'')

''When I was born, did you love me right away?'' (''Pumpkin, we loved you even before.'')

Tonight, there is far less laughter and far less questions.

He tells the whole story from beginning to end and she laughs and interjects with her own commentary and questions at first, but her voice grows softer and softer and by the time the story's over, she is out like a light.

Dean, at first, considers getting up and going back out into the living room, at least to turn off the lights, but can't seem to bring himself to move. It's a risky thing to do anyway. Mary is one of those kids who jerks awake whenever she feels the bed move. Even in her sleep, she knows when Mom and Dad leave. He lies there in the silence, mind drifting between the memory of the night Mary was born and the thought of Laurel all alone somewhere in California.

Then he starts to see stars.

Specifically he starts to see glow in the dark stars. They're dotted all over the ceiling the way they are in Mary's room. Which is unexpected considering there are no glow in the dark stars in here. He's sure of it.

Despite this, he remains still, lying there, feeling oddly relaxed. He knows he should get up and investigate, figure out what's happening, but he can't seem to move. He can't seem to make himself care about what's obviously wrong here. He lies there for a few minutes, staring up at the inexplicable plastic stars that don't belong, and then, slowly, the image begins to blur.

He blinks and when his vision clears, everything is different.

The ceiling is no longer a ceiling, the stars no longer plastic, and the bed no longer soft. He moves, trying to shift on the bed, and realizes, like he's waking from a dream, that he isn't on a bed at all. He is lying on a damp, leaf covered forest floor, the earth cool and soft beneath him, the cold night biting into his skin. He bolts upright, mind immediately going to Mary. ''Mary?'' He looks beside him where she was only a second ago, but she's not there. A burst of adrenaline successfully gets him to his feet, his wild eyes scanning the darkness for any sight of his girl.

She was just here.

''Mary?''

He knows this is wrong. On some level, he knows that this is wrong. That he shouldn't be here. There is no reason for him to be here. He has no idea how he even got here. He doesn't particularly care right now. A moment ago, he was with his daughter. Now he has no idea where she is or if she's safe. He's not exactly feeling rational. He needs to find her. She was just here. She was right here. He was with her.

''Mary!'' He scans the trees again, the only sound the wind whispering through the leaves. He doesn't know which way to go. He feels disoriented and not like himself, like everything is happening somewhere else, somewhere far away, like he is outside of his body, watching. The trees swaying in the wind are making him feel off balance and dizzy. He doesn't know which way to go. There are too many choices. ''Mary!'' He doesn't even know if she can hear him. He starts to move, going forward, deeper into the trees, boots crunching through the leaves. Overhead, there is a low rumbling of thunder from somewhere in the distance. When he looks up at the previously starry and clear sky, he can see thick dark clouds moving in, blotting out the pinpricks of light, signaling an incoming storm. He keeps walking, ignoring the prickly feeling of trepidation crawling up the back of his neck. He keeps calling out for his daughter who he thinks was just here but maybe was not.

Where is here anyway? Is he supposed to know? Has he been here before?

There is never any answer to any of his calls. He doesn't walk far, he thinks, but time is a difficult thing to grasp right now. Nothing makes any sense in these woods. It's starting to rain. Big fat raindrops splatter down on him from above and the thunder has rolled in close now, growing louder. Even with the thunder, it doesn't take long for him to start hearing something else coming from up ahead. It's quiet, barely moving through the trees. Like a gurgling breathless gasp.

He speeds up, walking faster, and then breaking into a run, dashing through the thick, black woods, twigs snapping under his feet. He makes a turn and breaks through a particularly thick batch of evergreen trees. The first thing he notices is the cliff, a ragged edge where the world ends, dropping steeply into an angry ocean.

The second thing he notices is the body on the ground.

A woman's body. She's alive but barely, choking on the blood coming out of her mouth, chest heaving with every useless gasp for air that won't be able to make it to her lungs. Not with that wound in her throat. It is a deep wound. There is a stab wound in her right side and her bloody hands are pressed to it, trying to keep pressure on it, her shirt already soaked with blood. Despite all that blood pouring out of her, so dark it's almost black, despite the darkness and the drizzling rain, he recognizes her instantly. He would know her anywhere.

''Laurel.'' There is a shift in the atmosphere, like a film has been lifted from his eyes, like he is just now catching up to his body. He is no longer off balance or disoriented. He no longer feels anywhere but here in this moment. He wishes he were anywhere else. ''Laur.'' His body catches up even before his brain does, rushing to her side, dropping down to the cold ground, trying to put pressure on her wounds. ''No, no, no, not again. Not again.'' It's useless, a hopeless endeavor, but he does try. He tries to save her.

She's making this wheezing wet noise, choking and gagging on the blood in her mouth. She looks scared. He remembers how she died in April. He remembers this wound in her side. He cannot forget what he knows about what her body went through then. What it is going through now. A leakage of air in the pleural cavity. A tension pneumothorax. An accumulation of blood in the chest cavity. She's drowning in her own blood.

But her throat.

This isn't right. This isn't what happened. It can't even be compared to what happened to him in Seabeck, the piece of glass that stabbed him in the neck. Her throat has been slit from ear to ear, like some kind of ghoulish smile, deep enough to sever the carotid. It's sloppy too. Rushed. Whatever happened, if she fought back, if her attacker was out of their depth, the knife must have slipped. Sliced up her cheek, through one of her eyes. She's barely recognizable.

This wasn't Darhk. This wasn't even Edie. This was... This was...

''Okay.'' He doesn't have time for his own horror. ''It's okay.'' He tries to get her to look at him, but she doesn't even seem to know he's there. ''Baby, look at me,'' he coaches. ''Just keep looking at me. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you.''

Her unfocused eyes glaze over in seconds, her wheezing and wet gurgling becoming slower and slower until it stops altogether, her chest falling one last time before going still.

''Laur,'' he whispers. ''Laurel.''

She doesn't answer.

''No.'' He shakes his head. ''No, this is a dream.'' He closes his eyes, as if expecting to be transported elsewhere, but when he opens his eyes, he's still here and she's still dead, one unbloodied and lifeless eye looking at the sky, the other full of blood. ''This is a dream,'' he says again. It would make sense. It would be logical. Because he can't be here right now and neither can she. None of this carnage has happened.

''Well,'' says a voice from behind him. ''Not yet anyway.''

Dean goes very, very still. His fingers curl around Laurel's blood soaked ones. He can't breathe for a second, clutching her hand, certain he must have imagined that voice. Except he knows he didn't. He can feel that suffocating presence behind him. That change in the air around him that he remembers so well. If he doesn't turn around, it's not real. If he doesn't turn around, it's not really happening. If he doesn't turn around...

He lets go of her cold and bloodied hand and rises to his feet, turning to face the shadowy figure in the dark. ''...Dad?''

''Witches, Dean?'' John Winchester, shadowed in the darkness, sounds exasperated. His eyes, just barely visible, are fixed on his eldest, sparking with a mixture of disappointment and revulsion. ''Really?''

Dean swallows hard.

''I taught you everything,'' his father spits out, voice bitter. ''I gave you every tool and you couldn't even handle a couple of sorry witches?''

Dean can't find his voice to answer. He should have questions, he thinks. He should be suspicious of his father's sudden and unexplained reappearance. The woman he loves is lying dead, horrifically murdered in the dirt. He should be losing it. But that voice, that tone of voice, that condemnation and disappointment, it's so familiar. He knows it so well. It still, even after all these years, evokes the same response in him. It's like he's shutting down. Being washed away.

''You asked for this,'' his father says, stepping out of the shadows. ''You wanted this. You said you were ready for solo hunts. You said you could handle it. Now look what you've done.'' A shake of the head. A click of the tongue. ''I should've known better than to think I could trust you. Are you really this inept?''

''I...''

''You what?'' John snarls, enraged by his son's silence. ''Answer me, boy!''

When he takes a quick, threatening step closer and Dean, memories of Flagstaff still burned into his brain, jerks back, stepping away. ''I'm sorry,'' he says. ''Sir.'' He can't remember what he's sorry for, but...but Dad is angry, so he must have screwed up again. He must have done something wrong. ''I was...''

What was he doing?

He frowns. Touches a hand to his left ring finger. Which is bare. He looks at the body of the woman on the ground. He has no idea who or what that is. He can't remember what he was hunting. Was it witches? He doesn't remember. Gingerly, he moves a hand to his head, as if to check for blood or injuries. ''I got distracted,'' he settles on. ''I wasn't paying attention. It won't happen again.''

''Distracted,'' his father scoffs, rolling his eyes, striding forward. ''You're twenty-six, Dean. Stop thinking with your dick for once. It's pathetic.'' He gestures to the body on the ground. ''Look at this mess! Look at everything I have to do now!'' He grunts, annoyed, adding on a mumble of, ''I'm always cleaning up after you boys.''

Dean tries to push past the crawling feeling of shame at his own disobedience. He starts to rub a hand over his face, the silver ring on his right hand catching the sliver of moonlight peeking through the clouds and the drizzle, but stops when he sees the blood coating his skin. He looks around the woods. He can't remember what he's doing here. He doesn't know where Sammy is.

Well, except -

California.

Sammy's in California. At Stanford. He has a girlfriend named Jess. He's going to be a lawyer. But that doesn't sound right. That sounds like something he knew a long time ago.

Something feels wrong.

He looks at the body on the ground. He looks at her face. He looks at the blood on his hands. ''You...'' He looks at his father, crouched next to her, reaching out to touch her, make sure she's dead. He feels an inexplicable urge to get John away from her. ''Did you do this?''

Dad closes her one unbloodied eye. ''Someone had to,'' he says flippantly. ''She wasn't human. This is our job, son. This is what I taught you. She was a threat. We eliminate the threat. You know that.''

Yes, that's right. Dean knows that. It's always been the one thing he knows for sure. He trusts his father. He would do anything for him. When he went missing, Dean swallowed his hurt and his pride and went to go get Sam from -

Wait.

That didn't happen.

Dad would never go missing. Dad would never leave him.

He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth. He is not feeling like himself tonight. He opens his eyes and looks at the woman on the ground. Maybe she did something to him. If she was a witch, she could have hexed him. She could have done something. She was dangerous. Witches are dangerous. He looks closer at her familiar face. He looks at her hand, splayed out in the wet leaves, covered in blood, dirt under her fingernails like she was clawing to get away. Through the dirt and the blood, he notices something. She's wearing an engagement ring. A wedding ring. He stares at the rings. He put those there. He thinks he put those there.

He knows her.

''You know, I expect fuck ups like this from Sam, he's always been soft, but you...'' Dad still sounds disgusted with him, standing straight and moving away from the body. ''I thought you knew better,'' he says. ''I won't make that mistake again.''

In another life, Dean would have flinched at the weight of that. He crouches beside the body on the ground and picks up her hand. He wipes off some of the dirt and blood with his thumb. There is a tattoo on the side of one hand. Three little blackbirds in flight.

He thinks he knows those birds.

''You should have been able to do this yourself,'' Dad says from behind him.

Dean barely hears him. ''No.'' He drops her hand, horror creeping up his throat like bile. ''No, this is - this is wrong.'' He stands, turning back to his father. ''This is wrong. This is - '' He looks at her, an image of her lips pulled into a smile flickering through his head. ''I know her,'' he pleads. ''I knew her.''

''She was a witch.''

''No, Dad, this is Laurel. This is Laurel. I knew her. She didn't do anything.''

''No?'' Dad seems calmer somehow. Unnervingly so. He looks at Dean for a second, giving him one of those slow, critical onceovers. He nods to something on Dean's throat. ''That's quite a scar you've got there. How did you get that?''

Dean moves his hand up to the new scar on his throat.

Dad tilts his head to the side. ''Did you have that scar the last time we talked? It's been a long time, I know, but I didn't think you would ever be this stupid.''

Dean remembers, in flashes, choking and dying in the middle of nowhere while Laurel cried and told him she loved him. He looks at her, dead, and remembers flashes of a hospital room and her body convulsing, her empty eyes staring at nothing. He looks at his father, whose face looks different in these woods, in this darkness. He remembers something about him too. His body lying in that hospital bed. The smell of his burning flesh. The weight of his ghost. ''You're dead.''

John smiles at him. He looks hungry. ''Aren't we all?'' He laughs, low in his throat. He could be mocking, he could be cruel and angry, he could even be violent, but that laugh is not his laugh. ''I don't know why you ever thought you could get away from this. You know how this goes. You know what we do. You know how it ends. It follows you, Dean.'' He starts moving closer, stepping through the leaves. ''I am only one step behind you,'' he murmurs, ''and I am always angry. You thought you could just walk away? You thought you could run from me?'' His lips split into a particularly wrong looking smile. ''You thought you could become softer, thought you could retire and settle down and live a new life with your girls, but you can't.'' He comes to a stop in front of Dean, a little too close for comfort. ''No, that's not how this works. It catches up to you. It always catches up to you. There is no way out.'' He is still grinning wolfishly.

It looks so out of place on John Winchester's face.

''You've always known that.'' Nothing about this body language belongs to his father. Dean remembers being here before, with Azazel, with Michael. His father is never his father. His father is always his father. The thing that isn't John leans in close, far too close, breath hot against Dean's neck. ''Death is who you are,'' he whispers. ''It's the one thing you have.''

It's a brand new bruise.

Dean doesn't understand what it means.

''Now,'' Not Dad says as he pulls back, clamping a hand down on Dean's shoulder. The weight of his hand feels heavy and unfamiliar and wrong. ''What do you say we finish this? Are you going to tie up the loose ends here or should I?'' He holds up a switchblade that wasn't in his hand a second ago. It's covered in dark red, sticky blood. He holds it out, waiting for Dean to take it. ''You better hurry up,'' he advises. ''The longer you wait, the harder it'll be.''

Dean looks at the blade. Then he looks at his father - who is not his father. He doesn't take the knife.

Dad looks disappointed. It's still enough to make Dean look away. When he looks back, his father is farther away, stomping through the leaves over to a nearby tree. ''Soft,'' he's saying. ''Just like your mother. Weak. Like your brother. World's gonna chew you up and spit you out.'' He shakes his head again, exasperated. ''I told you, didn't I? I told you not to see them as people. I told you it would lead you down a bad road, and look where we are now, Dean. Look where we are.'' He ducks down out of sight for a second and when he stands straight, he is not alone, holding the hand of a tiny figure in the darkness.

Dean recognizes her immediately.

This is his daughter.

She's teary, bleeding from a gash in her head, but still conscious and struggling against the tight grip, her hands tied together, duct tape over her mouth. Her grandfather is holding onto her, looking at her like she's a rabid animal they need to put down. Like something to hunt. She catches sight of Dean in the dark, a few feet away, and her eyes widen, burning with hope. She tries to move, to jerk out of John's grip, but he just holds her tighter. She's crying.

''Mary.'' Dean tries to move, but something is holding him in place, keeping him away from her. ''No. No. Dad, wait. You can't - Dad, please,'' he begs, like it's 2006 and he's being ripped open by something with his father's face. ''Don't.''

''It was always going to end this way, Dean,'' Dad says, patronizing, matter-of-fact. ''You should've known better than to think you could run from this. Death is who we are.''

There is a glint of silver, a flash of the knife as he strikes, going for Mary's throat, and Dean loses focus. He can hear himself yelling and he can feel himself lunging, trying to get to his little girl before she ends up just like her mother, but then there is a hand on his wrist, tugging him back. When he turns around, he barely gets a glimpse of a face before two ice cold hands are on his cheeks and -

He wakes up gasping, safe and sound in the peaceful dark of his bedroom with Mary safe and unharmed next to him.

It feels like someone has just dragged him out of cold dark water. His body still feels off, shaky and freezing, and he can't get his breathing right. The scar on his throat throbs and itches. He sinks back into the pillow, trying to relax his tense shoulders, one hand rubbing at his face. When he closes his eyes, just for a second, all he can see is Mary, bleeding and crying while her grandfather slashes at her tiny throat.

His eyes snap open and he bolts upright, heart racing. He doesn't even stop to think. He doesn't care. He frantically reaches over to his sleeping daughter, struck by the intense need to make sure she's breathing. ''Mary.'' He shakes her awake without even thinking twice about it. ''Honeybee, I need you to wake up for a minute.''

She whimpers, shifting in the bed, reluctantly forcing open her bleary eyes. ''Daddy?''

Even though there was no reason to worry in the first place, he is instantly flooded with relief so powerful he could fucking cry.

She yawns, dragging the back of her hand across her face. ''Why're you wakin' me up?''

''I was...'' Shit, he can't very well tell her the truth now, can he? ''I was just checking on you.'' He rubs at her arm, leaning in to kiss her cheek. ''Go back to sleep.''

She blinks a couple times, makes a vaguely Cindy Lou Who-esque cooing noise in the back of her throat, and then says, ''Okay, love you.'' She plops her head back down, goes back to sucking away on her fingers, and goes back to sleep.

He holds his breath, wondering if it really is that easy. He fully expects her eyes to blink back open, but they don't. He makes an attempt to untense his shoulders. He leans back against the headboard and sits in the silence. He wants to make sense of what just happened, but he can't. He can feel the nightmare fading, slipping through his fingers the way dreams do, leaving behind only bits and pieces of blood and unease. Part of him wants to hold onto it; inspect it, dissect it, figure out what it means. A bigger part of him wants to forget. Leave it where it lies.

He can't remember whose hands were on his face at the end, ice cold and strong, yanking him out of the dream. He remembers his father's grin, his wife's slaughtered remains, his daughter bleeding, but he feels removed from it now. He remembers Mary sobbing and screaming and hyperventilating after her own bad dream. The snakes are taking her away, she had said. They're taking her into the dark!

He scratches at the scar on his throat absently. He sits in the dark for a few minutes, listening to Mary breathing, and then he closes his eyes. He tries not to think too far back, but when he attempts to conjure up his nightmare, all he manages to dredge up is Seabeck.

The problem is these flickers in his head are fragments of memories that don't fit. The glass, the blood, the choking, the cold air and the gravel and the smell of saltwater, sure. The sound of Laurel's voice, yeah. He remembers these things. He knows they happened. The other things...

None of them factor into what he knows happened.

The sound of footsteps. A faraway voice telling him, I'm sorry. Another voice saying I told you we would have a lot to discuss one day. His own voice asking Why me? And the feel of something being placed in the palm of his hand, cold, small, and inordinately heavy.

These are not memories of anything that actually happened in Seabeck.

Yet here they are.

There is one thing he remembers from his dream tonight. Even as everything else dulls around the edges, he remembers this.

Death is who you are. It's the one thing you have.

He opens his eyes. He doesn't like the way this room feels tonight. Careful not to disturb Mary, he climbs out of bed and ducks out of the room. He checks the protection symbols by the front and back doors and the garage. He makes sure all the windows are properly salted and adds some to the doors just in case. He checks to make sure the hex bags in Mary's room are charged up. He even makes sure every crystal in the house is exactly where Hanna told him to put them. Then he follows her recipe, bundles together her specific blend of herbs - mint, sage, lavender, rosemary, and a few other various stinky herbs - and smoke cleanses the entire house. Every nook and cranny. He doesn't leave a single room untouched. He even remembers to temporarily disable the smoke alarm so he won't accidentally set it off, which he...tends to forget.

It's overkill to be doing all of this.

He's not even sure what he's worried about. The reason Edie could get in both Laurel and Mary's heads was because of the blood connection. He is not blood related to Edie. Truthfully, he's not worried this is her. He doesn't know what he's worried about, but it's not her. It's something else. Things have been different since he got back. He's been different. The air doesn't feel the same. There's always a chill now. A feeling of being off balance. He can't stop thinking about his mother.

He finishes up with the smoke cleansing. He does one last check of everything else, the protection symbols, the salt, the hex bags, the crystals, and then he backs down. He feels like this has to be enough for now. He puts his mind on autopilot and goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. He doesn't want to think about anything else. It's late now, past eleven, and he just wants to go to bed. He's just turned the smoke alarm back on and turned off all the lights when he traipses back into the living room to get his phone.

He looks at it for a second and thinks, again, of Mary sobbing about snakes taking Mommy away. If Laurel hasn't picked up by now then she's not going to. He would be an idiot to call her again. He calls anyway. As usual, she doesn't pick up. At first. But then something strange happens.

The call connects.

She doesn't make a sound, doesn't say hello or ask him to stop calling her, but she answers the call. For a second he thinks he might be hallucinating.

''Laurel?'' No answer, but he can hear her shuffling on the other end. ''Laurel,'' he says again, but has no follow up. He has spent the past two weeks thinking of everything he wants to tell her, from pleas to recriminations, from come home to how fucking dare you. He's got it all. He has all these dramatic monologues on the tip of his tongue. They're ready to go, he prepared them, he thought of this moment, the place where he gets to unleash it all, and now he's here and he's got nothing. ''Where are you?'' It's all he can come up with, this predictable, pitiable desperation. ''Tell me where you are and I'll come get you.''

He means it too. If she opens her mouth, if she gives up the ghost and says, I'm in California, I'm in Los Angeles, I'm at a beach and I want to come home he would get in the car and go get her. He wouldn't even question it. He'd just bring her home.

Pathetic? Maybe. But he spent months powerless and hopeless in the wreckage her death made of them, unable to bring her home. If he was given the chance to do what he could not before, he would do it. In a heartbeat.

''Laurel,'' he says her name again. ''Tell me where you are. You don't have to tell me anything else. I won't ask questions. Just tell me where you are.''

There is no answer for him on the other line.

He waits, he almost hopes, and then, without ever saying a word, she ends the call.

It's ridiculous to be disappointed by that, but he is. He pulls the phone away from his ear, gulping down the persistent ache in his throat. He tries to conjure up some bitterness, some anger. He doesn't think he does a very good job. He just feels empty. ''Yeah,'' he mutters, grip on the phone tightening. ''Happy Valentine's Day to you too, babe.''

Fucking fine.

Be that way.

He turns off the last light in the living room, double checks to make sure the kitchen light is off, and goes back to bed.

.

.

.

February 2014

Eight days ago, his wife tried to commit suicide.

There is no real way to sugarcoat that. Any way you say it, the result is the same. It happened, no matter how delicate you are when talking about it. Eight days ago, his wife tried to die.

Everyone who knows what happened - which is, by the way, a whopping two people - was so shocked. They were so stunned it had come to that. He wasn't. Not in the slightest.

He always knew it would come to this.

It was always only a matter of time.

He has tried, over the past several months, to walk lightly. He has walked on eggshells and broken glass. He has opened his mouth and then closed it. He has coddled and enabled, he has fought and screamed. He poured the wine down the drain and then went out and bought more. He has taken over everything from childcare to grocery shopping to bill paying to yardwork and hasn't bothered with resentment because how do you resent someone who is so obviously sick? It's not like she wanted this any more than he did.

He tried.

He did his best.

He has pulled her out of bed and then put her back. He has begged and pleaded until he was blue in the face. He has done everything you're supposed to do and everything you're not supposed to do, and he would have kept trying, he would have done anything, but none of it made a difference.

He couldn't love her out of the dark and she couldn't - well.

Eight days ago, Laurel took a bottle of sleeping pills, chased it with a bottle of red wine, and the only thing that surprised him was when she changed her mind. In his mind, she was already dead and he didn't even realize it until she lived. In the days since, he's been trying to figure out what to do with that.

He feels like an exposed nerve. He's exhausted all the time, but he can't slow down. There is nothing here that he can fix by himself, but he's trying to fix it all anyway. What else can he do? He feels helpless and miniscule. If he slows down, he'll think about it - about what happened that night, about the 24 hours that followed, and all he is trying to do is get away from that.

He is trying to be grateful right now. He is trying to be proud. Laurel is alive and she asked for help. She agreed to a hospital stay for detoxing and she's agreed to think about inpatient treatment and rehab.

Of course he's grateful and of course he's proud.

He is also really fucking angry.

She was just going to leave them. She put him through all of this, she lied and stole and brought drugs into their home, she got arrested for possession and fired from her job and screwed them over financially, and she was just going to leave him with the mess. She tried to off herself while their baby was sleeping in the bedroom next door. She didn't even think of her. She didn't think of anyone but herself. She didn't even leave a note. She was just going to drift off and go to sleep and let him find her body and she wasn't even going to tell him why. She did something her father would have done.

She has apologized - repeatedly - but he doesn't want her apologies. He wants it not to have happened. He doesn't want to be living in some low budget psychological horror movie made by some pretentious twenty three year old douchebag ''artist'' who tells everyone his name is Atticus but it's really Trent. He didn't ask to be part of this shit. And it's not like he can talk about it. What would he say?

They have very different memories of what happened that night. She remembers she took the pills and then changed her mind. Except it wasn't quite that simple. She didn't take the pills, immediately change her mind, and tell him what she did. She took the pills, drank the wine, and sat there for at least ten minutes before she decided maybe she didn't want this. Then she got up and collapsed. The only reason he got to her so quickly was because she took down the lamp and alarm clock when she went down and he heard the crash. He found her only because he decided to check on her. He almost didn't.

And, sure, she did tell him what she had done and she was calm about it but she was also mostly incoherent. She couldn't tell him if she had collapsed because of the wine or because she was actively overdosing and he had no idea. He wasn't thinking Oh, okay, thanks for letting me know. He was more concerned with getting her to throw up as much as she could before she seized or her heart stopped.

No one seems particularly worried about that part of the story. About him. He didn't take the pills or drink the wine. He didn't try to die. He just cleaned up the mess. Nobody worries about the janitor.

Laurel is sick.

She has been sick for a long time. Right now, she's vulnerable, hurting, and it's his job to keep the ship running and take care of both her and Mary. He can't afford to lose it right now.

But he's losing it.

Once Laurel had been admitted to the hospital and he had done all the running around, packing her a bag, filling out paperwork, handling the insurance, not to mention staying by her side for as long as they would let him because she was terrified, he came home and the first thing he did was tear the whole fucking thing apart. He was running on empty, frantic and sleep deprived and hyped up on shitty hospital coffee, and he should have just gone to bed, but he didn't. He obsessively and methodically turned the entire house upside down.

He pulled out and upended every drawer, yanked off sheets and pillowcases, dumped out every box, turned over furniture, dug through every box in the garage, the shed in the backyard, even the tiny crawl space attic. He destroyed his home. He crashed around so loudly that Mary woke up and started crying and even then he didn't stop. He was ready to strip that house bare. Right down to the foundation. Not because he was angry, but because he was looking for something. He had to make sure. He had to make sure there were no more drugs left hidden in this house where she could find them. He needed to make it harder for her to leave. He needed to buy time.

He found nothing.

Spent the rest of the week putting the house back together piece by piece, painstakingly careful and exact. He hid the knives. He hid the scissors. He cleared out the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, cleaned out bedside drawers, cars, checked all of her purses. He trashed lighters and toxic cleaning supplies and whatever could be used as rope. He took every weapon, every single thing in the trunk of his car, every piece of the Winchester arsenal, moved some of it in with Cas, and stuffed the rest in Sam's car. He even got rid of rakes, shovels, and all of their gardening tools.

He made this home softer. He made it safe.

And then, today, Laurel came home and noticed none of it.

She said nothing about the lack of knives and scissors, didn't notice that anything was out of place, didn't ask why the bathroom was so empty, why her purses in the closet were in such disarray. None of it seemed to matter.

If she wants to die, she will find a way.

That's the part he's having trouble coming to terms with. He can make this house the safest place in the world and she could still kill herself if she was determined enough. If she wanted to. And he has no idea what she wants. That's the terrifying part.

He spends the day watching her like a hawk.

It takes her a long time to be able to walk through that front door. After a longer wait than expected and a meeting with her doctors about further treatment options, she's discharged from the hospital, gets into the car, and can't seem to get out again. He drives around the block twice before he pulls into the driveway and then they sit there for twenty minutes while she tries to fight off a panic attack. It doesn't work.

In the end, he's not even the one who gets her to come inside.

Eventually, after another drive, she tells him to go inside and Sam takes over. Dean is not sure what he says to her and it feels invasive to ask, but ultimately Sam's the one who gets her in the door. She comes home. That's all that matters.

Mary is overjoyed. She's had a rough week too. There's no way she didn't pick up on her mother's absence and her father's stress. It's been so heavy in the air. She's been clingier than usual, quicker to tears, unable to understand the tension in the air, thrown out of her normal routines. Plus, she's been spending a lot of time with Uncle Sammy, which means she's definitely missed a few naps. He seems to forget sometimes that babies need those.

The worst was that night. Sam said she screamed the house down when Dean took Laurel to the hospital. She was fussy the whole night, no matter what Sam - and, later, Cas - did. She barely slept, tossed and turned all night long, restless and uneasy. She only calmed down when Dean finally dragged himself home from the hospital just before sunrise.

He remembers that. Remember the way she dozed against his shoulder, gripping his shirt tight in her little fist while Cas force fed him turkey bacon and eggs. Later, while he was fumbling around in the bedroom trying to pack Laurel a bag, he put Mary on the bed and she started picking up the pillows on the bed, peeking out and asking, ''Mama?'' She picked up every pillow, peeked under the comforter, and even tried to get into the bedside tables, calling out for her mother. He thinks that was the moment the anger started seeping in. His kid was heartbroken. She asked for Mama at least once a day and he was never sure what to tell her.

When her mother finally walks through that door, she loses it. She just starts screaming in excitement, yelling ''Mama'' at the top of her lungs. When he sees how happy his girl is, how receptive Laurel seems of the affection, he tries to let his guard down. They've made it to this point. That has to count for something.

Mary gives Laurel a big hug and Laurel hugs her back and he wants so badly for that to mean something. He wants to believe that this is the beginning. The start of her recovery. He wants to trust her when she tells the doctor that she doesn't want to die anymore.

But he doesn't.

That's the part that stings. He doesn't trust her right now. He watches her all evening, searching for any signs of despair or deception. He practically stands outside the bathroom door wringing his hands while she has a shower. He watches her eat, tries to nudge her to fill up more, monitors what and how much she drinks. He feels on edge when she's so much as in another room. He tries to loosen up, especially when it comes to Mary because it's been painfully obvious that the little girl is desperate to connect with Mommy, but it's so hard to do this, to let go and not worry.

She seems a bit better now, not okay, not even close, not even baseline, but she is, for the time being, sober. And she is alive. She looks like hell, still shaky and dulled around the edges, like everything that makes her her has been draining out of her, but she's here. And that should be enough. He should be grateful. He should count that as a miracle.

It's just not that simple. He feels like he is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's like he's in a horror movie and he's walking down a long, dark hallway and he knows something is going to jump out at him and he knows he can't stop it, but he wants to stop it. He wants to be grateful, but he's too terrified to take his eye off the ball.

What right does he have to be this messed up anyway? She's the one suffering. She's the one whose brain is actively trying to kill her. He's just a spectator. What right does he have to complain?

It's just difficult to feel this alone.

When someone dies, there is grief. It's a known thing. People talk about it. They write books and guides and scholarly articles and studies about it. There is an immediate outpouring of love and support and casseroles. When someone attempts to die but doesn't, what is there? Silence. Awkward and heavy and blanketed over everything. Everybody glosses over that part. Nobody wants to talk about it. Maybe they just don't know how to. Maybe they just don't know what to do with it. He supposes he can understand that. He doesn't know what to do with it either.

After dinner, Dean tries his hardest to let Laurel and Mary have some time together. They both need it and he doesn't want to fuck it up for either of them by being overprotective. Despite his nudging, she hadn't eaten much at dinner and he's sure she's not feeling all that great physically but Mary's presence seems to help her tonight, so he tries to let them be. Laurel is still her mother, after all, and it's not that she's ever been a bad mother. It's just that she's been lost for a long time.

He stays in the kitchen, keeping his hands busy with putting away dinner and cleaning up the kitchen - even though dinner was takeout and there's not much to be done. Last he checked, Laurel and Mary were happily reading in the bedroom and they were just fine. Plus, he knows Cas will check in on them. He is much better at checking in without hovering. He has been told he can be, at times, smothering. So he cleans the kitchen. He gets all the food put away, he washes the dishes, he wipes down the table and the counter tops. He cleans the entire kitchen. No, really. He mops the floor. He can't remember the last time he...

Actually –

Shit, should he be mopping the floor more often? Considering how often he ends up plopping Mary - and her pacifier, which she takes out and puts back in constantly - down on the floor while he tries to make dinner... Yes, he probably should.

Fuck, okay, that's his bad.

Eh, it's good for her immune system.

He finishes mopping the floor, but before he goes too far down the rabbit hole and starts rearranging the pantry and deep cleaning the fridge, he needs to go check on his girls. He's not going to be ''smothering'' about it. Just a quick peep. Given what happened the last time he left Laurel alone in the bedroom, he thinks he has entitled to be nervous.

He forcibly relaxes his shoulders as he heads down the hall. The pointedly casual greeting on the tip of his tongue dies in his throat when he pokes his head into the bedroom. Mary is half asleep, curled up into Laurel's side with one hand clutching Where the Wild Things Are and the other playing with her mom's hair. She's perfectly safe where she is, bracketed into the bed by her mother and a stack of pillows and she seems content, sucking away on her pacifier, groggily staring up at Laurel with her droopy eyelids.

Laurel, on the other hand, is not awake.

She's sleeping, she's only sleeping, but there is a second where Dean sees her lying there, still, eyes closed, and his heart drops down into his stomach. He is...not overly proud of his reaction. Instead of puking, which is what he feels like doing for a split second, he lunges forward, snatching Mary off the bed, perhaps a little too roughly, and into his arms.

Both Laurel and Mary are startled awake by the sudden movement.

He barely even notices, too busy frantically hissing out Laurel's name.

She jerks, groggy and confused, automatically reaching for the baby that isn't there. ''What - '' She looks at Dean, relaxing when she notices he has Mary. ''Dean?''

''Go back to sleep.''

''What's wrong?''

How much time you got, babe? ''Nothing,'' he says, deliberately calm, even though his heart is racing like he's running for his life. ''Nothing's wrong.'' He gives her a tight smile.

Mary, pissed off and still a little startled, is whimpering tiredly in his arms, rubbing at her eyes. She's got that familiar look in her eyes that tells him an overtired meltdown is imminent.

''I should get her to bed,'' he says. ''You go back to sleep. I've got it.''

''Wait.'' Laurel sits up, moving to get out of bed. ''Wait a minute. I can - ''

''It's fine,'' he insists, trying not to sound too terse. ''I can handle it. You get some rest.'' He turns and walks away from her before she can protest.

Mary whines in his arms, looking back and forth between him and Laurel even as he carries her out of the room. He's gotten so used to being the only one who does the nighttime routine that he just does it on autopilot. He is pointedly cheerful and as soft as he can be, but she isn't fooled. She's exhausted and constantly on the verge of falling asleep while he gets her diaper changed, but she's not too tired to let him know how irritated she is with him for that stunt he pulled. She completely abandons her pacifier in favor of whining and periodically shouting ''hey'' at him. It's her new favorite word. It's been unbearably annoying.

''I know,'' he tries to tell her while he's getting her into her jammies. ''Dad screwed that up, huh? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to piss you off.''

She just whines at him some more. She's extremely displeased with him during the whole routine. He puts some lotion on her because she's had a few dry patches lately and because it chills her right out on bath nights, but she just moans at him, seemingly exasperated, and gives him her best what is wrong with you look. He's just snapped the last snap on her jammies when she looks up at him and says, ''Mama?''

''Mama's sleeping,'' he says automatically, without even thinking about it. He's gotten so used to making excuses for her that they just slip out now. ''But she'll still be here tomorrow. I bet she'll even be able to wake you up. How does that sound?''

Not fuckin' good enough apparently.

Mary wriggles, trying to squirm away from him, letting out annoyed grunts and what he swears are growls. ''Mary - ''

''Hey! Hey! Mama!''

''I get it,'' he says, lifting her into his arms. ''You were happy with your mom.''

''Hey!''

''Hey.''

Dean turns, Mary still in his arms, both of them spotting Laurel standing in the doorway. She looks awkward, hovering in the doorway as if she's not sure she's welcome in her own kid's room.

Mary looks ecstatic. ''Mama!'' She jerks a finger at her. ''Mama!'' She looks at Dean, extremely pointedly. ''Hey! Mama!'' She flails her arms and nearly flings herself out of his arms. She also winds up punching him in the side of the head.

''Holy fu - '' He bites his tongue. ''You got a mean right hook, kid. That was way harder than it should have been.''

Laurel laughs, a little tired, a little warm, but mostly nervous. She ventures farther into the room, taking one of Mary's hands. ''Hi there, little bird.'' She presses a kiss to the back of Mary's hand and winks at her. ''You giving Daddy trouble tonight?''

Mary seems too overjoyed to see the object of her affection to notice the question. To her, Mom is a novelty. A special treat you only get every now and then. She must be so excited that she's gotten hours of her mother's attention today.

''Can I...'' Laurel sounds hesitant. When she looks at Dean, there is an edge of guilt and shame in her eyes, an undercurrent of fear in her voice, like she's afraid to ask. ''Can I help with anything?''

He's ready to say no. He's ready to open his mouth and let her off the hook the way he usually does. But he pauses this time. He looks at her face. He looks at Mary. Regardless of his instinct to tell her to go rest, he's got it covered, Mary has her own opinion. ''Actually,'' he starts, and Laurel's whole body tenses, a look of fragile hope on her face. He cannot possibly kick her out when she's got that look in her eyes. He nods at the glider over by the window. ''Why don't you sit down?''

''I don't need to - ''

''No, babe - '' He shifts Mary to one arm and nudges Laurel over to the chair. ''Sit down.'' He waits until she settles herself in the glider and then hands Mary over.

Laurel looks nervous.

Mary looks victorious. ''Mama!'' She smiles happily. This is enough for her.

He tries not to hover. He doesn't want to micromanage. He doesn't want to suffocate them. He turns off the light, flicking on the night light, turning on the white noise machine, making sure Mary has her pacifier and her blanket. Laurel doesn't look entirely uncomfortable cradling Mary in her arms, but she's still a little shifty eyed, so he doesn't leave, sitting down in the rocking chair on the other side of the room to watch them. It's more for Laurel's benefit than for Mary's.

Laurel is not a bad mother. Never has been. She has been absent and apathetic and sick over the past few months, but she knows what she's doing more than she thinks she does. She has instincts. Unlike her, he has never doubted that. She just doesn't know how to get herself unstuck. He knows how that feels. Maybe he should have done more to help encourage her. Maybe he should have done something sooner. Maybe if he had...

''Does she...'' Laurel looks up. She looks like she wants to cry. ''Does she still take a bottle? The last time I put her to bed...''

''No,'' he says softly. ''I cut that out last month. She gets a few sips of water if she wants, but the bottle was making her too hyper at bedtime.'' He doesn't bother to remind her that she did know that already. They talked about it when it happened. There was a whole discussion about it. She doesn't remember that. He bites down on his tongue to keep from saying anything. He wants to ask. What was going on the night they talked? Is this just part of the depression or was she on something? Was she that good at hiding it? Which one was it? Benzos, pinot noir, or vodka? Did she block out that conversation because it made her want to die too? Was she even there? Where was she if she wasn't? He doesn't ask.

''Oh.'' Her voice sounds wobbly. ''I didn't know that.''

Yes, you fucking did, he wants to snarl.

''It's okay,'' he tells her. ''You do now.''

Mary, meanwhile, is just happy to be there. She has settled down in Laurel's arms, gazing up at her adoringly. She's exhausted, but it's like she's trying to comfort her mom by being on her best behavior. She seems uncharacteristically chill.

Her mother could be doing better. She lifts her eyes from the baby for a minute, meeting his eyes. She looks like she's caught between terror and unbearable guilt. It's an awful lot of pain to be carrying around with you. ''Dean - ''

''Laurel,'' he cuts her off gently, leaning forward. ''You're doing fine. You know you've done this before. You're her mom.''

''I haven't been much of a mom lately.''

''This is as good a place to start as any.'' He rises to his feet, stepping over to them. He runs a hand over Mary's head. ''I think I should give you two some time, okay?''

''But - ''

''She's never gonna go down if I'm here, Laur,'' he says. ''Besides, you've got this.'' He leans down to press a kiss to her temple and then looks down at Mary. ''Night, pumpkin. Have a good sleep.'' He kisses her forehead. ''Go easy on Mom for me.'' He sends Laurel one last encouraging smile. ''I'll be right outside. Just holler if you need me.'' He leaves without another word, knowing full well that if he even so much as pauses or looks back, he'll convince himself that he needs to stay.

Mary and Laurel need some time together to get to know each other again. They deserve at least that much. He steps out of the room, shutting the door behind him, releasing a long breath. For several minutes, he doesn't leave his spot in the hallway, leaning back against the wall, waiting for Laurel to call him back in. She doesn't.

He's so fucking tired of this. He's so fucking tired period. For so long, all he wanted was for her to get better. At the very least to want to get better. To just try. Make an effort. He hasn't been angry this whole time. He's been too busy, too worried, too scared out of his mind. For months, he's done everything. He took care of everything so she didn't have to worry about it. He took care of her.

Now she's finally ready to try. She hit her rock bottom and now she wants to get up off the mat. She wants to get better. That's great. He should be proud of that, he should be proud of her, and he is, but -

God, he's so angry. He can't turn it off. He can't make it go away. He has spent months trying to mentally prepare himself for the worst, readying himself for impossible grief, and that is her fault. She did that. He's angry that she's gotten them into this mess, he's angry she refused help for so long, he's angry all he did was enable her when he should have pushed harder for her to get help, and he is angry beyond belief at her shitty family and everything they've done to her for her entire life.

And he is so angry that she was just going to kill herself and leave them here without her. No note, no goodbye, just gone. That wasn't fair. None of this was fair. That was one of the most terrifying nights of his life. He can't stop thinking about what would have happened if he hadn't gone in there to check on her.

He pushes off the wall and traipses tiredly down the hall, rubbing at his eyes. In the dining room, Sam is still putting away the contents of the china cabinet that Cas decided he just had to take out and polish today. He looks up when he spots Dean and then promptly does a double take. ''Everything okay?''

''Everything's fine.''

''You sure?'' Sam leans forward, trying to peer down the hall. ''Is Laurel - ''

''She's...'' Dean sits down at the dining room table. ''I thought I'd let her take a stab at the bedtime routine tonight.''

''Oh, that's - '' Sam looks surprised. ''That's a good idea. Mary's been itching for her to come home.'' Even as he says it, he sounds hesitant. ''It's good they're spending time together.''

''Hmm.'' Dean nods numbly. He looks at the table full of china and silverware. He didn't even know they had this much crap. He recognizes the set gifted to them by Beatrice and Richard when they got married because ''every young couple needs a good set of china'' but the rest is a mystery. He can't even remember the last time they used any of this.

''Are you sure you're okay?''

He looks up at the sound of his brother's voice. ''I'm fine,'' he lies. ''Why?''

''You just seem...'' Sam lets the unsaid hang in the air, either because he doesn't know what to say or because he knows what he wants to say will not be well received. ''I just thought you'd be more...I don't know, relieved? Laurel's finally - ''

''Laurel tried to kill herself,'' Dean cuts in, emotionless.

Sam stops what he's doing. He looks at Dean with that irritatingly probing look on his face for a second and then takes a seat across from him. ''Yes,'' he says plainly. ''She did.'' He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't poke at the wound the way he usually does. He just acknowledges what happened.

It catches Dean off guard. He was hoping Sammy would go fully annoying little brother about this. It would have been so much easier. ''There was no note,'' he blurts out, voice still emotionless and blank, though teetering on the verge of something like shock. ''She didn't even leave a note. What does that mean? I don't warrant a goodbye? She couldn't muster up an I love you for our kid? She didn't have to mean it. I just needed her to...'' He stops. How can he possibly end that sentence? ''Never mind.''

''I don't think she...'' Sam winces. He doesn't finish his thought either. ''Have you talked to her about this?''

''What am I supposed to say?''

''You could - '' But then Sam stops. Just clamps his jaw shut right there. The corners of his lips pull down into a harsh looking frown. ''I don't know,'' he admits. ''I have no idea.'' He looks at the sea of silverware. His shoulders deflate. ''I'm sorry.''

Dean barely acknowledges it, turning over a fork in his hand. ''She had to hit bottom, right?'' He looks up. ''This had to happen for her to get better.''

Sam can't even look him in the eye. ''Right.''

Dean nods slowly. Yeah, he didn't really believe that either. He puts the fork down. He doesn't want to talk about this. Know what he wants? A cookie. Specifically one of the freshly made chocolate chip cookies sitting in the kitchen. Cas' contribution to tonight's feast. He makes incredible desserts. Nobody knows what that's about considering he can barely make instant ramen. ''Cas still here?''

''Uh, yeah. He's just making some tea. He was complaining about your tea selection earlier.''

Of course he was. Because it turns out human Cas is everyone's favorite grandparent. No, seriously. He steals Sweet'n Lows from Denny's. He plays pinochle. He tells stories.

Dean clears his throat and rises to his feet. ''I'm gonna go shove like eighteen cookies in my face. You have fun with, uh,'' he gestures to the table, ''all this.'' He makes it all the way to the kitchen door before he's stopped.

''Dean?''

He stops, closing his eyes.

However, when he reluctantly turns around, Sam's just holding up something from the china cabinet. ''What the hell is this?''

Unexpectedly, Dean feels his lips twitch. ''Looks like a ceremonial dagger to me.''

''And it's in your china cabinet because...?''

''I dunno. It looked fancy.''

''It - '' Sam breaks off in one of those put upon little sighs of his. ''Oh my god.'' He sounds scandalized. Dean feels a small smile pulling at his lips.

It's nice to know that regardless of what happens here, some things will never change. As long as there is life left in this family, as long as Sam's around, there will always be a soft place for Dean - and Mary - to land. They're lucky they have that.

There will always be a soft place for Laurel to land too. He has spent their entire relationship building that soft place for her.

He just wishes he could get her to believe that.

.

.

.

February 2017

The morning rush is when he misses her most of all.

Dean Winchester is not, has never been, and will never be a morning person. Sure, he fakes it just fine as a dad, especially now that Mary's in school and they need to get their asses out of bed on weekday mornings, but he doesn't like it. Fuck mornings, in his opinion.

Laurel, on the other hand, has always been a morning person. Even with her late nights as Black Canary, she rarely slept in. She was at her best in the mornings. She has a truly batshit amount of energy way too early in the day. It's weird.

Mary is...more like her dad. She would rather go back to sleep. Which is why it was always best for Laurel to wake her in the mornings. She could take that cranky toddler and turn her into a cheerful and pleasant little girl. Dean has never been entirely sure how she does that. He tries, he does, obviously there has been several situations where he's needed to, but he just does not have the same sunny disposition. He's never been able to replicate that specific bit of Mom Magic.

He's got the rhythm, but he doesn't have the music.

It's usually not that big of a deal. You win some, you lose some. You maybe drop by Krispy Kreme for a doughnut hole on the way to school to get the kid to stop crying.

Today is a losing day.

And not one a doughnut hole is going to fix.

He barely got any sleep after that nightmare, Mary woke up twice, like they were back in the baby stage, and he forgot to set his alarm. The only reason they woke up even sort of on time is because Sara wandered into the bedroom, kicked at his foot and hissed, ''Doesn't she have school?''

That alone wouldn't have been so bad, but Mary is having a lot of feelings today.

None of them pleasant.

She spent ten minutes crying and trying to pick which stuffed animal to take to Show and Tell, despite the fact that she had already decided last night to take her stuffed cat. Dean has half a mind to keep her home and send her back to bed, but he doesn't want her to lose her place in that stupidly expensive preschool that Laurel was adamant was the perfect fit and he knows she will if she keeps having unexplained absences.

Not to mention how much she's been looking forward to Show and Tell. She's been talking about it since last Friday and he is desperately clinging to anything that makes her even kind of like school.

Really, though, the thing he is most thankful for on this shitty Wednesday morning is Auntie Thea.

And Octonauts.

But mostly Auntie Thea.

Thanks to her, Mary is settled at the breakfast nook (instead of yanking at his shirt, whining to be picked up because she's decided she ''wants to be a baby today'') with her headphones, watching Octonauts, learning shit about the ocean, and happily scarfing down the oatmeal that she, only moments ago, was complaining about being ''yucky'' - even though she specifically asked for it and described what she wanted in it.

He's relieved she's distracted and he's relieved Thea and Sara seem content to converse with each other rather than him. He is sorely lacking patience this morning. Normally he can power through sleep deprivation because that's what he's been doing for his entire life, but he's having a hard time with it this morning. He's not sure what it is - the nightmare, the phone call, the general unease they're all living with - but he's just not feeling like himself this morning. He hasn't felt like himself since Seabeck, if he's being honest. There is an emptiness he can't explain. Like something has been scraped out of him.

It's not even noon yet.

Sometimes he wonders how his mother did this. Before, in Lawrence, when the Winchester family was like anyone else, Mom ran the house. He can't remember if she preferred it that way, or if that's just the way it was, but she bore the brunt of it. Dad worked. He loved them and he did his best - which, back then, was considerably better than what would later qualify as ''his best'' - but it was Mom's house, Mom's rules, Mom's world.

She grew the babies, she fed the babies, and she raised the babies. It seems, now that he has met her at different periods in her life, that it was far more traditional than she would have liked, but that's how it was. She did mornings and meal times and night wakings, handled the diaper changes and the discipline and still had time to do everything that needed to be done in the house. She was a mother - took Dean to preschool and playdates and tee-ball - and she was a wife - had coffee and breakfast ready for Dad every morning, made him lunch, went to holiday parties at the garage, - and a homemaker - Dean, still, to this day, uses her recipe for pie crust that Dad kept tucked away in the back of his journal, and it has never once failed him - and she did it all with such grace. She never seemed burnt out or stressed.

It has been a long time and he was only four, his memories of her muddied by time and idolization, so it's entirely possible he's glorified it all in his head, but he remembers her being unflinching. There is a finer line than you think between love and worship, but he swears he remembers it that way. She was hands on, kind and always calm and steady. She made it all seem so effortless.

He vividly remembers her taking him to a tee-ball game only days after Sammy was born, sitting on those hard metal bleachers with a brand new baby attached to her, regularly standing up to cheer Dean on, which sounds insane to him now, as an adult who has watched his wife go through childbirth and all the discomfort of postpartum. One of the only reasons the memory of that day in the kitchen, comforting her after she and Dad split for a week the summer after Sammy was born, is so seared into his memory is because it was the only time he ever remembers seeing her unsteady.

Dean does not think he has ever had that kind of strength and fortitude. It all seems foreign to him.

Mom feels closer now than she ever has before. Ever since Seabeck, it's like she's been right behind him, over his shoulder, just out of reach, out of sight. Every step he takes now feels like a step she took back then. He's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, an emotional reaction or a warning. Even with that, even this new ominously creepy feeling like he's just a thing that's been carved in her image, he can't comprehend how she did it all.

He is a good dad, he is fucking sure of that, but the only reason he made it through those seven months is because of the people around him. He had a village. But how long is he realistically supposed to expect people to drop what they're doing, take time out of their own lives, and come help the poor hapless single father whose wife has now both died and left him?

He never wanted to be a single parent, it wasn't in the plans, but he wasn't given a choice in the matter. Either time. It feels shitty to just expect everyone else to tie themselves to him with no concern for their own wellbeing.

Take the two sitting in his kitchen, distracting his ornery kid because he can't handle it today. Sara and Thea have better things to do, but here they are, with Thea calling in to take the day off work again and Sara talking about getting a job so she can stay indefinitely in the city that she keeps trying to get away from. Hard not to feel guilty about that one.

''People keep telling me this, but it's not that easy,'' Sara whines, when Thea starts up her casual but pointed if you're going to be sticking around for the foreseeable future, have you considered getting a job nudging. ''I've looked. I've been looking. But what would I even do? I'm twenty-nine with no resume and no legitimate employment history. I'm not even sure I have a valid social security number anymore. The last job I had was bartendering - ''

''Tending bar,'' Thea corrects.

'' - At Verdant. And the one reason I even got that job was because I was sleeping with the owner. And I was being paid under the table.''

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Thea pause with her coffee mug halfway to her mouth. ''I'm sorry,'' she says, lowering the mug. ''You were what?''

''Please.'' Sara waves it off. ''The entire club was a front for Ollie's illegal vigilante operation. Paying me under the table to be a crappy part time bartender for like a month was low on his laundry list of crimes.''

''I didn't know it was a front,'' Thea squeaks out indignantly. ''I put so much work into that place because I believed in it and he was just running around doing illegal shit right under my nose like it didn't matter.''

''Don't tell me, tell your brother.''

''I have. He seriously doesn't understand why it upsets me.''

''Does he ever understand when he upsets people?''

At that, Dean sneaks a peek over at Thea just to see how she reacts to that. As usual, when it comes to criticism of her beloved brother, she looks conflicted as to which side she should take. ''Look, it won't be hard to whip you up a resume,'' she says, shifting gears back to Sara's unemployment issues. ''And you do have an employment history. You tended bar all through college and worked at Fred Meyer during high school, right?''

''Yeah, but there's a pretty significant gap in my history, don't you think?''

''A gap that a simple Google search would explain,'' Thea says. ''Now. What can you do? What are your skills?''

''Hmm.'' Sara hums thoughtfully. ''I can fit seven marshmallows in my mouth.''

Thea stares at her.

Dean looks over at them, eyebrows raised.

This woman is a trained assassin.

''The big ones too,'' she goes on. ''Not those piddly little fuckers you put on hot cocoa.''

''Hey,'' he warns, pointing the stuffed cat in his hand at Mary. ''Watch your mouth.''

Sara holds a hand up. ''Sorry.''

Mary, not having noticed any of this, shovels another spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth, completely transfixed by Octonauts.

''You should definitely put that on your resume,'' he adds. ''See what happens.''

''What about goals?'' Thea asks, attempting to move the conversation along. ''Do you have any goals?''

''Yes,'' Sara says. ''I want to be part of an epic fight scene with Toxic by Britney Spears playing in the background.''

Dean says, without missing a beat, ''Same.'' He says it so flatly, with such a deadpan expression that he can tell neither one of them knows what to do with it.

''Okay. So.'' Thea blinks a few times and then shakes her head, as if trying to shake the image from her brain. ''Other than that?''

''I dunno.'' Sara shrugs. ''I like tacos. I guess I need money to buy those. Hey!'' She snaps her fingers. ''I know! Do you think you can keep the nepotism train rolling long enough to get me a job at City Hall?''

Dean snorts, stuffing Conrad into Mary's backpack next to the nightshirt of Laurel's that Mary makes sure is in her backpack every morning.

''I...might be able to get you a job in the mail room,'' Thea offers, much to Sara's visible disappointment.

''The mail room?'' She pulls a face. ''I was thinking more along the lines of the Deputy Mayor's personal assistant.''

Dean laughs again, louder this time, and gets a dirty look from her in response.

Thea does not appear to be on board with Sara's proposal. ''You want to be your father's personal assistant?''

''Sure, why not?''

''I'm just not sure that's a good idea.''

''What? Why not?''

Dean steps over to the table to take the mostly empty bowl Mary has pushed away from her. ''Because it sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.''

''No, it doesn't,'' she yelps, loud enough for Mary to look up. ''I can be an assistant!''

''You should never work with family,'' Thea advises.

''You work with family.''

''Yeah, and I think I have an ulcer because of it.''

''Come on.''

''You're not qualified.''

''Who is at City Hall?''

Dean snickers again, drowning it out by turning the faucet on full blast to rinse out the bowl.

''I'll talk to him,'' Thea relents.

He tunes out for maybe a minute to get the bowl in the dishwasher and then when he turns around -

There's Thea.

Right there.

He almost jumps.

She greets him with a smile. It's not a smile he trusts. It's a suspicious smile.

He swipes Mary's lunch box from the counter and turns his back on her to toss the brown apple slices and warm cheese cubes he forgot to throw away yesterday. ''Can you help Mary brush her teeth? I have to get her lunch ready.''

''Sure, not a problem,'' she says, but doesn't move.

After a second, once he's finished a quick wash of the little plastic bento box, he arches an eyebrow at her. ''Something on your mind?''

''You were already in bed when I got home last night,'' she says. ''I didn't get a chance to check in with you. How was your night?''

''Fine.'' What else is he going to say? Everyone had nightmares and he verbally tore his father-in-law to shreds for funsies? ''Why?''

''Just that, you know, it was Valentine's Day.''

He tries not to roll his eyes. ''Just a day, Thea.''

''Yeah, but...''

''It's just a day.''

''Says the mopey guy.''

''I'm not mopey.''

''You seem mopey.''

''I'm not - '' He breaks off in an annoyed groan, shaking his head. He moves back over to Mary, lifting up a headphone to give her a five minute warning that she will inevitably ignore, resulting in an early morning meltdown, which is why he doesn't typically let her watch TV at breakfast. He graciously ignores the scowl he gets in response. He focuses on getting her lunch ready. By the time he's pulled everything he needs out of the pantry and the fridge, both Thea and Sara are staring at him when he turns back. They look pitying.

Ugh.

''What?'' He tries not to sound too harsh, but is aware that he fails horribly. ''Why are you looking at me like that?''

Sara puckers her lips into a pitying pout that definitely feels more like she's making fun of him and says, ''You must feel like Nathan after Haley left him to go on tour, huh?''

He stares at her, unimpressed. ''I have no idea what you just said.''

''You must feel like Dylan after Brenda left him to go to Paris.''

''You watch too much TV.''

''Says the man who brags about being raised by the Golden Girls.''

''Listen,'' Thea says, sidling back up to him at the counter the second he puts the load of food down. ''Do you want to drive around the block and scream sing Not Ready to Make Nice again?''

''No,'' he deadpans, pulling out a knife to slice up the carrots and bell peppers. ''Scream singing kinda hurts my throat.''

''Maybe if you had a normal sounding voice,'' Sara says, hopping up on the counter on the other side of him. ''Instead of sounding like someone trying to conceal their identity on 20/20.''

He looks at her flatly. ''Weird that your solution to my apparent heartbreak is to be mean to me.'' He points the vegetable peeler at her. ''And I'll have you know people like my voice. Your sister likes my voice.''

''My sister liked Oliver's hair in 2006.''

''Evidently,'' Thea says, voice crisp, arms crossed. ''So did you.''

Sara looks, for a second, like she's going to say something. She blushes instead, redness creeping up to her ears, and buries her face in her mug of coffee. An understandable reaction when faced with the fact that you once willingly chose to have an affair with some guy who has admitted that he used to party with pre-KUWTK Scott Disick.

''What about Dido?'' Thea suggests. ''Do you want to listen to White Flag by Dido? Maybe cry a little?''

''Not particularly,'' says Dean. ''That's not even - I'm not Dido,'' he declares firmly. ''I'm not Dido, she's Dido.''

''He's right,'' Sara says. ''White Flag doesn't work from his point of view. He didn't do anything wrong. He's Buffy after Angel left for his spin off.''

''Yeah, I'm Buffy.''

''He's Piper after Leo peaced out of being a spouse and a parent to go be a full time...whatever it was that he was. He's stuck here being that poor sap of a spaceman from the Oops I Did It Again video while Laurel's out there being Britney from the Toxic video. He's Sam after Diane left to...'' She stops and leans over to Dean. ''I don't know what happened to Sam and Diane,'' she whispers. ''I'm not even sure I was born when they broke up.''

''You need to get a life,'' he whispers back.

''Whatever, man. You understood every one of those references.''

Thea stares at Sara for a second, eyes narrowed, arms still crossed, and then she says, ''Astronaut.''

Sara lowers her mug, bewildered. ''What?''

''He wasn't a spaceman. He was an astronaut.''

''Why are you telling me this?''

''Because I feel like you forgot the word for astronaut.''

''Well, that's - '' Sara sputters. ''Spaceman is just another word for astronaut. And anyway, that's not relevant. That's not the point. The point is that he,'' she points to Dean, ''is Ryan Gosling in the Notebook.''

He nods without looking up, depositing the carrot and pepper slices into Mary's lunch box and reaching for the cheese. ''I'm Ryan Gosling.''

''He's the guy from Sweet Home Alabama who wasn't Patrick Dempsey.''

''Josh Lucas.''

''He is Kiefer Sutherland after Julia Roberts left him at the altar for his best friend.''

''Well - ''

''He's the dumpee, not the dumper.''

''I - Hey.'' He swivels around to glare at her. ''I am not the - I didn't get dumped.''

''Dude, she wrote you a Dear John letter.''

''She didn't...'' Well... ''All right, maybe she did.''

''Speaking of Britney Spears,'' Thea cuts in. ''Do you want to smash stuff and listen to Stronger?''

''No.'' He drops a few cheese cubes into Mary's lunch box. ''I told you I'm not listening to your breakup playlist until you put You Oughta Know on it.''

''So picky.'' She looks at her watch and pushes off the counter, stealing a blueberry before she heads over to extricate Mary from the tablet. ''Hey, Miss Mary,'' she greets, sliding the headphones off. ''Come on. Teeth brushing time.''

''But - ''

''No buts,'' Dean calls over his shoulder.

Mary promptly ignores that. ''But the dolphin!'' She makes a grab for the headphones. ''The Octonauts have to help the dolphin find its mommy!''

''The dolphin will be fine,'' Thea assures her, helping her to her feet. ''You've seen this episode. If you want, you can finish it after school, but right now we've got to get those teeth brushed, babe.''

Mary grumbles, but follows along, holding Thea's hand, far more obedient with her than she ever will be with either of her parents.

Maybe Thea is secretly Mary Poppins.

Dean continues getting Mary's lunch ready, dropping in some pretzels, almonds, the leftover blueberries from breakfast, acutely aware that Sara is watching him like a hawk the entire time. He can't tell if she has something to say or if she's just hungry.

Finally, just as he's putting the finishing touches on, peeling a cutie to put in the box, she asks, ''So what did you do last night?''

''I went out and I had sex, Sara,'' he bursts out, without even hesitating. ''With everyone. That's what I did. It was a full on orgy. At one point there were blindfolds and ball gags.'' He points a finger at her when she rolls her eyes. ''Don't slutshame me.''

''Uh-huh,'' she nods, disappointingly unimpressed. ''So what'd you do last night?''

He grabs for the lid to the bento box. ''I watched the news and went to bed at nine.''

''God, that's sad,'' Sara says. ''I knew it would be bad but this is so much worse than I was expecting.''

He scrapes the orange peel and carrot shavings into the trash and doesn't give her a reaction. ''What did you do?''

She grins slyly, tilting her head to the side.

He chuckles under his breath. ''Should've known.''

''I'm single,'' she says, slipping off the counter. ''I can do what I want.'' She drains her mug and then looks back to him, curious and searching. ''What are your plans for today? You wanna reenact popular Vines with me?'' She asks the absurd question so casually, so nonchalant that it is impossible to tell whether or not she's joking.

The answer is the same either way, but it bothers him that he can't tell. ''...No.''

''Your loss,'' she says. ''Wanna reenact scenes from Keeping Up with the Kardashians?''

''No,'' he replies, quick, easy, and completely deadpan. ''I only do that with Nyssa.''

''You...'' It throws her. ''Nyssa only watches documentaries about deadly wildlife.''

In fairness, one could argue that is exactly what Keeping Up with the Kardashians is.

''That's what you think,'' he says.

She looks properly flabbergasted. ''You're screwing with me.''

''Am I?''

''You got my assassin ex-girlfriend into reality television?''

''What if your assassin ex-girlfriend got me into reality television?''

''That's ridiculous.''

''Is it?'' He holds her gaze for a moment, expression even, and then she frowns and looks away.

''I knew those were your Real Housewives episodes.''

He drops the act enough to grin, turning to properly fix the lid on the bento box.

''Dean,'' she says, while he's stuffing it into the backpack. ''Do you want to do the lift from Dirty Dancing?''

He pauses. He's not proud of it, but he pauses. ''Nah.'' He waves a hand dismissively. ''I can't afford to break my back right now.'' He takes yesterday's water bottle out of the backpack and puts it in the sink, pulling open the cupboard to get a fresh one, all while under Sara's strangely watchful eye. He turns to grab the water jug from the fridge and when he returns, she's taken his spot at the counter. He doesn't even stop, just nudges her out of the way with his hip.

She seems unbothered. ''Do you want to hear my most unpopular opinion?'' She crosses her arms. ''I think lighthouse keepers are just human moths.''

He...was not expecting that one. ''What,'' he starts, slow and precise, ''the fuck.''

''Change my mind,'' she challenges.

''No, I'm not going to - What is wrong with you?''

''You seem sad.'' She says it simply, which is not the clear explanation she thinks it is.

''And you think this is the way to change that?''

''No, I thought doing the lift from Dirty Dancing would change it, but you nixed that idea.''

''Sara, are you still high from last night?''

''You can't get high on weed!''

...Maybe it's not all that surprising that she ended up in a cult.

''I think of it as more of a mood stabilizer,'' she elaborates. ''You know what I mean?''

''Did your sister drop you on your head when you were a baby?''

''Probably. She was like...not even two when I was born.''

''Go write your resume, pint sized,'' he says, waving her away. ''Word of advice: leave off the part with the cult of assassins.''

''I'm trying to be nice to you,'' she protests.

''I got that. It's freaking me out.''

She lasts maybe thirty seconds before she starts over. ''No but seriously. How are you?''

''Annoyed with that question,'' he responds, handing the jug of water over to her when the bottle is full. ''Put that back in the fridge.''

She groans, but does as she's asked.

It's not a permanent solution to the annoying problem and he knows she's not going to stop pestering him, so when she wanders back to him, staring expectantly, he figures he'd better give her something. ''Your dad came by last night.''

''He did?'' She looks surprised. ''He didn't mention that when he called me this morning.''

''We might've...'' He pauses, pretending he's just focused on twisting the lid back onto his kid's Paw Patrol water bottle. ''...Gotten into a spat. A quarrel. A row. A squabble, if you will.''

''Hmm.'' Her beady eyes watch him closely as he moves to tuck the bottle into the backpack. ''Dean, did you punch my dad in the face?''

''No.''

''Did he punch you in the face?''

''Nobody punched anyone in the face.''

''So he sucker punched you in the gut?''

''There was no punching, Sara,'' he snaps, zipping the backpack up and looking back to her. ''We just...had words.''

''And this is supposed to be what? News?'' She snorts. ''Please. Your love of trash talking each other is the only real activity you do together. Some guys golf with their father-in-laws, some dudes, like, I don't know, build...decks or work on cars or talk about golf. You two verbally attack each other. It's your thing.'' She hops back up onto the counter, swinging her legs casually. ''It's good you two have something. What do you and I have? Not the lift from Dirty Dancing, I'll tell you that much.''

''Sara - ''

''Because apparently you're a chickenshit.''

''I'm not a - ''

''Hey, can you smoke weed or is that considered breaking sobriety? Like, what if it was just an edible? Like one of those gummy things? A small one? I just think we'd get along better if we were stoner buddies.''

''Wow, you really need to get a job and a life, don't you?''

''Yes, I do.'' She flings one leg over the other. ''Was he looking for me?''

''You're not going to ask what we fought about?''

''Nope. I'm staying away from this one. I'm not Laurel. I am not inserting myself into your drama. It's none of my beeswax.''

''If only that were your philosophy about everything.''

''Ha ha.''

Dean checks his watch, hoping it's about time to dash out the door and avoid this, but unfortunately they still have some time. He moves back over to lean against the counter next to her. ''The Circle K video from Culver City,'' he says. ''Felicity sent it to him.''

All traces of humor disappear from her face. ''Shit. I was hoping to keep that one from him.''

''Maybe you should've mentioned that to Felicity.''

''Well, how was I supposed to know she and my dad were texting buddies?'' She chews on her thumbnail. It's the same thing Laurel does when she's nervous. ''Was he very upset?''

He almost laughs out loud. When is Quentin Lance not very upset about something? ''He's worried.''

''We're all worried,'' she replies.

''She can handle herself,'' he tries, though it feels like a mostly hollow platitude.

Sara doesn't buy it. ''Can she? She couldn't in April.''

''That was an entirely different situation and you know it.''

She jumps off the counter and visibly pulls herself up to her full height, which is hilarious given that she is like two feet tall and even leaning against the counter he still towers over her. ''Was it? Was it really that different? Darhk used magic. Edie's using magic. If anything, she's stronger than him. Aren't you even a little concerned that - ''

''Fuck, Sara - Yes! Yes, I'm concerned.'' He pushes off the counter. ''I'm concerned! Is that what you want to hear? I'm concerned. I'm also pissed off. My wife left me. In a really fucking cowardly way. I've never - I don't get to do that,'' he rants. ''Just walk away from my life and go play action hero like I've got nothing to lose. That's not an option for me. I'm here. I'm here every day. Other people walk away. I don't. Because someone has to clean up the mess, don't they? And it's always me. I had to tell Mary - again - that her mom was gone. I keep having to break that little girl's heart and I keep having to do it because of her own mother. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?''

Sara can't quite meet his eye.

''I have to help her learn - and learn again - how to be without her,'' he carries on, ignoring the knot in his chest. ''I have to do that. It's my responsibility. I know I have help and that's great, but she's my kid. At the end of the day, it's on me. Just me. I didn't think I would be alone in this, but I am. I'm a single parent. Even when she's here, I'm still...'' He doesn't finish. That's not a road he wants to go down right now. ''And that pisses me off,'' he declares. ''I'm mad that this is what we have now. I'm mad at her for doing this to us. I'm mad she's always going to choose Black Canary over her daughter.'' His hands, busy with needlessly fiddling with Mary's backpack, still. He's never said that last part out loud before. Not to anyone.

He doesn't hate Black Canary. He is eternally grateful to that part of her life. He's not a fool. He knows Black Canary saved her life. Gave her purpose and direction. It made her feel alive. She said so herself on her deathbed. How can he hate that? Doesn't mean he doesn't wonder. Doesn't mean he doesn't have questions and, yeah, possibly even some resentment.

Why couldn't she find purpose with them? Why weren't they enough to make her feel alive? It's been on his mind since April and he's been too busy trying to pretend it hasn't been that he hasn't dealt with it. He gave up everything he had ever known for this. He walked away from hunting. He left his entire life behind to be a husband and a father. He put something in between him and Sam for the first time ever because he knew it was the right thing to do.

But Laurel?

Nope.

She couldn't be bothered. She became a wife and a mother, got everything she ever wanted, and she has been running from it ever since. Just like her sister. Just like her mother.

Hard not to take that personally.

Everything she has ever done to get better, he has supported - including Black Canary - because he wants her to be happy. He trained her. He tended to her wounds. He helped her out of that ridiculous suit on the nights she was too sore or exhausted to do it herself. No one can call him unsupportive. But Jesus fucking Christ. How much more of this is he supposed to take? He loves that woman so much, their daughter loves her so much, and she has done nothing but take every opportunity to run. Maybe, just this once, he gets to be resentful of the pain she causes.

''I'm worried about her,'' he says. ''She's all alone out there. I hate that. I never wanted that for her. But I'm angry right now. I don't care what people think of that. I'm angry. I'm fucking angry. I get to be that.''

Awkwardly, Sara crosses her arms and, even though she obviously wants to defend her sister, says, ''Okay.''

It's more of a relief than it should be. He's more used to...

Well, a different reaction.

''She's the most responsible, caring person I have ever met in my entire life, you know,'' he says. ''She has this astounding capacity for love and kindness and forgiveness, even when people don't deserve it. She's incredibly generous. She would do anything for anyone. I think that's a real testament to your grandparents and the lessons they taught her. And,'' he gestures to her halfheartedly. ''Hopefully you too.''

Her eyes soften slightly at that, body language relaxing, arms uncrossing.

''I love her selflessness,'' he says, and then adds, hesitantly, ''but...'' His smile is tight. ''For some reason, that doesn't seem to extend to us.''

Sara's lips part in surprise when he says that and she looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't know what to say. ''I think that's partially my fault,'' he says. ''I pushed her away. I tried to take over everything with Mary to help her. I wanted her to focus on her. I thought I was helping, but I just made things worse.''

''You didn't,'' she jumps in.

''Maybe we're just too small for her then,'' he says, rueful. ''She'd rather dream big. Why focus on two small fries when you could be saving the whole world, right?''

''Dean...'' She doesn't look like she knows what to say to this, to any of this. But she asked. She pushed. Maybe now she won't. ''Everything she does is for you and Mary.''

Yeah, heard that before.

''Sure as hell doesn't feel that way.''

''She loves you.''

''I know she loves us,'' he says, feeling, suddenly, calm. Or maybe just tired. ''She just doesn't know what to do with us. Might be time to come to terms with that.'' A bittersweet smile. ''Just because we're what she thought she wanted doesn't mean we are. People change their minds. They grow. They don't always grow in the same direction.''

''You know that's not what's happening,'' she insists. ''That's not why she left. She left to protect you. Whether it was right or wrong, I can't say. But I know it was love. You know that. We just need to get rid of Edie and then - ''

''And then what? We go back to normal?'' He zips up Mary's backpack. ''It's not that simple. Once Edie's gone, another will pop up. There will always be another monster. Another fight. Another reason for her to run.''

''Dean - ''

''Heads up,'' Thea's voice calls out, right before she pokes her head into the kitchen. ''We have a situation. Mary doesn't want to go to school.''

He pulls himself out of his heavy mood with a small laugh. ''So what else is new? Okay. I got this. Can you grab her coat from the laundry room? I had to wash it yesterday. She rolled in mud when she was playing with Aida.'' He leaves Sara behind without another word, without even another glance, and hopes she'll forget everything he just said by the time he gets back from taking Mary to school. He tries to forget himself, hurrying down the hall, checking his watch.

Still not quite running late, but they need to get going.

Good. Now he has something to focus on.

In her bedroom, Mary is nowhere to be seen, but there is a suspicious looking lump under the covers, grumbling to itself about school.

''Okie dokie,'' he announces, clapping his hands together. ''Come on, kiddo. Chop, chop. We gotta run.''

The lump shrieks, ''No!''

''Mary.''

''Mary can't go to school today.''

''And why is that?''

''Because she's dead!''

''Ah, dang it.'' He snaps his fingers. ''That sucks. Now who's gonna eat her pretzels?''

After a beat of contemplative silence, she pokes her head out from under the blanket. ''Pretzels?''

''Yep,'' he nods. ''Waiting for you in your lunch box. Which is in your backpack. Which is going to school with or without you.''

Mary, whose love for pretzels does not, it would seem, supersede her hatred of school, yelps out a definitive, ''Without!'' Then she retreats into her blanket cave like a frightened turtle.

He sighs and checks his watch again. ''Mary.''

''Can't hear you!''

''I know you can hear me, Mary Beatrice.''

''I told you! Mary's dead!''

''Uh-huh, all right.'' Completely lacking the patience and the time needed to wait her out, he pulls the blanket off her. ''Come here, my little zombie.'' She lets out an angry squawk when he yanks the blanket off, but seems happy enough to let him pull her into his lap when he sits down on the bed. He takes her tiny wrist and finds the pulse point. ''Would you look at that. Just as I suspected.''

''What?''

''Very much alive.''

She audibly groans. ''Daddy.''

''Sorry,'' he laughs. ''Better luck next time.''

''I don't wanna go to school,'' she whines.

''I gathered that.'' He stands up, tossing her over her shoulder and she shrieks and then dissolves into laughter.

''I wanna stay home and bake a cake,'' she giggles.

''A cake?''

''I want the cake to be red.''

''A red cake?''

''Uh-huh! Like blood!''

''Someone's feeling macabre this morning.'' He heads down the hall and into the living room, a squirmy four-year-old still draped over his shoulder.

As soon as she sees them, Thea, just hanging up Mary's coat, looks Mary over, sighs, and then walks away, he's guessing to go get a hair brush given the wild situation Mary's got going on.

''All right, Morticia.'' Dean puts Mary down on the floor where she promptly plops her butt down. ''What shoes do you want to wear?''

She look at him for a second and then crawls over to the closet by the front door and pulls out a genuinely terrifying looking strappy sandal that isn't going to fly as a Wednesday morning shoe because - well, for starters, it's February in Washington and it's rainy. And they're her mother's shoes. And they're six inch stilettos. If her goal is to bring a shiv to preschool, yeah, maybe it would be useful, but he doubts that's what she's going for.

''Hm.'' He nods. ''How about these?'' He holds up her red rain boots. ''It's pretty soggy out there today. Not really sandal weather.''

She accepts the shoes he hands her without complaint, trading him the sandal for the rain boots. She even begins tugging them on despite her insistence that she does not want to go to school. ''Maybe - Maybe we should stay home,'' she suggests, pulling on a boot. '' 'Cause it's soggy.''

''Nah, I think we'll survive.''

''But what about the cake?''

''Maybe we can bake a cake this weekend,'' he says, tucking the shiv sandal into the closet.

She brightens up at that. ''Really?''

''I'll think about it.''

''How 'bout... How 'bout no school and we go to Seattle?''

''Seattle?''

''Yeah, to...'' She pauses, grunting a little as she struggles with her second boot. ''To see Wyatt and Kaylie.''

He's surprised by the suggestion. She did take a real liking to Wyatt. The kids were here for four days before Marissa, stuck in Costa Rica with her family, was able to get here with her brother Riley and in those four days Mary followed Wyatt around everywhere. She was utterly fascinated by him.

However, Kaylie?

She never did warm to that attention hogging baby. Especially not after Laurel left when she was hurt and confused and all she wanted was Dad's undivided attention, but Dad was too busy changing diapers and attempting a proper naptime schedule. She seriously resented that Kaylie didn't like to be put down, which meant someone was usually either holding her or wearing her in the wrap, which meant Mary could not ask that person to play with her or pick her up. She was so relieved when it was just her again that the second Riley's car pulled out of the driveway, she put a hand on her forehead like a dramatic 1930's starlet and said, ''I'm glad that's over!''

Now she wants to go visit.

Guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

He raises an eyebrow at her. ''You want to go see Wyatt and Kaylie?''

She doesn't even think twice. ''Yeah, 'cause...'' She pushes her messy hair out of her face. ''I like Wyatt. He's my best friend.''

''He is, is he? Does he know that?''

She dodges that question. ''He can sign,'' she reminds him. ''And when he left, I was sad.''

A smile tugs at his lips. ''You were?''

''Uh-huh.'' She nods, firmly clinging to this brand new narrative of hers. ''Nobody at school can sign.''

There it is.

''Sometimes...'' She pulls herself up to her feet. ''Sometimes it gets loud in my ear and I don't want to talk so much and I used hands.'' She holds up her hands as if to display them. ''But nobody knows,'' she says sadly. ''Not even Miss Daisy.''

Aw, crap.

He doesn't even know what to say to that. ''I know.''

''Wyatt knew,'' she tells him. ''He understood me.'' She still looks, even now, amazed by that.

It's easy, sometimes, to forget that she is different from the other kids in her class. Dean knows Mary. He knows her better than anyone. Not just things like her likes and dislikes, her mannerisms and inside jokes. He knows the way she works. He knows her body and the way it works. Being deaf in one ear has never bothered her the way they were afraid of. It's all she knows. It's all they know.

All the modifications they've had to make over the course of her life, big and small - making sure they're on her correct side, learning ASL, enunciating properly so she can read lips, even the physical therapy for her long held issues with balance and keeping an eye on her thyroid levels because of the Pendred - are second nature to them. They work the way she works. They are what she needs them to be. That's their life. He forgets it's not second nature to other people, especially not a class of preschoolers.

Wyatt is the only kid she has ever met who has instantly, without thought, adapted to her. Of course she wants to spend time with him.

''He does,'' Dean agrees. ''He does understand you.'' He checks his watch again, just for a second, and then crouches down to her level. ''I think Wyatt's busy right now getting settled in with Marissa and her family but maybe in a week or two, we can talk about going up to Seattle for a day. Sound good?''

Mary nods, but still looks troubled. ''Daddy...'' She pauses, looking down at her boots for a second, wiggling her toes. ''Jemima Westlake doesn't know how to sign.''

''No, not everybody knows how to - ''

''She says I'm silly and stupid.''

''Whoa, wait.'' He reaches out to take her hands, squeezing softly. ''She says what?''

''She says I'm silly,'' she tells him, direct but sad. ''I say no, I'm not, it's ASL, but she says that's stupid and tells me to go away.''

''Mary - ''

''Wow,'' Sara's voice cuts in from over his shoulder. ''Jemima Westlake sounds like a real asshole.''

Dean really does not like having to be the voice of reason. It feels wrong. ''Sara - ''

''I know, I know, I can't call a four year old an asshole. But she does sound like an asshole. Seriously, what kind of four year old is going around telling people they're stupid? That's like...at least eight year old crap.''

''She's five,'' Thea's voice calls out as she wanders down the hall, hairbrush in hand. ''And her snotty behavior isn't surprising when you know her parents.'' She eyes Sara as she passes her. ''Which you do. You guys went to school with - ''

''Oh my god, Graham!'' Sara's eyes widen, both hands moving to her face. ''Graham Westlake.'' She makes a vaguely repulsed face. ''He was my pot dealer in high school. Man, he was an ass. Great kisser, killer weed, but an ass. And kind of a pervert too. He was Max Fuller's best friend.''

''Still is,'' Thea says, bending down to brush Mary's hair.

''Ew.''

''They're business partners now.''

''Double ew.'' Sara puts her hands on her hips. ''You're right, though. I'm not surprised to hear his offspring is a jerk.''

''I've never met her dad,'' Dean says, standing to grab Mary's coat off the hanger. ''I've only met her mother and grandfather. They're not all that personable either.''

''Well, who's her - '' Sara stops. Slowly, she turns to look at Thea. ''No.''

Thea barely looks up from brushing Mary's hair, but does nod.

''No way,'' Sara breathes. ''Madison Crawford? She's still with Graham?''

''Not just with,'' Thea says. ''Married to. Nine or ten years, I think. I remember their wedding was a few months after you and Ollie...went on your boat trip.''

''I mean, I knew they were engaged, but I didn't think they'd go through with it,'' Sara says, moving right past the mention of the Gambit. ''And they brought a kid into their drama?''

''A couple of them actually. There's a younger one too. And she's pregnant again.''

''With twins,'' Dean adds. ''Talks about it all the time. She's having twin girls just like her parents did. It's obnoxious.''

''Oh my god, that's like four kids,'' Sara gasps, horrified. ''She's only thirty!''

''It's Madison Westlake now, by the way,'' Thea comments. ''She's very insistent on that. She'll tell anyone she meets that she's part of the Westlake family.'' She finishes up with Mary's hair, winking at her. ''Not that it should be a surprise that she ended up a Westlake,'' she says, standing back, moving back over to Sara. ''Everyone knew she and Graham were going to keep their toxic sideshow of a relationship going for as long as possible. They've been together since they were fourteen. Although there was that one major off period they had in high school when he cheated on her with... Now who was that again?''

At that, Sara lets out a groan and covers her face with her hands.

Dean can't say he's surprised by that - she was way too comfortable starting an affair with her sister's boyfriend and her friends and family were way too unsurprised for that to have been the first time - but he does give her a look.

She throws her hands up in the air, turning crimson red. ''I've made a lot of mistakes, okay?!''

He shakes his head, moving back to crouch in front of Mary. There's a pretty big thing that's been ignored here in favor of pointless gossip and he's not leaving until he talks to Mary. He doesn't give a shit if they're late. Some kid called his baby girl stupid. That needs to be dealt with. ''Hey, honey.'' He tugs her over to him. ''Look at me.'' He waits until he's sure she's watching and then signs the rest. You are not silly or stupid because you use sign language. You're not. I don't want you to ever think that.

She nods, but he notices, again, that she's wringing her hands, twiddling her fingers. She has never done that up until these past couple of weeks. Her mother does it all the time.

When she drops her gaze back down to the floor, avoiding his eyes, he nudges her gently. ''I wish I was as smart as you when I was a kid.''

A tiny, shy smile form on her lips. She curls one of her fingers around the other and peers up at him, bashful, through her eyelashes. ''Really?''

''Really.'' He winks at her, waiting until he's certain she's watching before he goes back to signing. This is a skill you have, he signs. So do I. So does Mom. The people you love - He stops, brushing the sentence away with a wave of his hand. He tries again. Opts for something different this time. We wanted it to be here for you if you need it. We wanted to give you your best shot. Not everyone will understand and not everyone will choose to learn, but this is never something to be ashamed of. Never. It is something to be proud of.

Mary nods, watching his hands. He's not sure how much of that she picked up partly because she kept looking away and partly because she's still not yet 100% with her signing, but it seems like she gets the gist. ''Are you proud?''

''Of you?'' He leans in closer, brushing hair out of her face. ''Always.''

She seems satisfied with that, grinning. ''I like that,'' she says.

''Me too.'' He draws her closer so he can kiss her forehead and when she pulls away, she seems ready to move on.

She looks at him for a second longer, curious, and then asks, ''Can I wear a hat?''

And we're done with the sentimentality.

''Sure.'' He stands, waving her away. ''Go grab one from your room. But hurry.''

She trots off to go get a hat and he checks his watch for the millionth time. Just to make sure they've still got time. Which they do. As long as she doesn't take five million years to choose a hat.

''Soo...'' Thea looks down the hall after Mary and then back to Dean. ''You ever notice that she talks about Jemima Westlake a lot? Like. A lot. A lot a lot. They're not friends, and Jemima's frequently a little shit to her, but she mentions her nearly every time I ask her about school.''

Dean pulls on his own jacket. ''I've noticed.''

''She's always talking about Jemima's scary pet snake and her pretty hair and her pretty eyes and she really seems to care about her opinion.''

''Yes, Thea, I've noticed. She has a crush. Don't make a big deal about it.''

''Aww,'' Sara coos. ''A baby gay?''

''She's four years old.''

''Okay, yes, but I kinda had a feeling when I was four.''

''And maybe she does too,'' Dean shrugs, picking up Mary's backpack to sling over his shoulder. ''Fine by me. But I don't want to put any pressure on her either way. Again, she's four. She has time. This is something she needs to navigate at her own pace.''

''I'm not trying to make a big deal out of it,'' says Thea. ''Like, we don't need to poke and prod and inundate her wardrobe with rainbows. I'm just saying - I don't know, should we be having these kinds of talks with her at four? Do we do that? I honestly don't know. My parents had zero talks with me. About anything. Because that's the WASP way. You know who gave me the birds and the bees talk?''

''For the love of god,'' Dean says dryly. ''Please don't tell me it was - ''

''It was Oliver,'' she confirms. ''And then it was Laurel because she had to fix what he did.''

''First of all,'' he says, voice terse, ''that's a bummer for you. Second of all, I don't know what this whole we thing is about. I'm her dad. This is my job. It's my responsibility. Laurel and I have been talking to her about the world and the people in it since she was born. It was important to her and she was right. It's best to start young. But none of that is on you, Thea.''

''But...'' She pauses, placing her hands on her hips. ''I'm her favorite aunt.''

''Uh, excuse me, I'm her favorite aunt,'' Sara pipes up immediately.

''You're the cool aunt. There's a difference. I'm the one she's going to go to when she wants to know about sex.''

''You guys, I can teach my kid about the world she lives in,'' Dean snaps, officially out of patience. "I get people think I'm a sheltered dumbass redneck, but I'm really not.''

Thea frowns. ''I've never thought - ''

''I GOT IT!'' Mary comes bounding back into the room with an oversized faux fur lined trapper hat plopped on her head and a pair of white cat eyed sunglasses over her eyes. The sunglasses, which are her mother's, droop with every step she takes and she pushes them up. ''I got my hat.'' She sounds very proud of herself.

''Wow, and the retro glasses too,'' Sara comments, audibly holding back a laugh. ''Lookin' snazzy, babe.''

Dean's lips twitch. ''You ready to go, gorgeous?''

''Yeah, I got my hat now.''

''You certainly do. Okay, give hugs real quick.'' He gives her about thirty seconds to give Thea and Sara her goodbyes but thankfully he doesn't need to call her out on her stalling techniques.

Thea, effortless as always, picks her up and plops her on her hip, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh, successfully distracting her enough to keep her from moaning about school.

Dean slings her backpack over his shoulder, grabs his keys, opens the front door, and -

''Oh, great.'' His shoulders slump in defeat. ''Now I've got the lost member of 98 Degrees on my doorstep.''

Oliver, fist poised to knock, looks quite perturbed by the dig.

Mary, who - for reasons entirely unknown to her father - seems to like Oliver, waves cheerfully from Thea's arms. ''Hi, Mister Ollie!''

He looks surprised by the warm greeting for a second. Either that or he just wasn't expecting the giant hat and sunglasses, which, to be fair, is giving her a weird sort of Marvin the Martian vibe. But then he softens, looking back at her. ''Hi, Mary. You can just call me Ollie, you know.''

''Okay, Ollie,'' she giggles.

''I didn't know you were coming,'' Thea greets him, nudging Dean slightly out of the way with the hip that doesn't have a kid on it. ''Are you here for me?''

''Uh, actually, no,'' he admits. ''I'm here for...'' He gestures to Dean. ''I need to talk to you about something.''

''I don't care about whatever you heard on Joe Rogan's podcast.''

Sara, on her way to go steal the shower before Thea can get to it, can be heard giggling from all the way down the hall.

At least someone appreciates that quality dig. Oliver doesn't react to it at all. He looks at Mary for a second, then at Thea, and then he just says it. ''It's about Laurel.''

Mary, predictably, has a big reaction to that. She gasps loudly, pushing her hat and sunglasses up. ''THAT'S MY MOM!'' She wiggles in Thea's arms until she's put on the ground and then tugs at Dean's hand urgently. ''That's Mommy! Daddy!'' She tugs at his arm and then at his shirt until he looks at her. ''Daddy! Daddy, maybe Ollie knows where Mommy is. Maybe he knows if she is having a sad time and wants cake.''

''Yeah, maybe.'' He tries to force a smile. ''Listen, honey, Daddy needs to talk to Ollie for a second, okay? Auntie Thea is going to help you get all buckled up in the car.'' He doesn't even ask Thea if she's okay with that but by the time he's looked over at her, opening his mouth to ask, she's already slipped on a pair of shoes.

''Yep.'' She takes the backpack from him. ''Come on, Mary.'' She smiles brightly, taking Mary's hands. ''Let's let Daddy and Ollie talk.''

Mary doesn't argue, fixing her hat and sunglasses before allowing Thea to lead her down the steps. ''Okay, bye, Ollie!'' She waves at him with a cheerful smile. ''I hafta go to school now.''

''Bye, Mary.'' He dutifully waves back. ''Have a good day at school.'' He waits until she's traipsing down the path and then calls out, ''You look really cool today, by the way!''

She giggles, throwing one last chipper grin over her shoulder. ''Thank you, I know!''

Dean, for a split second, smiles. He steps out onto the front stoop, shutting the door behind him. ''All right.'' He's already tired of this conversation. ''You got three minutes.''

Oliver, after another look in Mary and Thea's direction, wastes no time. ''Laurel's back in town.''

Dean has a hard time not having a reaction to that than he expected. He inhales, an annoying uptick in the beat of his heart. It's ridiculous. ''How do you know that?''

''I saw her,'' says Oliver. ''Last night. She left a pair of - I'm not sure, muggers I guess - tied up in an alley in the Glades for me to deal with.''

Well, that does sound about right, doesn't it?

''Did you talk to her?''

''No. She took off when she saw me. I would've followed her, but...'' Oliver gestures at nothing. ''Muggers.''

Wouldn't have mattered. Laurel knows how to lose a trail. Dean knows that. He's the one who taught her how.

''I don't know if she's called you.'' Oliver says. ''Or let you know, but I thought you should know.''

Dean looks over at the SUV in the driveway, where Mary is being buckled into her car seat, now sans her hat and sunglasses. He can hear her talking to Thea, can see her swinging her legs, but he can't quite hear what they're talking about. But she catches sight of him. She looks over at the right moment, watching him watch her, and she smiles. She does this thing where she smiles widely, her tongue poking through her teeth, leaning back and tilting her head to the side. She squints like she's trying to look into the sun, preening for an imaginary camera, and then she waves at him.

He waves back.

She truly is her mother's mini me. Everyone can see the resemblance between her and her mother, it's plain as day, especially if you've ever seen any pictures of Laurel at the same age, but sometimes he feels like the only one who notices how alike they are in other ways. Their mannerisms are the same, their expressions, even the way they talk, the way they smile. People say she has his smile, but that right there, that brilliant, beaming grin, that little tongue poking through her baby teeth, the way she smiles with her eyes closed...

That is Dinah Laurel Lance.

No matter what happens, no matter how this ends, wherever he goes, he is never without her.

He hasn't yet worked out if that eases the sting or makes it worse. He smiles back at her, waving. He makes sure he looks as happy as possible for her. When she looks away, he clears his throat, turning his attention back to Oliver, smile fading. ''Thanks for letting me know.'' It's a begrudging thank you.

Oliver seems surprised he got one at all.

''You can get back to business now,'' Dean says casually. ''I'm sure you have a Nickelback playlist to get back to on your Zune.''

That one at least gets a reaction out of the guy. Finally. ''Dean.''

''Sorry,'' Dean says, without even bothering to sound sincere. ''Are you more of a Creed kind of guy?''

Oliver looks dumbfounded. Bizarre that it's the Creed comment that gets to him. Unless he actually does listen to Creed. ...Oh my god, he actually does listen to Creed, doesn't he? It's a tiny pause, miniscule even, and then he shakes it off. ''Do you have any idea where she's staying?''

''Nope,'' Dean says. ''I don't know a thing. Why would I? She's made it clear I'm not on the list of people who get to be in the know.''

Oliver looks conflicted, like he can't decide whether to push the issue. ''I can find out,'' he offers. ''I can track her. Felicity should be able to get you an address by the end of the day.''

''Don't bother,'' Dean says.

Oliver looks surprised. ''But - ''

''You're just going to piss her off.'' Dean steals another look at Mary, waiting for him in the car, swinging her feet. ''If you provoke her, she'll just run again.''

''She won't even know I'm there.''

Dean tamps down the small, amused smile that crosses his lips. ''Yes, she will,'' he says simply. ''She knows how to spot a tail. Just because you think you're smarter than her doesn't mean you are.''

''I don't - ''

''Just - '' He breaks off in a sigh, holding a hand up. ''Leave her alone,'' he orders. ''If she wants us to know she's here, she'll let us know.''

Oliver doesn't look pleased with the dismissal.

Dean doesn't much care. ''I'll see you, Mister Mayor,'' he says, and then brushes past him and down the front steps.

He approaches the SUV just as Thea is finishing up her goodbyes to Mary, promising to have a tea party with her after school. When she closes the door and turns to him, the happy, bright look on her face shifts to worry. ''Everything...'' She looks over his shoulder towards her Oliver. ''...Okay?''

He barely even slows down. ''Talk to your brother.''

She doesn't argue with him, noting the tension in his shoulders, but she does raise her eyebrow at the curt dismissal. He doesn't even care. He'll make it up to her later. He makes his way around the SUV, climbs into the driver's seat, and lets out a long breath. He closes his eyes and grips the steering wheel. It's not even nine in the morning and he's already losing his mind. Should've just stayed in bed.

''Daddy,'' a little voice from the backseat says.

His eyes snap open.

''Does Ollie know where Mommy is?''

Holy shit, he forgot she was there.

He inhales and then looks at her in the rearview mirror, trying to force a smile onto his face. ''No, sweetie, he doesn't.'' Which, technically, is not a lie. Oliver doesn't know where she is. Just that she's somewhere in this city. Dean tries to rush past it, cranking the ignition. ''You got everything?'' He turns to look back at her. She's put her mom's oversized sunglasses back on and pulled Conrad the cat out of her backpack and has him curled in her arms. ''You and Conrad all ready to go?''

She looks, momentarily, downtrodden by the lack of progress on her mother's whereabouts.

He smiles for her and asks, cheerful, ''What kind of band aids did Auntie Thea put in your backpack today?''

She lights up. ''Ninja Turtles!''

''Awesome! I love those guys.''

''They're scary turtles.''

''They're not scary. They're action heroes.''

''Oh,'' she nods seriously. ''Like Mommy.''

It's always about Mommy, isn't it?

''Just like Mommy,'' he agrees. He knows he needs to get it together here. Right now, what he really needs to do is be cheerful and to focus on driving.

Thankfully, there's Mary. The best distraction. She waits until they get to the end of the block, stopped at a stop sign, and then she says, ''Daddy, do you know about sea otters?''

''I'm vaguely familiar with them.''

''They hold hands when - when they're sleeping.''

''Do they?''

''Yeah.'' She bobs her head up and down. ''So they don't float away.''

''Did you learn that from Octonauts?''

''Yeah!'' She kicks her legs. ''Octonauts!'' She looks out the window, watching a motorcycle whizz by in the opposite direction, mumbling the Octonauts theme song under her breath. ''Daddy, do you think Jemima Westlake watches Octonauts?''

He glances at her in the rearview mirror again. ''I don't know, pumpkin,'' he says cautiously, relatively unsure where to go from here. She really does talk about Jemima Westlake a lot. It would be a lot cuter if Jemima Westlake wasn't such a tool. ''I bet some of the kids in your class have probably seen it.''

She frowns directly at him in the rearview mirror as if to say, That's great, but not what I fuckin' asked, bud.

''You know,'' he muses. ''I used to hold your hand when you were sleeping.''

She relaxes. ''You did?''

''I did.''

''Why?''

''You liked to know I was there,'' he says, like that's all totally in the past and he doesn't still lie in bed with her every night until she falls asleep - something that all the parenting books seem to be vehemently against. ''And I couldn't fit in your crib to lay down with you.''

She giggles and exclaims, ''We're like sea otters!''

''Just like sea otters,'' he agrees, a smile tugging at his lips.

''Daddy,'' she begins, very serious. ''I have an idea. When Mommy comes home, you should hold her hand when you're sleeping. So she doesn't get lost again.''

Yep.

All roads lead back to Mommy.

''That's - That's a good idea,'' is all he manages to sputter out, after an extended pause.

Mary barely notices, too busy humming and singing the Octonauts theme song to herself.

Okay.

So.

He can't ignore it anymore.

Laurel's back in town. He feels like he should be angry or brooding or...something. But he's not. He has no idea how he feels. He wants to know why she's back. If her goal was to lead Edie away, why come back? Wouldn't that defeat the purpose? What happened that brought her back? Last night, when he called and she answered, she was here. She was in the Glades. What should his plan of action be here? Does he look for her? Wait for her to come to him? What if she doesn't? Should he call her father?

He looks at Mary in the rearview mirror again, just a quick look. She's looking more anxious as they get closer to the school, her grip on her stuffed cat tighter now, her singing less animated, sunglasses slipping down her face. It's normal for a school day. Mary is the kind of kid who needs a little extra help, a little extra love. She's shy. She doesn't know how to interact with other kids her age and, as they've all learned since she started preschool in September, they don't know how to interact with her.

Being deaf in one ear is a disability. It just is. She is playful and energetic and joyful, just like any other kid her age, but she is different. There is something about her that is different and kids, especially the ones in the 3-5 age range, don't always know what to do with that. They're not patient. They don't understand. It's not their fault, they're not trying to hurt anyone, but it upsets Mary. The kids are so young and they are, at the end of the day, innocent, but innocence isn't always harmless.

Mary loves her teacher and most of the time, she comes home happy and she's learned so much since she started school. Her language skills, balance, confidence, even her, at this point very limited, social skills have all vastly improved. But she doesn't like school. It's stressful for her.

He can understand that. He may not have a disability, but he does understand, in a way, what it's like to be different and to be rejected - however innocently - by your peers. He looks back at Mary while they're stopped at a red light, smiling, and she stares back at him, noticeably anxious.

...No.

He's not going after Laurel. He is not going to drive around the Glades, searching back alleys and cheap motels for his runaway bride. Oliver is free to do what he wants and he's sure Sara will tear the place apart until she gets to her, but Dean? No. He has a child to raise. If there were no Mary, yeah, sure, he would be down there right now. He would do anything. But there is a Mary and she deserves better. She deserves at least one parent who will give her their undivided attention. Laurel can make whatever foolish choices she wants to make, but Dean will always choose Mary.

Every time, he will choose Mary.

Someone needs to.

''Hey, Mary,'' he calls out, drawing her attention back to him. ''You doin' okay back there?''

Her voice is quiet when she replies with a nervous, ''I don't know.''

''Do you feel sick?''

''No.''

Okay, well. Different approach then. ''Are you excited for Show and Tell?''

Her response to that is a succinct and curt, ''No.''

Should've seen that one coming. ''I admire your honesty,'' he says. ''Straight to the point. I respect that. What about Conrad? Is he excited?''

''No,'' she sighs sadly. ''He's not excited. He wants to go to the pool. Maybe the mall. And get a pretzel with a hot dog in it. And a smoothie.''

Hm. Very specific. ''I didn't know cats ate pretzel dogs and drank smoothies.''

''The stuffy ones do.''

''Gotcha. That makes sense. Maybe after school, we can make him a smoothie at home.''

Mary sighs again, because her life is very hard. ''Okay.''

He has to look in the rearview mirror again to check on her because that was way too easy. She's got her face buried in Conrad the cat, peering sadly over the soft plushie to gaze in the rearview mirror. It's quite an effective puppy dog eyed look. She must get that from her uncle.

Dean never knows what to say on these morning drives. Nothing changes her mind about school, but he doesn't want to necessarily validate her anxiety and make it worse.

She's quiet for the rest of the drive, right up until they turn down the street her school is on, and then she pipes up again. ''Daddy,'' she says, abandoning her sunglasses along with the trapper hat on the seat beside her. ''What's your favorite color?''

''My favorite color,'' he repeats. ''Uh, I don't know. Red, I guess?''

''Mommy says her favorite color is the color of your eyes.''

''She - Oh. Well, that's...'' He fumbles around for a second, caught off guard. ''That's nice of her to say.'' He pulls into the parking lot of the preschool. ''What about you? What's your favorite color?''

''I have two,'' she says seriously, with a speed that suggests she has been thinking about this. ''Purple and yellow.''

''Purple and yellow. A lovely and understated combination.''

''Yeah!'' She cheers, kicking her feet again, decidedly happier even as they pull into a parking spot, bringing the inevitability of the looming school day closer. ''But I like red too,'' she chirps. ''The Flash's suit is red. And Supergirl has red boots!''

''She does.''

''I like her boots.''

''You are your mother's child,'' he says, turning the engine off and releasing his seatbelt. A quick look at the clock on the dashboard tells him that they are miraculously on time. There are still kids filing into the school, still parents coming and going. Mary's preschool is a freestanding Montessori school with a few different classes and an attached daycare, which, aside from being absurdly expensive, means the crowds are fairly large during the morning drop off. It's never helped with Mary's anxiety.

Although...

She seems far less anxious right now. For some reason.

''I love Supergirl,'' she says cheerfully. ''She's my best friend.''

''Wow, you have a lot of friends,'' he says. ''You must be really popular.''

She giggles happily, pulling Conrad up. ''Yeah, I'm really popular.''

He chuckles lightly, hoping against hope that maybe just maybe her good mood means today's drop off might go smoothly. He gets out of the SUV, pausing when he spots Jemima Westlake and her mother across the parking lot. Curiously, purely just to see what happens, he throws out his best friendly and charming smile and waves at Madison.

She does not wave back. She notices him, even makes direct eye contact, standing there with her top knot and her designer diaper bag, but she refuses to wave back. He can't help but laugh.

See, now he's wondering if her frosty attitude has less to do with being a snob and more to do with the fact that the family he married into includes the woman her husband once cheated on her with.

He shakes his head and pulls open the back door, smiling widely for Mary. ''All right, you ready?''

She grins at him and exclaims, happily, ''NOPE!''

He's not even surprised.

''I'm not going to school,'' she informs him. ''Let's go get Supergirl and go swimming!''

''Mary - ''

''No school! Only swimming!''

''Maybe we can go swimming sometime soon,'' he suggests, unbuckling her and holding his arms out.

Instead of allowing him to pick her up out of her car seat, she sinks back into it and her bright smile fades. ''No school,'' she pleads, moving her hands up to cover her face with her cat. ''No school, Daddy.''

''Don't you want to show off Conrad?'' He makes his best attempt at pointed cheer as he lifts her out of her car seat and sets her on the ground. ''You were so excited for Show and Tell yesterday.''

''No,'' she pouts, grumpily hiding her face in the stuffed animal. ''I'm not excited.''

''Aw, come on. Not even a little?'' He helps her back into her coat and grabs her backpack, crouching down in front of her. ''I bet Conrad's excited. He's really cool. I bet he makes some new friends today.''

''No,'' she snaps. ''He's not excited. He wants to go home.'' Reluctantly, pouting the whole time, she loops her arms through her backpack. Unfortunately, the brief interlude only gives her time to formulate another excuse. ''Daddy,'' she gasps, looking up at him. ''We have to go home! I didn't say bye to Betty!''

''I think Betty's sleeping,'' he says. ''But when I get home, I'll tell her that you love her and you'll see her after school.''

''But she doesn't like you!''

''Mary.'' He can't decide if he wants to laugh or sigh. Very gently, he takes Conrad out of her grasp and tucks him under his arm, taking her hands. ''Betty's okay. I promise. She's chilling in her little house. She's having a good day. And you're going to have a good day too.''

''No, I won't!''

''You won't?''

''No!''

''Hm. If I recall correctly, that's what you said yesterday too and then you wound up having a great day, didn't you?''

She nods, readily agreeing with this. ''Yeah, 'cause we painted hearts.'' She pulls her hands out of his grasp and holds them up, wiggling her fingers. ''With our fingers. But no hearts today.''

''Maybe no hearts, but it is Show and Tell. You've been waiting for this all week.''

''I don't want to do it! I want to go home!'' She emphasizes this with a well timed, albeit clichéd, stomp.

''I get it,'' he says, standing straight. ''But I think we should at least go in and say hi to Miss Daisy and Stella, don't you think?''

She pulls the hood of her jacket up over her head and pulls the strings to tighten it, hiding nearly her entire face from view. Then she stares up at him, completely silent, blinking innocently.

It's hard not to laugh.

Eventually, she looks down at the ground and whispers, ''Okay.''

''That's my girl,'' he cheers. ''All right, let's put Conrad in your backpack so he doesn't get lost.'' He turns her around, unzipping her backpack to slip the cat inside, and then zipping it back up. She says nothing, allowing him to tuck her toy away without protest, still hiding in the hood of her jacket, but she does take his hand when he offers it. She doesn't drag her feet as they cross the parking lot, doesn't even speak, and he thinks that's a good sign. Maybe.

He's wrong.

They get all the way inside the school, past the front office, steps away from her classroom, and then she starts slowing down and her grip on his hand tightens. He looks down at her and she's got one hand curled into a fist, covering her eyes, face scrunched up, trying to pretend she's not crying.

''Mary.'' They stop just outside her classroom and he crouches down in front of her, pulling her closer to him. ''You're gonna have so much fun today.''

''I don't want to.''

''Why not?'' He pushes her hood back and gently moves her hand from her eyes. ''I thought you loved Miss Daisy. Don't you want to see her?''

''But I don't like school,'' she whimpers. ''No one likes me.''

Man, that never gets easier to hear, does it?

A knife in the heart every time.

''Honeybee, people like you.''

''No. I wanna go home.''

''Mary - ''

''I wanna stay with you,'' she cries out, and then just launches herself at him, nearly head butting him in the process. This is not an abnormal occurrence. They have had many weekday morning meltdowns like this. He's usually better at dealing with it, he's usually stronger, but right now he's exhausted and he keeps thinking about the glint of the knife in his father's hand, plunging down toward his child's exposed throat. He's not sure he's up for the this is why it's important to go to school debate. He's also not sure he's up for playing hooky and taking her to go get some waffles either.

Would probably be easier if he had, oh, I don't know, a co-parent or something, but he doesn't. Hardly had one before his wife went AWOL, to be bitterly and resentfully honest.

There is, however, Miss Daisy.

''Mary!'' Miss Daisy - otherwise known as Daisy Wilson - the head teacher in Mary's classroom pops her head out the door with her trademark liveliness and her bright, energetic grin. ''Good morning,'' she chirps. She brings no attention to the tears. ''How are we feeling this morning?''

Mary lifts her head slightly, for maybe a second, and then hides her face back in Dean's shoulder.

''She's not feeling school today,'' Dean explains, entirely needlessly.

''No?'' Daisy steps further out into the hall, shooting a smile and a wave at a passing parent before she plops herself down on the floor and sits there cross legged next to Mary. ''How come?''

''I don't want to go to school,'' Mary mumbles. ''I wanna go home.''

Daisy nods sympathetically, her dangly star shaped earrings tinkling softly. ''I understand,'' she says. ''Sometimes I just want to stay all cozy in bed with my dog and not get up. Especially when it's a rainy day.''

Mary pulls away, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. ''I don't wanna go to bed.''

''Are you feeling nervous about something?'' Daisy asks. ''Or is it just that you want to stay with your daddy?''

''Yeah, I - I want to stay with my daddy.'' Mary turns her big tear filled eyes back to Dean. ''I want to stay with you.''

''Mary,'' he starts, as gentle as possible. ''I promise we'll see each other after school.''

''No!''

''It'll be here before you know it.''

''No,'' she demands. ''I don't want to be here. Please,'' her voice trembles. ''Daddy, please, I want to go home.'' She legitimately looks like she's about to have a panic attack, wringing her hands, breathing shakily. He's not sure what to say to help her.

Daisy seems completely unfazed. ''Hey, hey, Mary, sweetie.'' She places a hand atop Mary's halting the nervous, compulsive hand wringing. ''Listen, I know you have a great daddy.''

Mary nods emphatically, still tearful. ''Yeah...''

''And I totally get why you want to stay with him. I bet he's really fun, right?''

Another nod and a nervous, gulping breath. ''Uh-huh.''

''But, you know, the thing is if you leave you'll miss out on Show and Tell,'' Daisy reminds her. ''You were so excited about that.''

Stubborn as ever, Mary shakes her head. ''I'm not excited,'' she states, adamant. ''I don't care.''

''I think you'll care if you miss it,'' Dean chimes in.

''No, I won't,'' Mary insists, although she is starting to sound unsure.

''Are you sure?'' The kind, sweet smile never falters on Daisy's face. ''You've been looking forward to this all week.''

Mary pinches her lips. She rubs at her eyes, resolve visibly beginning to crack.

Miss Daisy is the only reason Dean hasn't pulled Mary out of this preschool. It's wildly expensive and he still has no clue what the difference is between a regular preschool and a Montessori preschool or why that warrants such an insane price tag, but Daisy is a godsend. There is no one as patient as she is with Mary. She is energetic and eager, old enough to have a backbone of steel, young enough to still be idealistic and charming, and Mary loves her. Daisy may not be able to make the other kids like, or even understand her, but she has everything a sensitive and shy kid like Mary responds to.

Dean isn't willing to give that up just yet.

''Remember when you and I talked about it yesterday?'' Daisy asks her. ''You said you were going to bring your stuffed cat. What was his name?''

Mary looks down at her hands. ''Conrad.''

''Conrad.'' Daisy grins. ''That's right. Did you bring him?''

Mary doesn't answer, so Dean answers for her. ''You did,'' he reminds her. ''Do you want to show him to Miss Daisy?'' Her only response is a muted shrug, but when he pulls the stuffed animal out of her backpack and hands him over, she accepts him willingly. She holds him close for a second, curling him toward her for a second in a tight squeezy hug and then thrusts him toward Daisy, eyes still on the ground. ''This is Conrad,'' she mumbles. ''He's my Mommy's favorite.''

Dean feels his entire body tense, jaw clenching.

They've managed to make it all these months without the whole ''surprise she's alive!'' thing becoming an issue. Mary knows that, for now, Mommy is a secret. She knows that her home life is different from other kids and she can't talk about it - not that she really wants to. But she's also four. Dean has been waiting for a slip up for months now.

But Daisy is unruffled and patient, her lips still pulled into a kind smile. She doesn't even mention the present tense. ''Hi there, Conrad.'' She reaches out to pet the stuffed cat's head, but doesn't dare try to take him. ''You know what? My mom has a cat who looks a lot like this.''

Mary slowly raises her eyes, a spark of interest in her gaze. ''Your mommy has a kitty?''

''She does. His name is Thimble. I think he's probably a little older than Conrad, but he's really cuddly. He lives on a farm with my mom and stepdad in Oregon.''

''I can't have kitties,'' Mary says matter-of-factly. '' 'Cause Daddy's allergic.'' And then she turns her head and glares at him.

Daisy looks like she is having a hard time keeping a straight face. ''You know,'' she says, waiting until Mary turns back to her to continue. ''I actually brought in some pictures of Thimble and all the animals at my mom's farm for Show and Tell.''

Mary's eyes widen. ''You did?''

''Mmhmm.''

Kid's on the hook now. ''Can...Can I see?''

''You can see during Show and Tell,'' Daisy proposes. ''In fact, I could use a helper today to help me hold up all the pictures and pass them around. I was wondering if you might like to help me out, but if you're leaving...''

Mary looks intrigued by the proposition. She looks over at Dean, visibly torn.

''What do you think?'' He grins. ''You want to stay and help out Miss Daisy?''

She bites her lip. She hugs Conrad. ''I want you to stay,'' she says, shuffling a closer to him.

''I can't stay,'' he says. ''I have some things I need to do. Grown up things. Boring things. But I'll be here to pick you up later,'' he assures her. ''Maybe we can take Conrad for a walk in the park and you can tell me all about Show and Tell. Sound good?''

She still looks conflicted. ''I don't know,'' she says in a shaky voice. ''I don't want to miss you. I miss Mommy.''

He tries not to flinch at that, avoiding glancing over at Daisy and the inevitable pity in her eyes. ''Mary,'' he starts. ''I am going to come back. You don't have to miss me.'' He strokes at her hair. ''I'll see you when school's over. I won't be long.''

She looks nervous still, but he can tell she is coming around to the idea. The cat pictures really sealed the deal. ''When - When does school...be over?''

''After lunch.''

''You'll come get me?''

''I will.''

''You, not Auntie Thea?''

''Not Auntie Thea today,'' he say. ''Today it'll be me.'' He takes her hand, tugging her closer. ''I'll be right outside when the bell rings. I promise, okay?''

Her voice is still a little shaky but mostly determined when she says, ''Okay.''

''Okay.'' He smiles at her. ''Come here, brave girl.'' He kisses her cheek and pulls her in for one last hug. ''I love you,'' he says.

''Watch out for snakes,'' she says back.

He takes that to mean I love you too. ''I will.''

''And don't trip and fall and die.''

He looks at her for a second, blinking in surprise. That is...a new one. ''I won't.''

''You have to be careful.''

''I will be.''

''And be nice to Betty.''

''I'll be sweet as pie.''

Over her shoulder, he notices Daisy poking her head back into the classroom before turning back. ''Tell you what,'' she says brightly, just as Stella, the only other adult in the classroom, pops up. ''How about you and Stella show Conrad around before circle time starts,'' she suggests. ''You can show him where your coat and outside shoes go and the picture you drew yesterday. How does that sound?''

Mary shrugs again.

''Hi, Mary,'' Stella greets, invariably perky for so early in the morning. ''Did you bring in a new friend?''

Mary ducks her head into Conrad. ''Conrad.''

''Should we give Conrad a tour?''

Mary stalls for a few seconds and then gives up and takes a deep breath. ''Okay.''

''Awesome,'' Stella chirps. ''I'll just take your backpack from your dad here.'' She takes the backpack from Dean's hands, shooting him a wink, and then holds out a hand. ''You ready?''

Mary doesn't say yes, but she doesn't say no either. She takes Stella's hand and lets the other woman lead her into the classroom and away from Dean. She only looks back once. He can still see the apprehension in her face when she looks back at him, but he can tell she is trying hard to be brave. He watches her from the doorway as she lets Stella lead her over to her cubby to change out of her rain boots.

''She'll be fine,'' Daisy's gentle voice says from beside him, less high pitched now, not quite as saccharine but still sweet. ''She always is.''

She's right. Mary will warm up. This is what she does. Whether or not she plays with the other kids is a crapshoot, but despite the ordeal mornings are, she usually does wind up having a good day. She likes Miss Daisy. She likes Stella. She likes to learn and she likes all the books and the toys and the playground outside where she sits, alone, on a bench while all the other kids play together. She likes to draw pictures. She likes that she gets to sit closest to Miss Daisy during story time and that Stella eats lunch with her because nobody else will. And she really likes Jemima Westlake. For whatever reason.

She'll be okay. She'll be smiling when he picks her up. Doesn't mean it doesn't sting when she's terrified and pleading with him to take her home nearly every morning. He can't help but notice that it's been worse these past couple weeks. Ever since Laurel left.

''Sorry about the trouble,'' he says, turning his attention to Daisy. ''It's been a rough morning.''

''Oh, please don't be,'' she says, brushing it off. ''It's not a problem. Some kids need a nudge in the morning. It's completely normal.''

''Yeah, she's just - We had a bad night,'' he admits. ''She had this nightmare. I'm not sure if she's tired or just...''

Daisy nods understandingly, although a frown pulls at her lips as she looks over at Mary. ''Was the nightmare...about her mom?'' She looks nervous just to be asking. ''I'm sorry,'' she adds on hastily. ''I don't mean to pry. It's just, um, she's been talking about her mom a lot more recently. About how she went away.''

Aw, fuck, there it is.

''She...'' Great, now he has to lie to the sweet as punch preschool teacher. ''I wasn't...aware of that.''

''Grief comes in waves,'' Daisy says. ''I know her mother was very loved. I can't imagine losing someone like that.''

Yeah, yeah, the People's Princess.

What the fuck ever.

''It's been hard,'' is all he says. What else can he possibly say?

''That's understandable,'' Daisy tells him. ''There's been a lot of change. She's had a lot of loss.''

You have no idea, he wants to say, but doesn't.

''Excuse me.'' They don't even have a chance to move when they hear the terse voice before Madison Westlake is brushing in between them. There is no acknowledgement or apology given. She just barrels right through.

Listen, Dean is trying real hard to extend some grace because the woman is massively pregnant with twins and she's constantly got her sticky, squirming toddler on her hip, but she is just so consistently rude.

Even Daisy frowns after her, looking irked, and this is not a woman who frequently looks irked.

''Lovely as always, Mrs. Westlake,'' he mutters, just out of earshot.

Daisy almost starts to smile, but then catches herself. ''She's been frazzled lately.'' She looks at her classroom full of kids, gaze softening as she looks from Mary to Jemima. ''Before you go,'' she looks back to him, voice soft. ''There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about. I was wondering if - I know if can be overwhelming to think about,'' she says, treading carefully. ''But if you'd like, I could put together a list of resources. Grief counseling, play therapy. There's no pressure. This is only if this is something you'd be interested in. I just think it might be beneficial to her. She's been through a lot for a child her age.''

It would be so easy to decline the offer. Come up with an excuse. Tell her that they've tried grief counseling and it didn't do much. Because that's true. Therapy is hard when you can't speak candidly about all the shit that's made you need therapy. He doesn't tell her that. ''Actually, that would be great. Thank you.''

Daisy looks relieved that a parent has taken her advice and not needlessly blown up at her. ''Of course,'' she says. ''I'll have a list ready for you tomorrow morning.'' She excuses herself to get back to her class, patting his arm softly, but he lingers in the doorway, eyes seeking out his daughter.

She's still with Stella, clutching tight to Conrad. She's changed out of her red boots and into her inside shoes and she has, as usual, gravitated over to the class fish, but she still has that petrified somebody get me out of here look in her eyes. She's not crying, though, which is an improvement. He watches her for a moment longer and then, like she can feel his eyes on her, she turns and looks right at him. He smiles brightly, encouragingly, and signs, I love you.

She doesn't smile, but she does sign it back.

Before he turns to leave, he looks over at Jemima Westlake. She's sitting all alone at one of the tables, flicking her braids of long red hair over her shoulder and sucking her thumb. She doesn't look like the devil incarnate. She just looks like a tired and sad little girl. That's the worst part of conflict between kids. There are no good guys or bad guys. Just tiny humans that don't understand their big emotions.

He leaves while Mary isn't looking, slipping away from the doorway and back down the hallway towards the door.

He's not sure what grown up stuff he has to do now. He should probably go grocery shopping. He should check up on Hanna. He knows he needs to be looking for a job. Witch threat or not, at least one income needs to be coming into the house. And he is not, under any circumstances going to go drive around the Glades, aimlessly searching for Black Canary's ghost. But man is it ever hard to tamp down that instinct.

Love is in the bones.

People don't realize that. They think it exists only in the heart, the soul, but that's not true. Love is in the bones. It's in the blood. It's muscle memory and instinct and reflexes. Right now, knowing that she's back, that Laurel is here somewhere, every reflex is for her. It doesn't matter how angry he is, how hurt, how furious, it really doesn't.

Nothing has changed. Every part of him itches, every reflex, every instinct, every bone in his body says -

Find her.

Bring her home.

It's hard to ignore that.

Dean pushes out into the dreary February morning and starts down the wet cement steps. He's not paying attention, busy digging around in his pocket for his keys, trying to think of something to do that does not involve running after his runaway bride, but when he happens to look up, inexplicably drawn to the park across the street, he stops. Just freezes right there on the steps. There is a woman standing in the park. He can only see her profile, her pale face somewhat obscured by her dark hair, but he knows her immediately.

Tessa.

The second he sees her, he feels cold. It spreads, creeping down the back of his neck, and he has this flash, this memory of those cold hands pulling him out of his nightmare last night. He starts to move, jogging down the rest of the steps, and she starts to turn, but a school bus passes by at that moment and when it's gone, so is she. He stands there in the middle of the parking lot, scanning the park, the sidewalk, the lot, anywhere. Tessa is not there. He is no longer sure she ever was.

He only moves, only snaps back to reality when the sound of a car horn pierces his shock and he realizes that he is still standing in the middle of the parking lot, with cars attempting to weave around him. He moves out of the way, stepping out of the road, but still finds himself looking around, searching for Tessa in every woman in the parking lot.

It was probably just his imagination. He's tired, he's distracted, and he feels all over the place. But how often are there true coincidences in his life? Those things happen to other people. Not to him. There are no coincidences in his life. He's not that lucky.

He finally fishes his keys out, but does nothing with them, even when he reaches the Equinox. He can't seem to take his eyes off the park across the street. It's a small park, the leftovers of a much larger one that was bulldozed to make room for the housing development that takes up most of the block. It's a small grassy area with a couple trails winding through the park, a pathetically neglected and ancient playground that parents usually bypass in favor of the newer, safer one across the street at the school, and a few benches and one single picnic bench.

But it has a pond and there always seems to be a duck or two waddling around, so Mary loves it. She often insists on going there after school to check if her favorite duck, who she has lovingly named Fred, is there.

He leans against the SUV and watches the park, lips pulled down into a frown. There is nothing untoward happening there. He's not getting any spooky vibes. There's a woman with a particularly bouncy looking ponytail and a jogging stroller stretching by the picnic bench. There is an old man with a large umbrella feeding the ducks by the pond. There is not a reaper in sight.

Selfishly, just for a moment, Dean hopes that if Tessa is there, she's there for one of them. Anyone but him. He tries not to think it, but he does. After a second, the morbid thought goes away. Tessa isn't there. The park is small, there are only two people, and there is still no reaper in sight. There is nothing to worry about. There is nothing to fear.

''I'm losing my mind,'' he mumbles to himself, which, to be fair, does seem like it could be a possibility. It would explain a lot. He fumbles with his keys, unnerved by the sudden urge to turn back, to make sure the young ponytailed mom and the old dude getting overly familiar with one of those ducks are okay.

Somewhere in the parking lot, a baby is crying. The sound, more like an angry screeching than a cry, distracts him from his thoughts. He looks around when the angry squawking grows louder. It is followed by the sound of clattering, like the contents of a bag have been spilled onto the cement and a woman's shaky and stressed out voice snapping, ''Damn it, Sophie.''

He recognizes the voice immediately.

Dean inhales sharply.

Shit. I mean... He could just leave. He could. He could pretend he heard nothing, get in the stupid SUV, and go get a latte. He doesn't owe her anything. And she's been such an ass to everyone around her. He has a real allergy to entitled rich folks. But...

Fuck.

It would be so much easier if he could just be the douchebag some people seem to think he is. He pockets his keys and hurries over to the ridiculously expensive and equally as ugly Range Rover two spaces down where Madison Westlake is at the end of her rope.

She's struggling to get her screaming, squirming, red faced toddler into her car seat and she looks just as red faced as her kid, tears dripping down her cheeks, voice shaky and stressed as she attempts to plead with the girl. She's so busy trying to get the kid in the car and protect her belly from the flailing limbs that her diaper bag has been all but forgotten about, unceremoniously dropped on the ground along with her purse and a purple water bottle. The contents of the diaper bag are scattered all over the ground and the hard plastic water bottle is cracked, water slowly leaking onto the pavement, a thin stream inching closer and closer to her purse.

He is well aware that there's a fairy high chance he is going to get yelled at - or at the very least glared at - if he attempts to help, but he can't just leave her here. He opts to approach with an abundance of caution and his most charming smile. ''Mrs. Westlake,'' he greets. ''You need a hand?''

She looks frazzled and embarrassed, barely sending him a cursory glance before she looks away, likely to hide her tear streaked face from view. ''Oh, um, that's - You don't have to.''

''It's no trouble,'' he says, purposefully upbeat. ''Everyone needs a hand now and then.'' He sweeps the contents of the diaper bag back into place in one swift movement, saving them from the water. By the time he grabs her purse and the water bottle and stands back up, she's completely given up on getting Sophie into the car seat and has her in her arms.

The little girl is less flaily, but she's still crying and squirming, pulling at a fistful of her mom's hair. He is, frankly, concerned about the combination of fussy toddler super strength and a heavily pregnant mom.

Madison, meanwhile, just looks exhausted. She's wincing at the pain from Sophie tugging at her hair and there are still tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, but she looks completely checked out. When he starts to suggest a trade, she doesn't even hesitate. She doesn't even let him finish the sentence before she's practically shoving her child at him. She barely even knows him. Little Sophie seems more concerned with being handed over to a stranger than her mom is with actually handing her over.

She must be really going through it.

Dean mentions nothing about it nor does he bring any attention to the tears on her cheeks.

Madison turns away as soon as she has handed over Sophie and taken her purse and diaper bag, ostensibly to rearrange the bag and dump out the cracked water bottle, but more so to compose herself. He's on board with that. He would much rather deal with an ornery toddler than a crying pregnant lady who has historically been standoffish.

''Hi, sweetheart,'' he says to Sophie, reflexively settling her on his hip, bouncing her slightly. ''It's Sophie, right? I'm Dean. You and Mom having a rough morning?''

She looks at him for a minute, pouting, eyes full of tears, and then she lets out a howl and tries to fucking backflip out of his arms. He can hardly blame her. The death defying stunt work is a bit much, sure, but she has literally never met him before. He can't blame her for wanting to get away.

He keeps her from pulling an Evil Knievel, reaching into the backseat of the Range Rover to grab her forgotten toy. It's a purple stuffed elephant - that unexpectedly jingles when he picks it up - with green ears that seem to be made out of the same kind of silicone teething rings are made out of. Which gives him an idea of what they're dealing with here. ''Hey, baby, look.'' He jingles the elephant for her and she looks at it, but doesn't stop crying. ''Who's this?'' He shakes it to make it jingle.

She grabs for it again, but doesn't quite reach, which only serves to upset her further, but instead of screaming at him, she just wilts. Lets out a gulping sob and drapes against him miserably. Oh, okay. She's tired.

Yeah, same.

''Sophie,'' he prods. ''Here, honey, you want your elephant?'' He hands the elephant over and she snatches the thing from him like Gollum after the One Ring.

She doesn't hesitate to shove one of the ears into her mouth and start gumming away at it. It calms her down right away. She is still sniffling and whimpering, but she's not screaming and thrashing.

''She's tired,'' Madison speaks up. She's still a step away from them, hanging back like she's terrified Sophie's going to start screaming at her if she gets too close. ''And teething. We were both up all night.''

''That sounds miserable.'' He runs a hand over Sophie's head. ''Poor baby.'' Then he looks at Madison, shooting her a smile. ''And poor mom. I do not miss the teething phase.''

She manages a somewhat small smile in response, but doesn't start crying. Up close, she looks a lot less guarded and surly. She mostly just looks stressed and at her limit. ''Thank you,'' she says, somewhat awkwardly. ''You didn't have to - ''

''It's not a problem,'' he says. ''How old is she?''

''Fifteen months.''

''Oh yeah, that's a rough age.'' He looks at Sophie, now tuckered out, head resting on his shoulder. She seems completely chilled out, gumming at her elephant ear. ''Should we...'' He trails off, not wanting to say it, nodding toward the open back door and awaiting car seat.

Madison doesn't look terribly enthused about the prospect of attempting the car seat struggle again, but she nods. ''Probably.''

It's not the slightest bit difficult. He puts Sophie in her seat and he and Madison both do their best to distract her by talking to her and waving toys at her while Madison buckles her in, but it's not needed. Sophie just sits there staring at them like why are you guys being so weird about this? Such is the nature of toddlers.

''Thank you again,'' Madison says, once Sophie is all strapped in and ready to go. ''People don't usually...'' She smiles nervously. ''I think I might have resting bitch face.''

''Seriously, don't worry about it.''

''You're...'' Her brows furrow as she looks at him. ''You're Mary's dad, right?''

''That's me,'' he nods. ''Dean Winchester.''

''I'm - ''

''Madison Westlake,'' he cuts in with a nod. ''I know.''

''I'm - I'm surprised you haven't - well, I know our girls have...'' Her mouth tightens. She doesn't seem to know how to end that sentence. ''I don't know how much you've been told, but I know my daughter... I'm sorry if Jem's been unkind to Mary. I know she's - It's been a – It's been kind of rough lately. At home.'' Her voice is hushed and squeaky, like she's trying to keep from crying again, but she does sound sincere.

''Mrs. Westlake,'' he says. ''Are you all right?''

''Yeah.'' She smiles, but it's thin. ''Yes. Just family drama.'' She tries unconvincingly to laugh it off. ''You know how it is. Anyway,'' she seems to straighten her posture. ''I should get Soph home. Thank you again for your help.''

''Anytime.'' He touches her arm reflexively, just a friendly gesture that he makes automatically without thinking. And she flinches. Quite noticeably.

It's not some disgusted, snobby flinch, as if her rich blood is too good for his peasant hands. It's an instinctive one, nervous, something her body has practiced. Her cheeks redden as soon as it happens.

He doesn't mention it, but he does recognize it. He files that away for later. It's the only thing he can do. ''You two get home safe, okay?''

She smiles weakly, nodding.

He waves at Sophie, who waves back probably just because it's fun to wave, and turns to leave. He only gets a few steps away before Madison calls after him.

''You were married to Laurel Lance, weren't you?''

He stops. This could go one of two ways and he is not sure he's up for either one of them. He turns back around, but doesn't step back over to her. ''I was.''

Madison nods. There's a strange look in her eyes, almost sad. ''I went to school with her,'' she says. ''She was always so nice. Even to the people who didn't necessarily deserve it.''

''That sounds like her.''

''I'm so sorry for your loss. I - I can't even imagine.''

''Thank you.''

''She came to my wedding,'' she blurts out. ''I remember that. I always thought that was - that was really nice of her. It was only a few months after...'' She stops, nervously clearing her throat. ''We were all so sure she wouldn't come, but she did. I thought that was brave. She handled that whole thing with a lot of bravery.''

He would agree with that. Laurel wouldn't.

''I know we lost touch, but it was - it was awful when I heard what happened to her,'' Madison continues, babbling away anxiously. ''She was so young.''

''Yes, she was.''

''I wanted to send flowers, but when I saw in her obituary that donations could be made to the local women's shelter in her name, I - I donated.''

''That's good of you,'' he says, even though he's growing more and more perplexed with every word she says.

''It's - '' She moves a hand to her baby bump briefly. ''It's a good organization,'' she says. ''The women's shelter. I didn't even know we had one.'' She pinches her lips together and throws a look over her shoulder at Sophie, waving before she looks back to Dean. ''Your daughter,'' she says. ''She looks a lot like her mother, doesn't she?''

''She gets that a lot,'' Dean agrees. He has no idea what's going on here, but this is not the Madison Westlake he has met in the past, the one who makes a fuss about her daughter's gluten free and vegan diet and threw what can only be described as a fit when the school announced that they were going peanut free to accommodate little Noah Murphy and his deadly peanut allergy.

This Madison is contrite, kind even, and twitchy. She looks like she's about to burst into tears at any given moment. She is pregnant and he knows that can screw with your emotions - not to mention the fact that she has two young kids, one of them teething - but she's been pregnant this entire time. That's never stopped her from being frosty before.

''Mrs - '' He stops. He reconsiders his approach. ''Madison.'' He takes a small step over to her. ''Is there something else you needed?''

''No,'' she says quickly. ''I don't - I don't know.'' She lets out a harsh, shaky breath and covers her face with her hands. ''You - '' She slowly, seemingly reluctantly, moves her hands. ''You were married to the Black Canary,'' she states. ''Laurel was the Black Canary.''

''That wasn't part of her life that I was involved in,'' he says, reciting the long practiced lie he's been reciting since April.

''I - I know,'' Madison says. ''I know her family was cleared of any involvement after she, um, after she passed. But things are more complicated behind closed doors. I know that too.''

What's frustrating is that he can't get a read on this woman. He has no idea where the hell she's going with this. ''What is it you're getting at here?''

''I'm not - I'm - God.'' She closes her eyes. ''This is so stupid.'' She seems to pull herself together rather quickly. She takes a few breaths, opens her eyes, and says, ''I'm wondering if you know how to get in touch with the Green Arrow.''

''The - '' Yeah, see, he couldn't possibly have seen that one coming. ''Why?''

''It's - Well, I have this...problem.''

''What kind of problem?''

''It's...'' She pauses and then instantly loses her resolve. ''No. No, it's nothing.'' She shakes her head. ''Never mind. It's nothing. I shouldn't have - My husband would be furious if he knew I was even thinking about - He hates the vigilantes. Hates them.'' She visibly swallows, drawing away from him. ''I can't just - I mean, it's absurd.''

''Madison.''

She looks torn. She rubs at her pregnant belly for a second and then looks back at Sophie. ''It's my sister,'' she admits, looking back to him. ''My twin sister, Paige. She's, um, well, we… We think she might be missing.''

''You think she might be missing?''

''Yes.''

All right, well, damn. Now he's invested. ''Have you reported it?''

''That's the thing. We've been trying to. The police won't do anything. She's an adult and she has a history.'' She crosses her arms. He can see the anger bleeding into her watery eyes. ''They think she's just some junkie too strung out to pick up the phone.''

Alarm bells. Alarm bells going off in surround sound. ''But you know that's not what's happening.''

''My sister has her struggles,'' Madison says. ''But we're twins. I know something's wrong. I can feel it.''

''How long has it been since you last talked to her?''

''Um, I - '' She wipes at her wet eyes. ''I talked to her on Saturday. I was supposed to pick her up at this - this awful motel that she goes to,'' her voice cracks. ''But I wasn't feeling well and my husband didn't want me to go, so my dad went there on Sunday. It's...where her dealer is and my dad was going to take her home, but she wasn't there and none of us have been able to get a hold of her. Even her dealer hasn't seen her. And I know how that sounds,'' she adds on hastily. ''I know what the cops think of her. I know that addicts - they run away.'' She looks down at her pregnant belly. ''I - We have been dealing with this for so long. It's been eight years of this hell. But that's not...'' She sniffles and looks up. ''That's not what this is. She told me she wanted to get better. I know you probably don't believe me, but this is the first time in eight years that she's come to us wanting to get clean. I'm having twin girls. Just like us. She said she wanted to be part of that. She wouldn't run. I know it, I know she's in trouble.''

''I believe you,'' he tells her.

It seems to floor her. ''You do?''

Truthfully, if he didn't have a certain piece of information that she doesn't, he might've been a little skeptical, but...

Edie is taking addicts.

She and her people are devouring the vulnerable population. Homeless people, drifters, runaways, addicts. And it's only getting worse. The Glades is littered with missing person flyers. Just because someone is a vulnerable member of society doesn't mean they're a meaningless member of society. They are loved and missed just as much as anyone else. People are looking for them. Just not the ones with power and resources.

The uptick of missing persons cases coming out of the Glades these days have barely made the papers, the news won't talk about them, and the SCPD has - and will continue to - turned a blind eye to it all, which is undoubtedly what Edie was hoping for. But that doesn't mean no one has noticed. The people in this city, the normal every day citizens, they've noticed. They may not have the money or the power or the proper resources, but they're talking, they're spreading awareness, they're trying.

And if Edie has now taken a rich white girl...

It's only a matter of time until her operation gets flipped on its head.

''You're a twin,'' Dean says. ''You guys have that spooky connection, don't you? If you feel like something's wrong, something's probably wrong.''

Madison looks like she could sob with relief. ''So you'll - You can - ''

''I can put a few feelers out,'' he says. ''But I need to know more.''

''Sure. Anything.''

He looks over her shoulder towards Sophie. She's starting to get restless again, he can see her starting to kick her feet, looking around for her mom. He knows he needs to let Madison get back to her as soon as possible, but there's one thing he needs to know to make sure this is what he thinks it is. ''This motel your sister hangs out at,'' he starts. ''Was it in the Glades?''

.

.

.

February 2014

In the end, Dean lasts about forty minutes, give or take.

Thanks, in large part, to Cas.

The thing about Cas, as a human, is that he is remarkably, and somewhat inexplicably, well adjusted. It was difficult at first, sure. There was a lot to adapt to. He had a hard time finding a place where he fit. And he was so damn stubborn about it too, refusing help, insistent on finding his own path independent of the Winchesters.

However, over the past couple years he has carved out a nice quiet life for himself. He is still atrociously awful with money and he cannot keep a job to save his life, but he seems happy. He seems to have found peace. That's the most important thing. He has found a way to live with himself, with the things he's lost and the things he's done, and everything in between.

Right now, he is working at a used bookstore downtown, which seems like a good fit and, as an added bonus, is close enough to the DA's office that when she was working there, it was easy enough for Laurel to drop in on her break or for Dean to show up and claim he was just in the neighborhood because he was bringing Laurel lunch.

He has the farmer's marker every weekend. He has his bees and his hobbies and has even managed to amass a small but loyal group of friends. He likes to volunteer, filling his weekends and spare time with shifts at various soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and nursing homes - one of them Beatrice Drake's place of residence. Apparently, he is the fastest carrot peeler at the soup kitchen down by the hospital and all the ladies at the nursing home Bingo Night love him.

And he's a good friend. He regularly brings Laurel tea, flowers, scented candles, poetry books from the bookstore, anything he thinks she'll like. Sort of like when a cat brings you back a dead bird. He emails Dean a lot of recipes and always brings over baked goods from the farmer's market. He gives Sam podcast recommendations every time he sees him. He is devoted to Mary, mastering ASL before either of her parents.

Whatever it is he feels he needs to atone for, he's done it. He has earned his peace. He deserves this slice of happiness that he has made for himself in the midst of this weird city.

He also really, really likes to talk about it.

There are times, not gonna lie, where Cas can ramble on and on about what his bees are doing and Dean only gets maybe half of it. Tonight, he welcomes it. He sits at the kitchen table, thumbing through the various rehab pamphlets they were given when Laurel was discharged, while Cas picks through their tea selection and babbles about some blooming romance at the bookstore between the owner's college aged daughter and the girl who comes in every Thursday after her yoga class. It's a welcome distraction, if not a little much.

''You know,'' Dean comments, pulling his phone out of his pocket. ''Human you is starting to sound like a real gossip.''

''I'm not a - '' Cas throws an offended glare over his shoulder. ''I don't gossip,'' he objects. ''I merely...observe.''

''Dude, that is so much creepier than being a gossip.''

Cas shakes his head, turning back around to the teapot he's just finished washing.

Dean smirks lightly, though it feels hollow tonight. He brings up Google, types in the name of one of the rehab facilities from the pamphlets, and starts scrolling through the reviews.

Laurel has, so far, not been entirely receptive to the idea of rehab, but he figures it couldn't hurt to at least do some research. He feels like a hypocrite given the way he flatly shut down the idea of rehab back when he was the one trying to sober up, but this is a very different situation. It feels dire, more fragile. He can't be her only support here. She needs more. And this place in Ocean Park looks pretty good. It's right by the water. It has a garden. It looks clean. They take note of every patient's dietary restrictions and take care to give them healthy, clean food. They offer a lot of services, including various different therapies for any underlying mental health conditions. Their website is kind and reassuring and, for some reason, looking at it, reading the comforting words, all the lists of things they offer, and picturing his wife there, sick and sad and being taken care of by strangers makes him feel like splintering apart into millions of little pieces.

Here is the biggest problem with rehab: they currently do not have health insurance. Nothing, nada, zilch. That means they would have to pay out of pocket and they're not in the best shape financially as it is, not with her expensive drug and alcohol habits, not with all of Mary's needs, and definitely not with the week long hospital stay. He expects to be paying that one off for a long time. Best case scenario is Medicaid but that's not something that happens instantaneously and Laurel needs help now.

''Hey.'' He looks up just as Cas turns. ''Hand me the calculator out of that drawer, would you? To your left.''

Cas fumbles around in the drawer for a minute before plucking the calculator free and handing it over. He sits down across from Dean and blows on his hot cup of tea.

''So,'' Dean says. ''How does it feel to be a supporting character in an indie romance flick?''

Cas hems and haws thoughtfully for a moment, which Dean is busy pulling up info on what a standard rehab stay would cost. ''I'd say somewhat exhausting,'' Cas finally says. ''If they'd just talk to each other...''

''What is love without unnecessary miscommunication, misunderstandings, and long, drawn out pining?'' Dean looks up with a halfhearted smile. ''It's about the yearning, man. Haven't you ever watched a movie?''

''Probably not quite as many as you,'' Cas responds, reaching for a cookie.

''I've been telling you to remedy that for years, but you just keep reading books instead,'' Dean quips, as if the living room and bedrooms in this house are not cluttered with shelves full of books, random piles popping up everywhere you look. He scrolls through the most trustworthy website that lists costs of rehabs in Washington State, feels a bit of hope when he sees that most offer sliding scales, and then loses all hope completely when he gets to the standard bare minimum price of a 30 day stay. ''Holy shit,'' he mutters, harshly jolted back to reality.

$30,000.

For a month.

Holy shit.

Really, he's not entirely sure why he's surprised that rehab is fucking expensive. Most things in this country are. It's not like he's ignorant to the state of things. Rehab is, like many other things, a business. It's a scam, and a booming one at that. For every legitimate facility run by people with good intentions, there are five luxury rehab palaces run by snakes whose only intention is to drain desperate people dry. Even when it comes to the good, legitimate facilities, they cost money. Everything costs money. It costs money to live. It costs money to die. It costs money to be healthy, to be sick, to just be. It's said that most Americans are one medical emergency away from bankruptcy and he's just not sure they can afford for this to be that emergency.

This is America.

No one is coming to save you.

He doesn't know what he expected.

''Is Laurel thinking of inpatient treatment?'' Cas asks, sifting through the pamphlets.

''I don't know,'' Dean says. ''But I doubt it.'' He puts his phone down. ''There's no way we would be able to afford that without insurance. We don't have that kind of money on a good day.''

''The fact that a significant number of rehab centers in this country are for profit is evil,'' Cas declares, frowning down at one of the brochures. ''All they're doing is preying on vulnerable people. It's despicable. That should be illegal.''

''That,'' Dean says, leaning back, ''is the American way.'' He holds up a pamphlet. ''Plop an addict in a glorified hotel with free food and horseback riding, drain their bank account, and then enable them in their failure so you can kick them out and suck in another poor sap. Sounds about right for this place, doesn't it? Take in the sick, make them sicker, and then toss them out on their ass when their pockets are empty. It's not a new story. Whole goddamn place is built on grifters.''

Cas lifts his eyes, slightly concerned, but then looks back down at the pamphlet for the fancy private center over the border in Vancouver, Canada. He frowns, undoubtedly wondering what art classes, day spas, and deep tissue massages have to do with sobriety. When Dean reaches for a cookie, without even looking up, Cas slaps his hand away. Dean hisses.

''Hey, what - ''

''I did make those for Laurel,'' Cas reminds him, putting the brochure down. ''You know that, right?''

''But - ''

''And you've already had eight.''

''I haven't had...'' Dean pauses for a second, ticking of the number of cookies he's eaten on his fingers. ''All right,'' he admits. ''Well, I didn't eat much dinner.''

''I noticed. Not a fan of Indian food?''

''Just distracted,'' Dean says. ''I was too busy making sure she ate.''

''Would you like me to fix you a plate? There's plenty of leftovers.''

Dean stares at Cas, trying to give him puppy dog eyes, but the former angel just stares back blankly. He is not impressed.

Still eventually gives up, though.

''Fine,'' he sighs, pushing the Tupperware container over to Dean. ''One more.''

Triumphant, Dean snatches a cookie and eats more than half of it in one bite.

Cas rolls his eyes, pulling the container back and snapping the lid in place.

Dean finishes off the cookie and then checks his watch. Forty minutes. That's long enough. He grabs his phone, standing and sliding it into his pocket. ''I'm going to check on Laurel and Mary.'' He pauses before he turns away. ''If you need a ride home...''

''Actually,'' Cas says slowly. ''I thought I would stick around a little while longer. If that's all right.''

Dean has no idea why he's so relieved to hear that, but he tries not to let it show. ''Fine by me.'' He starts to leave the room, but only gets to the dining room before he turns and backtracks into the kitchen. ''How do you get your cookies so chewy?''

Cas, standing back at the counter with a clean, empty mug in his hands, says simply, ''Brown sugar, of course.''

''Huh.'' Dean moves over to the fridge, grapping a pencil from the magnetic cup on the side of the fridge and adding brown sugar to the grocery list. ''Good to know.''

He heads back down the hall to Mary's room, pausing in front of the door. Maybe it's just the sugar rush, but he's not feeling quite as angry anymore. It's still there simmering below the surface and he expects it will be for quite some time, but mostly what he's feeling right now is that he misses her.

He keeps thinking of her alone in some rehab center in Seattle or Lynnwood or Everett, somewhere he can't reach her, can't help her, and it hurts. Laurel is alive and she is healing but this, too, is a type of grief. He thinks they're all going to have to learn to live with that now.

He pokes his head into Mary's bedroom as quietly as he can, but the glider is empty. Mary is fast asleep in her crib, peaceful, and the baby monitor is on, but there is no sign of Laurel. She's not in the master bedroom either, or the bathroom. He does not immediately jump to panic. ...For the most part. He's mildly concerned.

Mildly.

That's all.

He checks the living room, asks Sam if he's seen her, even checks the guest bedroom. Eventually, he finds her out on the back porch. She's slumped in a chair, hands in the pockets of the oversized hoodie that's practically swallowing her, baby monitor on the table in front of her. She's just staring out at her garden. He doesn't approach right away. Doesn't even open the sliding glass door. He's kind of hesitant to.

He goes to find a blanket, plucking Beatrice Drake's afghan from the back of the couch. He will admit he's moving slower than usual, but he's just not sure how to do this. He is petrified of saying the wrong thing and triggering her. He is not someone known for being good with words. The way he sees it, she needs someone to say the right things. He's not sure he can do that. He clearly hasn't so far. Maybe if he had, she wouldn't have tried to kill herself.

He bundles up the quilted blanket, inhaling deeply.

''Dean.''

He turns at the sound of Cas' voice, watching him approach with a steaming mug.

Cas holds a mug over. ''Here,'' he says. ''This is for Laurel.''

Dean sniffs at it tentatively, wrinkling his nose at the floral grassy scent. ''What is it?''

''Tea.''

''I realize that.''

''It's chamomile with lavender,'' says Cas.

''Lavender?'' Dean pulls a face. ''You put flowers in her tea?''

''Lavender is edible,'' Sam calls out from the dining room.

''I didn't personally put the lavender in, no. It's just a regular tea bag. You can buy it at the grocery store. I got this from a friend at the farmer's market.''

''You have a tea dealer?''

''I have a friend at the farmer's market.''

''You brought your tea from home?'' Sam asks, still from the dining room, a bundle of fancy spoons in his hand. ''Do you bring your own tea with you everywhere you go?''

Cas looks bewildered by the question. ''Don't you?'' The ensuing silence and looks is apparently not the answer he has been expecting because he sighs and looks like he's going to roll his eyes for a second there. ''Just give it to her. It's soothing. It should help her sleep. She needs her rest.''

''All right, all right.'' Dean doesn't argue...right away. But then he makes the mistake of tasting the hot flower water. ''Ugh, that's - come on, man,'' he scowls. ''It's like you brewed grass and spritzed it with perfume.''

Cas stares at him flatly and shoos him away.

Dean takes both the hot grass perfume and Bea's quilt down the hall, slipping out onto the back porch. He notices the way she visibly tenses when she hears the door slide open, but she doesn't turn around. He feels inexplicably nervous. He doesn't want to intrude. If she needs a minute, he wants to give her a minute. But he doesn't want to leave her alone either. He looks at her profile as he cautiously approaches, searching her face for any sign that something might be wrong. It's an automatic response at this point. He feels like he's holding his breath every time he looks at her.

Wordlessly, he puts the steaming mug of tea on the table and she looks up when she spots it. She gives him a fleeting smile and he relaxes. ''Thank you,'' she says, as he drapes the blanket over her shoulders. She takes the mug off the table. There is still a faint tremble to her hands, there will be for a while, but she is steadier than she has been in months.

He is going to have to learn, in the midst of all this grief and anger and chaotic love, how to be grateful for the little things. Today has been hard, but it has also been, perhaps above all else, a still day. You have to learn to accept the small pieces of grace that life gives you.

Laurel sniffs at the tea and Dean pulls a chair over to the table. She does not look nearly as turned off as he was. ''Chamomile?''

''Lavender chamomile,'' he takes, taking a seat. ''It's supposed to be soothing. Cas made it for you. Brought it from his own personal stash and everything.''

She takes a tentative sip and is not immediately repulsed, so that must be a good thing. ''It's good,'' she says. Doesn't even sound like she's lying. ''Thank him for me.''

''Sure,'' he nods. ''You want me to pick some up the next time I'm at the grocery store?''

''I don't want you to go out of your way.''

''It's no trouble,'' he says. ''I can get you some tea.'' He leans across the table, searching her face again - or at least what he can see of it. She won't even look at him. ''Laur.''

Slowly, she looks at him, finally meeting his eyes.

He tries not to read too much into how ill she still looks, how dull and lifeless her eyes are. It's been a physically and emotionally grueling week for her. Hell, it's been a rough year. He knows that. He understands the sickness of grief and addiction. But there are so many other factors to her story, so many pieces of her undoing that he isn't able to understand, even though he wishes he could, and he can see these things branded on her face and body. But he can't take them away.

''You feeling okay?'' He tries to keep his voice light. ''Physically, I mean. How are you?''

''Oh, I'm - I'm fine.'' She throws him a brittle smile.

''You sure? You seemed a little shaky earlier.''

''I'm...'' She looks down at her tea. ''I'm just, um...'' She winces. ''I'm still kind of - ''

''I get it,'' he cuts in, giving her an out. ''The first stretch is the hardest.''

''I think I just need to get a good night's sleep. In my own bed.'' She takes a sip of her tea. ''My stomach's still a little off.''

He eyes the table in between them. He wants to move it out of the way so he can touch her, but he doesn't know if she wants to be touched. ''Maybe a smorgasbord of Indian food wasn't the best idea for your first night back.''

''No, I loved that.'' She looks over at him and this time, her smile looks real and genuine. ''You know it's my favorite. I think the masala chai helped settle my stomach. Plus, now we have lunch for like the next fortnight with everything you ordered.''

''I couldn't decide,'' he says somewhat sheepishly. ''There were so many options.''

She laughs. It's still so tired sounding, but it's a laugh, a real laugh. ''Sure.''

He grins back at her, relaxing back into his chair, watching her, relieved just to hear that laugh again. ''What is a fortnight anyway?''

''I think it's a week.''

''I thought it was longer than a week.''

''No, I'm pretty sure it's a week,'' she says, confident although faltering. ''Isn't it? My grandmother always said it was a week.''

Dean eyes her dubiously. He takes out his phone and pulls up Google, thumbs tapping away on his screen. ''A fortnight,'' he reads, ''is a unit of time equal to fourteen days.''

She clicks her tongue. ''Damn.''

He throws a look up at the night sky. ''Sorry, Bea.''

''Dean, she's still alive.''

''Yeah, but you know what else she is? Omnipresent.''

''Don't tell her you think that. Her ego doesn't need a boost.''

''If she's omnipresent, she already knows I said it. Maybe even knew before I said it.''

''Oh my god, that's so much power.''

''Remember that one time we took her to the Cheesecake Factory and she accurately predicted that two different waiters were going to drop their trays?'' He shakes his head, exaggeratingly widening his eyes. ''Spooky.''

''I remember getting diet coke dumped down my back while I was nursing.''

''I tried to take the hit for you, but it all just happened so fast!''

''She did warn us that it was going to happen.''

''Yeah, but I didn't think she'd get two in a row. Laurel,'' he says seriously. ''Baby, what if your grandmother is God?''

''Again,'' she says, voice dry and sarcastic even as her lips are slowly curling back into a smile. ''Don't tell her that.'' She draws one knee up to her chest and reaches for her tea, taking a few more sips. Her hands, he can't help but notice, are no longer trembling. Her eyes aren't quite as dull.

It's a small thing, but it feels like a victory.

''When she was four,'' she starts after a minute, pulling the blanket a little tighter around her. ''Sara got it in her head that Grandma had cameras all over the house.''

He makes a show of snapping his fingers. ''Yes, that's it.'' He points a triumphant finger at her. ''That's what it is. Beatrice Drake: Always Creepin'.''

She giggles, actually giggles. It's such a nice sound. ''She thought Grandma was sending the footage directly to Santa Claus. She was so well behaved for those couple of weeks.''

''Oh, that's good,'' he says. ''We might have to use that one.''

Laurel gives him one last smile over the rim of her mug. ''I wonder...'' She rubs at the chip in the mug with her thumb. ''I wonder if Sara remembers that.''

The easy, almost lighthearted mood, much needed after this week, begins to evaporate. The pained, ashamed look in her eyes starts to bleed back through.

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. The last thing he wants to talk about right now is Sara Lance and her chaos. He barely knows the woman and he knows he's biased, but so far he is not a fan. She just waltzes back into her sister's life after six years, expects to be welcomed with open arms like nothing happened, gets pissy that Laurel still remembers the hurt she caused her, and he's supposed to like her? That's going to be a no from him. He can't find one damn thing to like about her. However, she's here and it looks like she's here to stay.

Laurel is angry - rightfully so - and hurt, but she loves her sister. It doesn't matter what she's done. In the end, she will take her back. She will bring her into her life, into their lives, into Mary's life, and he's just going to have to deal with that.

To Sara's credit, at least she has shown more remorse than Quentin and Dinah have during this past week.

Certainly more than Oliver Queen, that megalomaniac bastard.

''You know, uh, Sara's been - ''

''I know,'' she cuts in with a nod. ''Sam told me. I'm not - I don't think I'm...there yet.''

''That's okay,'' he says quickly. ''You don't have to be. Even I'm not there yet after last week's shitshow.''

She winces again. ''I'm sorry about that.''

''Don't be. Wasn't your fault.''

She doesn't look like she believes that. She puts the mug back on the table and pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. ''I didn't think they would...be like that.''

''Their behavior is their behavior,'' he says, firm. ''It's on them. It has nothing to do with you or me.''

''It's...'' She picks at her wedding rings. Wrings her hands nervously. ''It's good that she's trying, right?''

There are a lot of ways to answer that question. ''It could be,'' he says. ''At the very least, she's determined.''

''Always has been.'' She looks up at the sky for a minute, breathing in, and then she looks back at him. ''Has she said anything to you? About anything?''

''Just that she wants to talk to you.''

''What did you tell her?''

''I told her you were sick,'' he says. ''It's a variation of the truth. I'm not sure she believed me.''

''What about...'' Her finger rubs over her engagement ring, the one that used to be her grandmother's. ''What about Grandma? Have you spoken to her?''

He pauses before he answers that one. It's a loaded question. Truthfully, he's spoken to a lot of her family.

Sara is the most persistent and the most desperate, calling regularly, showing up at least once a day to peer over Dean's shoulder, this close to pushing past him to get to her sister. He's pretty sure she thinks he's got Laurel locked in a closet.

Quentin is more exasperated with everything than anything else right now, still choosing to cling to his disappointment in her for how that foolish dinner ended rather than examine his own behavior. He's fed up with her spiral, but still concerned enough to call daily and he is getting increasingly angry that she ''won't'' speak to him, so he'll show up sooner rather than later.

Dinah texted once. The morning after. It was a reprimand. She thought she was owed an apology for Laurel's behavior the night before. That woman is something else. He deleted that one the second he saw it on Laurel's phone and he is never going to tell her about it.

Bea is the only one who seems to understand that there might be a deeper reason why Laurel hasn't come to the phone. She still tries, calling every evening, but at this point she's stopped asking for her granddaughter and only asks Dean for updates. She wasn't at that dinner - which, he suspects, was by design on Dinah's part, she had to have known her mother would have shut it all down when things started going south - but she knows Laurel hasn't been well and it's obvious she's worried. Not being able to tell her the full truth was one of the hardest parts of this past week. He kept thinking if he told her, maybe she could help. Maybe she would know what to do, what to say, how to handle this. Maybe she would be able to tell him what to do. Maybe she would be able to take care of Laurel in all the ways he apparently can't.

Laurel didn't want her family to know she was in the hospital, still doesn't, and he understands why, so he told no one.

''I have,'' he acknowledges after an uncomfortable period of quiet. ''She's been calling a lot. I told her the same thing - that you were sick. I tried not to outright lie to her. But...''

''But?''

''I think she suspects something's wrong. She worries about you.''

Laurel visibly crumples at that. Just shrinks right before his eyes. ''I... I never meant to... I don't want to worry her.'' She looks like she's going to cry, but she doesn't, clenching her jaw, visibly pushing it back even as her shoulders slump in defeat. ''She's already been through so much. I never meant to add to that.''

''I know,'' he assures her, even though he knows it won't be enough. He can see the cracks starting in her again. It has been so long and so much of this that he has memorized all the signs. Just because she's sober doesn't mean she's fixed. The addiction is a symptom, not the cause. ''Hey.'' He moves the table out of the way and pulls his chair closer to her, reaching out to take her hand. ''Laurel, you didn't do anything wrong.''

She shakes her head. ''You know that's not true,'' she says softly. She looks at his hand holding onto hers for a moment, her eyes wet, and then she tugs her hand free. She wipes at her eyes with her sleeves and sniffles. ''Earlier, I was... I was reading to Mary,'' she starts shakily. ''She was just lying there looking up at me and she kept burrowing into me.''

''She does that,'' he says. ''Bea calls her her little snugglebug. She says you were the same way when you were her age.''

She sits back in her chair, misty eyed and guilt-ridden. ''She points now,'' she says. ''She points at the pictures in the book.''

''She does.''

''I didn't know that,'' her voice trembles. ''I didn't know she was there yet.''

His instinct is to tell her that she did, that she knew, that he told her, but when he stops to think about it... He's not sure she did know this one. Babies grow. They grow quickly and there is no slowing down to let anyone who fell off the train catch up. There are a lot of things Laurel has missed out on. He's been right here in the thick of it, cleaning up vomit and shit, dealing with teething and tantrums, diaper rash and hunger strikes, baby led weaning and a disastrous attempt at sleep training, but she's been a million miles away. She has lost so much time. Time that she can't ever get back. He still can't decide if he's angry with her for that or just unbelievably sad for her.

''She was... She was so calm,'' she says. ''She was content just to be there with me. She kept looking at me with those big eyes and I kept thinking about how I almost left her. If I,'' her voice cracks. ''If I had died, she wouldn't have understood. She wouldn't have understood where I... Where I went or why I wasn't coming back.'' She looks sick just saying it. ''I couldn't stop thinking about her sitting there, growing up, wondering what she had done wrong.'' She barely gets the words out before she starts crying. ''It wasn't her,'' she cries. ''It wasn't. It was never her. And it wasn't you either. You didn't do anything wrong. Neither of you. You know that, right?'' She looks at him pleadingly, tears sliding down her cheeks. ''Please tell me you know that.''

''I know that, Laurel,'' he says, reaching out to put a hand on her knee. ''I know.''

''I love you,'' she's barely able to choke out. ''And I love her. I do, I swear I do. I know it may not seem like it sometimes, but I love you both so much. I never meant to - This isn't on you. None of it is. It's just me. It's all me. I don't know why.''

''Babe - ''

''I don't know why I'm like this,'' she sobs. ''I don't know why I can't just be happy. It's like there's poison in my brain and I can't get it out. I have everything. I have everything.'' Even as she says it, desperately pleading with herself to just be happy, she's still sobbing and she still looks miserable. It's like she's choking on grief and the insatiable emptiness inside of her that she can't seem to fill up and he doesn't know how to fix it.

He's so used to fixing things. However it needs to be done, he does it. He fixes. He's never dealt with anything like this before, pervasive and destructive, like a black mold. He can't fight this for her. His hands are useless, his body nothing, his words cheap and utterly meaningless. This is not an enemy he has fought before. It's not even his enemy to fight.

''I'm sorry,'' she says, choking it out like a plea. ''I'm so sorry for everything I've done. Everything I've put you through. I jeopardized our entire life. I put us in danger. I...I said such horrible things. It wasn't fair. You didn't deserve it.''

''Okay.'' Automatically, he cups her cheek. He doesn't know if he's trying to snap her out of it or if he just wants to touch her, to have her feel his hands on her. ''Okay, honey - ''

''I just got so tired.''

''I know.''

''I got so tired. And I didn't see... I... I couldn't see a way out. I couldn't - I - ''

''I know, baby.'' He moves his hand to her other cheek, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. ''I know,'' he says again, even as he is realizing, with an increasingly sick feeling, that he does not.

He has been low before, he has been unbelievably low. He has thought about his own death before, visualized it, wondered, thought of it as a release, a relief. He has been drunk, he has been high, he has been the sloppy addict. And he has clung to those memories over the past handful of months, those lows, as a way to connect with her. He says he knows how she feels. He says he understands. He says he has been where she is. But, now, hearing her lay it all out on the line like this...

No, he doesn't think he has ever been where she is. Where she is right now, that level of despair and fear and hopelessness, sounds absolutely terrifying. It's excruciating to think of her in that much agony.

''I thought you would be better off,'' she say. ''Both of you. I thought you would be better off without me. I told myself it wouldn't matter if I was gone. I'm practically a stranger to her. She doesn't know me. I told myself she wouldn't remember me. I didn't matter.''

He moves his hands from her face down to her shoulders, rubbing at her arms in a wasted effort to keep her warm, even though he knows her shivering isn't because she's cold.

She hastily tries to wipe at her eyes, but the tears don't stop. ''I thought my mom was right,'' she says, practically a whisper. ''She...She hates me so much and I don't - I've never known why and I thought...if my own sister and parents can't love me, who can? Who would want to? I must have...done something wrong. There must be something wrong with me. I thought no one would miss me.'' She coughs out another sob before pinching her lips together like she's trying to keep from saying more, but she can't keep it all from pouring out. Not anymore. ''I got so lost. And I couldn't find my way back. I'd look in the mirror and there was nothing staring back at me. It was like I wasn't there. I was just this bottomless abyss. Drinking made it less scary, but it didn't...'' She sniffles miserably, trying and failing to get herself together. ''It didn't fix anything. And I just wanted to go to sleep. The pills helped me with that, so I thought... But then that night, I...''

There is so much shame burning in her eyes right now. He feels like he should try to take that away, make it better, but he doesn't know how. Is there a way to make this better? Guilt is a relentless monster. It's hard to see the other side of it. Now that is something he knows.

''I don't know what I wanted.'' She drops her gaze down to her lap. Her voice is wobbly and small. ''I just wanted it to stop. I wanted it all to go away. I couldn't get away from the pain so I thought... It just all got so dark.'' ''Hey.'' He takes her hand again, cold and small in his. ''Look at me for a second.'' He waits until she lifts her gaze to him before he declares, as if this one little thing will make it all go away, ''It's okay.'' ''It's not,'' she refutes, shaking her head. ''It's not okay. How can it be okay?''

''All right,'' he acknowledges. ''It's not okay.'' He squeezes her hand. His instinct is to offer more. He wants to tell her to stop, that it doesn't matter, it's over now and they can move on.

An hour ago, he was stewing in his own anger and complicated grief and he knows, logically, that all of that is still there, but he doesn't want it to be there. He wants to wave his hands and make it go away. He loves his wife. He wants to help her. He wants to be able to absolve her. He knows that's not how it works.

''You were sick,'' he says, still holding tight to her hand. ''You made mistakes. I can't tell you that you didn't. But you're here. You're still here. We both are. We're back at the beginning. Sound good?'' He smiles softly, moving his free hand to her knee. ''This is where we start again. Where you start again.''

She moves a hand up to rub at her mouth. She still looks like she's in so much pain. ''I don't know if I...'' She clutches at the blanket. ''What if I can't?''

''You can,'' he says. ''You already are.'' He lets go of her hand, scooting his chair even closer, close enough that their knees touch. ''Listen to me. I know that this is a fight. There's no way around that. I know you're hurting. And I know I can't take it from you,'' he admits regretfully. ''If I could, I would. I swear I would take this from you.''

She nods her head, still shaky. ''I know you would.''

''I can't carry you up this hill, but I can give you a light to follow when you're lost. Just like you did for me. I'll be your light. Sweetheart, I will be every light in every darkness for you,'' he vows. ''I can do that. And I can forgive you. If that's what you need, I can give you that. But I need you to follow the light.'' He leans in closer, gently curling a hand around the back of her neck, bringing her in and pressing his forehead against hers. ''I'm calling your name,'' he whispers. ''I'm calling your name as loud as I can, but I need you to keep walking towards the sound of my voice. Can you do that?''

''I'm trying.'' Her fingers grasp at his shirt, holding on for dear life. ''I want to try.'' She pulls away to meet his eyes. ''I want to try,'' she says again, stronger this time.

It's a start.

''We wouldn't be better off,'' he tells her. ''I need you to know that. No one would have been better off without you.''

She tries to smile, but it slips off her lips. ''I'm sorry,'' she says again. ''I'm - ''

''No, Laur, stop,'' he pushes gently. ''I don't want you to keep apologizing.''

''I'm just...'' She sits back in her chair. She wipes at her damp eyes and looks back out to her garden, wilted and dreary in the dark winter night. She closes her eyes for a moment. ''I used to be different.'' She opens her eyes and looks down. She puts one finger over her lips, deep in thought. The moonlight catches on her engagement ring and shadows play on her face. He watches her profile, notes the way he can tell what's going on in her head, even in the dark. ''When we met.'' She moves her hands down, picking at her cuticles. ''I was someone else. I was...lighter.'' She looks over at him with this half apologetic, half resigned look on her face. ''You were right when you said you didn't sign up for this. I'm not who you married and the truth is that I don't know if I can ever get that person back. I don't know if she even exists anymore.''

She says it as if he hadn't already figured that out. He's been grieving his wife since the earthquake. He hasn't seen her since. There has been someone else living in his house, sleeping in his bed, someone with her face, her hands, her voice, but it isn't her. It's been a long, hard year. He feels, in some ways, as if he has been living in a ghost story. But he can still say, with the utmost confidence, that none of it has ever made him question his love for her.

Maybe he should have said that more.

He leans back in his chair. He watches her sad eyes, her nervous hands, her pinched mouth. ''Dinah Laurel Lance,'' he says, a slow smile spreading over his lips. ''The prettiest girl in the whole damn world. Don't you get it? I remember you as you were then, I see you are you are now, and I love you just the same.'' He knows that nothing about this is simple, but that part is. He thought he had made that known.

She still seems surprised. ''Why?''

He doesn't even have to think about it. ''Do you remember when we decided to skip the whole wedding thing and just get married? You were pregnant and I was being an asshole about it.''

''You weren't - ''

''I was,'' he says simply. ''I was an asshole. I was terrified.''

''We both were.''

''Yeah, but I should've handled it better,'' he insists. ''And I knew that. That's why I asked you to marry me that weekend. I wanted to make it up to you.'' A smile tugs at his lips. ''I still remember what I said. I told you that the way you walk into a room knocks me the fuck out.''

It gets a laugh out of her. He has never been happier to hear her laugh.

''Here we are,'' he goes on, ''a couple years later - and the way you walk into a room still knocks me the fuck out. I told you I wanted to spend the rest of my life making you smile. Nothing has changed about that. We never promised each other a smooth ride. No one can promise that. And, yeah, okay, it's been more than bumpy lately. But that doesn't mean I want out of the car.''

''I love you for that, but - ''

''No.'' He shakes his head. ''No buts. I don't want to hear it.''

''Dean.''

''Laurel.'' He may not understand exactly where she's at right now, but there is one thing he knows. He knows what it's like to feel unworthy. He knows how that feeling can spread. Right down to your bones. He still feels it sometimes, blown away by her very presence, completely unable to grasp how he managed to get her, why she would ever want to give him the time of day. He has never been that lucky before. ''I didn't have a happy life before I met you,'' he admits. ''I did what I could with what I had. I believed in the job I had. I had a purpose. I did some good. Some less good. I lived a life,'' he says strongly. ''It meant something. I was happy enough.''

Sometimes he thinks about his life before her, specifically the Apocalypse Years. He remembers the stolen bits of peace and joy, the little moments he carved out for himself in between Dad's life and death and Sam's life and death and the war that bore down on him for his entire life. It wasn't all bad. There was life there. Meaning and purpose. There was laughter. But. There was always a but.

''But I wasn't whole,'' he admits. ''There was something...''

There was something missing.

There's gotta be something that you want for yourself, Sam once said.

Which there was. What he wanted for himself, even back then, was a family. He wanted Dad and he wanted Sam. He wanted them to be together. He wanted Mom to be alive. He wanted to be greedy with his blood, to keep them with him, in his sight, where he could protect them. And he wanted this. He never would have admitted it, not in a million years, not back then, but he wanted this. He wanted a home. He wanted love. He wanted a family. He had dreams. Just because he told himself he would never get what he wanted doesn't mean he didn't want.

''I was incomplete,'' he admits. ''And I would have stayed that way. I woulda just kept truckin' along, it would've been fine, but I would've been...unfinished. Then I met you.'' He remembers, so vividly, every important moment of their relationship. The night they met, the days in Seattle, when she invited him into her home. He remembers the morning they got married. He remembers when she stepped out of the bathroom in her wedding dress, sheathed in white and lace. He remembers the night their daughter was born, remembers the sound of her first warbly little cry, his first glimpse of her eyes, the way Laurel looked at her. There are so many moments where he felt like he was living someone else's life, wearing someone else's skin.

This can't be all mine, he thought. I don't deserve this.

''I have made some bad choices in my life,'' he says. ''But you and Mary... You are the best decisions I've ever made.'' He thinks, rather uncharacteristically, that he could talk for days about this. About what they mean to him and how much he loves them. I spent my whole life looking for you, he could say, and I didn't even realize it until I found you.

He's not sure she's in a place to believe him just yet.

''You're my good luck,'' he says. ''You're my home. You think I'm going to give that up without a fight? You're not getting rid of me that easily.''

Laurel smiles at him, a watery smile, but can't seem to get the words out. ''Thank you,'' she chokes out after a second.

''You don't have to thank me for doing the bare minimum,'' he says.

''I'm not,'' she replies. ''You saved my life. I'm thanking you for that.''

''You made the choice to stay,'' he points out, immediately waving away the thanks. ''You asked for help. This survival is yours.''

''I'm still sorry,'' she says. ''I have to be. That night was...'' She stops, just for a second, wind rustling her hair. ''It was a bad night.''

That's an understatement.

''Look, I'm...'' He licks his lips. ''I'm not gonna insult you by telling you I know how you're feeling because I don't. I can't. But what I do know is that if you keep thinking about the one night you wanted to die, you're going to miss all the days you want to live to see.''

She looks comforted by those words for about ten seconds, shoulders visibly relaxing. Then she just looks anxious. She picks up her mug of lukewarm chamomile at the table he moved. She sips at it, stalling, and he lets her. ''What if it wasn't just one night?'' Her thumbnail picks at the chip in the mug again. ''What if that had been a long time coming?''

''I said what I said,'' he responds, without hesitation. ''I stand by it. You lived. You are still alive. Just that is a fucking amazing act of courage. Nothing about what happened makes you weak or worthless and you don't deserve to spend the rest of your life feeling guilty. You can't carry that.''

She sighs heavily, hands covering her face. ''I just don't know how - '' She breaks off, tilting her head back to look up at the stars. ''I don't know how I'm supposed to look my baby in the eye after I tried to leave her. I don't know how to make up for that.''

''You make up for it by staying alive. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but - '' He looks back at the house, peering in through the sliding glass door. He looks back to Laurel, still hurting, still in pieces, but still here. ''That's it,'' he says to her. ''That's it, honey. She loves you unconditionally. All you have to do is show up. All you have to do is stay. Is that... Can you do that?''

There is a pause, too long for him to be comfortable with, before she answers, ''I want to.''

''Then we'll start there.'' He smiles at her, as carefree as he can manage, and gestures to her mug. ''Drink your tea before it gets cold.'' He tries not to seem like he's watching her as she relaxes back into her chair, sipping her tea, wrapped up in her blanket, but he doesn't think he does a good job of it. He's glad she has finally opened up about what's been going on in her head and he's happy that she, as of right now, seems to genuinely want to get better, but he's going to be jumpy for a while.

She seems to realize this because after a few minutes of companionable silence, she looks up from her tea and asks, straight up, no preamble, ''Are you mad at me?''

He's taken aback by the question. His first instinct is to lie. It's also his second instinct. And his third. ''No.''

''It's okay if you are.''

''I'm not.''

''Okay.'' She holds up one hand. '' I guess I just want you to know it wouldn't be wrong. If you were.''

''Laurel - ''

''I tried to kill myself last week, Dean,'' she states bluntly. ''It was an impulsive choice, but it was a choice. I made it. I wanted it. I can't take that back. I was going to leave you to raise our child alone. I was going to leave you to find me like that.'' She chews on her lip, looking ill. ''I just want you to know that if you're angry with me for that choice, that's valid. It's not - ''

''Why didn't you leave a note?'' He doesn't mean to ask that. He doesn't want to do this. She may have hit her rock bottom, there may be nowhere for her to go but up, but she's still so...sick. She's not herself. It's obvious just from looking at her. She has a long recovery ahead of her. He does not want to add to that. But he asks the question anyway. As soon as it's out, he's even more desperate for an answer. He asks again, ''Why didn't you leave a note?''

''I don't have a good answer for that,'' she admits. ''I'm sorry. I thought about it, but I didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed good enough. I know that's a cop out.''

It is, but he's not sure what answer he would've wanted. What would have been good enough? I'll make sure I leave one next time? That's not what he wants. ''I just want you to feel better,'' he says. ''I want you to stay. I want you to want to stay.''

''I'm trying,'' she says. ''I swear I'm trying so hard.''

''I believe you. I believe you, Laur. Hey.'' He gets up. ''Come here.'' She lets him take the mug from her hand and put it on the table and as soon as she's standing, blanket falling to the ground, he pulls her in for a hug. He's not sure it's the right thing to do, it hasn't been for the past few weeks, but he can't not hug her. He feels like he hasn't touched her in years. She seems unsure at first, he can hear her quiet intake of breath, but then she hugs him back. She hasn't hugged him back since before Christmas. It's easy to forget what a simple hug can do.

''I want to tell you I don't want to go,'' she murmurs against his shoulder. She sounds like she's crying. ''I want to mean it.''

''I know.'' He closes his eyes, burying his face in her hair for a second. ''You will. We'll get there. We will.'' He doesn't want to pull away, but he does, very reluctantly, so he can meet her eyes. ''We've got work to do.'' He lets that hang there for a second, giving her an encouraging smile, and then he steps back and holds out his hand. ''You ready?''

He expects her to hesitate, but she doesn't. She takes his hand immediately, lacing their fingers together. ''I'm ready.''

That, he thinks, is the biggest relief of them all.

.

.

.

February 2017

''You're sure this is Edie?''

''Paige Crawford is an active user,'' Dean says into the phone. ''One who was last seen in the Glades. This is Edie's MO. It's what she does. She has her creepy Dolls snatch the ones who can't fight back.''

''Right, but...'' Even through the phone, the pensive eyebrows are apparent. ''If this girl was an active addict...''

''Sam, come on.''

''All I'm saying is that we can't discount the possibility that this is a human problem and not a supernatural one.''

''I'll keep that in mind.''

''Which, in other words, means shut up, Sam.''

''No, it doesn't. I'm jotting it down as we speak. Heroin fucks you up. There. Noted.''

''That's not what I was - You didn't write that down.''

''You don't know that,'' Dean comments mildly, even though he did not, in fact, write that down.

Sam just sighs.

Dean can practically hear his little brother shaking that mop of his. He reaches over to the passenger seat to snatch up the piece of paper lying face down on the seat.

Paige Crawford's missing poster.

He's been in the Glades for about an hour now, maybe an hour and a half, attempting to retrace her steps from the information Madison was able to give him and so far he's got jack shit.

The older Crawford brother and his wife, along with his mother are still out here, plastering flyers everywhere they can, talking to every person they meet, desperately searching for Paige, and sticking out like sore thumbs while they do it. Their helpfulness was limited. Not only are they all exhausted and terrified and completely out of their depth, but they're also all still in denial. They were eager to talk to him when he ''ran into'' them and pulled his concerned citizen act, were ready to tell him all about Paige, where she was seen last, how worried they are, but they weren't quite ready to admit everything about her. The only person who was willing to admit that Paige has any kind of substance abuse problem was Madison and even then, she still tried to downplay it.

It's not like they have an obligation to tell him, a complete stranger, about something as personal as their missing loved one's addiction, but they straight up lied. Kept insisting they had ''no idea'' why Paige would be spending time in the Glades. Even the picture they chose for the missing poster is a half truth at best. The picture they chose for the poster is an image of a young, vibrant, healthy young woman with a bright smile and a fluffy dog in her arms. She's just a girl, young, college aged, innocent, at the beginning of her life.

Meanwhile, if you go on any of Paige's social media accounts, you'll find a completely different person has taken her place. Paige, now, is painfully skinny and gaunt, with hollowed eyes and a sickly pallor.

The woman is a full blown heroin addict.

She just is. It's a fact. Her family isn't doing her any favors by covering that up, especially now that she's missing. He sympathizes with them, no shit he sympathizes, but the whole ''keeping up appearances'' crap that rich people insist on does way more harm than good.

The motel Paige was last seen at was not exactly a treasure trove of information either. It was difficult to get an actual answer out of most of the people there. The only piece of somewhat usable info he was able to extract out of the cagey and tight-lipped front desk clerk was that her dealer, who goes by Ace, because of course he does, closed up shop and ran like a bat out of hell the second her family started asking questions about her disappearance. Hasn't been seen or heard from since. The prevailing rumor is that he high tailed it back home to Renton.

Other rumors include: he's holed up in one of his rich client's condos downtown as a sugarbaby, he was killed by the Triad, the Green Arrow got him.

Dean is more inclined to believe the piece of crap ran home with his tail between his legs. I mean, the guy had to have known that Paige was from a wealthy old money family. He had to have known that he was playing with fire by selling Paige Crawford heroin. Of course he ran when she disappeared.

Look, the truth is...

Yeah, Sam's right.

Paige is unstable, sick, and her family is made up of a bunch of unreliable narrators. Who knows what the truth is and what happened when she disappeared. He believes Madison when she says that her sister wanted to get clean. He believes her when she says Paige agreed to go to rehab. He just knows it's not that simple. It rarely is. It wasn't in his case. It wasn't in Laurel's. If Paige is this far along in her addiction then what she wants matters very little. She's in the thick of it. All that is going to matter is the next high.

Chances are what happened is something along the lines of this: She did agree to go to rehab, she did say she wanted to get clean, but in the time it took for her dad to get to where she was, her body did what an addict's body does and the disease won. Odds are she's nodding off at a friend's place with her phone off, totally unaware of her family's distress.

But so what?

Does that make her less deserving of being found? Is a potential overdose somehow less tragic than a potential supernatural kidnapping? No, screw that. If he can help someone, he's going to help someone.

And, yes, he is well aware that everyone in his life who took one Psych 101 class or watched a Youtube video or read a viral tweet about transference is going to tell him that he's projecting. He can't save Laurel so he's going to save every woman who even slightly reminds him of her. But again: so what?

At the end of the day, a missing person is being looked for.

Clementine Raymond is being searched for by at least four different covens in the state, two teams of vigilantes, a handful of hunters, and a shady government agency.

Who does Paige Crawford have?

You would think, given her status as a rich white girl from a prominent family, they would have called in everyone from the Coast Guard to CNN by now, but nope. So far they've got nothing but the SCPD's predictable inaction and even Channel 52 isn't biting. It's like no one wants to step foot in the Glades right now. It's like they're all afraid of something that's happening down here.

Imagine that.

And speaking of, if there is one thing he has learned from today's outing is that the people here are terrified. Something bad is happening here. Something stranger than the usual strangeness. Something that can't be explained. Paige Crawford's face is not the only one plastered in store windows and tacked to telephone poles.

The Glades is disappearing.

People are being picked off left and right, disappearing off the face of the earth, occasionally coming back different, hollow, coming back wrong, and no one is doing a damn thing to help. The SCPD is a corrupt mess full of sneering pigs who would rather sit back and watch the class warfare play out with a box of Dunkin' Donuts instead of doing their jobs, which is to serve and protect. The Green Arrow can't be bothered to show up for the people in his city half the time because he's too busy putting out fires he started and dealing with cheesy villains who only exist because he does. Arsenal's MIA, Speedy/Red Arrow is retired, Spartan maybe drops in once a week but spends most of his time following Green Arrow around and cleaning up the messes left behind, and...

And Black Canary is dead.

In this entire city, no one loved her the way the people of the Glades loved her. He didn't quite understand what that meant until today. There is a new piece of street art a couple blocks down, across the street from the mom and pop grocery store where Veronica Crawford was handing out flyers for her missing daughter. It's a larger than life black and white portrait of a faceless woman in leather, head bowed, wings sprouting out of her back.

Always startling to see those.

You know, it's funny. Laurel put on that mask because she thought she needed to be feared to make a difference and all she was met with was love. He doesn't even think she knows that. She was it here. She was all the people of the Glades had. Green Arrow fucked off at least once a year and the others rotated in and out, but she was the one who stayed. Now they have nothing. Maybe it's time for someone to pick up where she left off.

Dean meant it when he decided he wasn't going to chase after his wayward wife. His life is about Mary. Everything he does is for her. But...

Maybe this, too, is for Mary.

For some reason, the dozy citizens of Star City seem to think that the Glades is some sealed off lawless zone where bad things happen. Despite all evidence to the contrary, they seem to think that if they stay out of this area of town, they'll be safe. It's a batshit level of denial. Sure, there is a lot of crime in the Glades, but there is a lot of crime everywhere here. Statistically speaking, you're more likely to get mugged down by the bay, overdose in Adams Heights, or get raped down on nightclub row in Orchid Bay.

The Glades is just a neighborhood. It's poverty stricken with a housing crisis, rotting infrastructure, and some typical-for-Star-City issues with homelessness, drugs, and violent crime, but it's a community like anywhere else. Good people live here. They have families. They have homes and businesses. They have lives. It's just that it's low income and not majority white, so it's seen as a problem.

Well, fuck that. That is not how it works. Infection spreads. And the infection in this city has been spreading for years. Long before Oliver Queen came home. Maybe it's time Dean got off his ass and stopped pretending he's forgotten who he is. Maybe it's time to accept that he and Mary are not the only people Laurel left behind. He is not about to put on a mask and start shooting ancient weaponry with an egotistical catchphrase. That's not who he is. But he is Dean Winchester and this is the family business. Saving people, hunting things. That's the way, right?

He hunts monsters - and there is a monster in the Glades.

There is no way he is sitting this one out.

Dean looks at the picture of Paige Crawford, young and fresh faced. She has these bright, expressive eyes full of life in this picture. She doesn't really have those in her recent pictures.

Whether or not she left on her own, he is going to do everything in his power to find her.

''Look,'' Sam's voice says on the other line, followed by an exhale and an awkward pause. ''Have you - Have you talked to Oliver today?''

Dean tosses the flyer back onto the passenger seat. ''Why would I talk to Oliver?''

Sam says nothing but even from the silence, Dean can feel the prodding. ''He swung by the house,'' he admits. ''I know she's back. How do you know that?''

''I...might've run into her.''

''You ran into her? Where?''

''Oliver's snobby lair. I was looking for Dig. She was there. It was...awkward.''

''Was she...'' Dean pauses, licking his lips. ''She look okay?''

Sam pauses for just a second too long. ''She was a little bruised,'' he admits. ''They weren't fresh wounds; a couple days old at least. She asked about you.''

''I'm sure she did.''

''She thinks Edie's back in Washington. Her plan worked at first. Edie followed her to California. Laurel wanted to pull her farther away before she launched an attack, but Edie backtracked a few days ago and Laurel's not sure why. She's got a new guard dog apparently.'''

''Laurel?''

''Edie,'' Sam corrects. ''Big guy in a mask. Brutal, according to Laurel. I think he was the source of the bruises.''

''Hm.'' Dean tries not to flinch, tries not to think of her all alone, fighting some big dude in a mask, bruised from head to toe. ''They always wear masks these days,'' he comments lightly. ''You noticed that?''

''I'm starting to,'' Sam responds, wry. Then, softer, he asks, ''You okay?''

''Just trying to figure out what to do about Paige Crawford.''

There's no way Sam buys that, but he rolls with it anyway. ''If this was Edie, does this mean she's escalating? Up until now, she's been careful to only take people who have no one to advocate for them. She's essentially making ghosts out of ghosts, right? Except Paige Crawford isn't a ghost. This isn't going to go unnoticed.''

''They probably didn't know who she was.''

''Yeah, maybe. Or...''

''Or what?''

''Or maybe this is a message.''

''For who?''

''Laurel.''

Dean isn't particularly swayed by the theory. ''And what message would that be? Stop running or I'll turn your graduating class into mindless zombies? That's a weirdly specific message. Seems ineffective.''

''Everything Edie does is weirdly specific,'' Sam counters. ''The woman is absurdly convoluted.''

That is a fair point. She does give off some hardcore Disney Villain vibes. She would absolutely be the kind of person to show to a child's christening and then curse said child just because she wasn't invited, make a coat out of Dalmatians, or feed her stepdaughter a poisoned apple because she thinks said stepdaughter is prettier than her. She is totally that level of petty.

''And it wouldn't be ineffective for Laurel,'' Sam continues on, insistent. ''Would it? We know she's willing to put her life on the line for anyone. Family, friends, clients, total strangers. She has no problem throwing herself to the wolves to save someone else. She's...'' There is a pause, an uncomfortable one. ''You know she can be kind of reckless with her own life.''

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and clamps his mouth shut to keep from snapping out a, No shit. He is well fucking aware of his wife's willingness to lay down her life for others without a second thought. Been aware of it since the night she almost died in a prison riot at nine months pregnant. He has seen every scar, every bruise, been there for every hospital visit, every aftermath of every fight or every goddamn kidnapping. He's put stitches in her. He taught her how to throw a knife, how to choke someone out, how to kill if she ever needed to. He can't say shit about it because that would make him a hypocrite of epic proportions but - yeah, he's aware of how willing she is to press the self-destruct button if it helps someone else.

He looks out the window for a second, watching a car pull out of the 7-Eleven. ''I still think they just didn't know who Paige was,'' he says, keeping his voice casual, even though he knows that Sam can see right through the bullshit.

''If that's true then they've got a big storm coming,'' says Sam. ''If the Crawford family goes to the press with this, which they should, Edie's in big trouble. There's nothing the media loves more than a missing or dead white girl.''

As someone who is married to one of those ''dead'' white girls, yes, Dean can confirm this. ''Tell me about it.''

''Wait,'' Sam says abruptly. ''Where are you right now?''

''Gas station.''

''Where?''

''In the city.''

''Where in the city?''

''Don't worry about it.''

Sam makes this annoyed half sigh, half choking noise. ''Dean.''

''What? I needed to put gas in the SUV.'' Lie. Full on lie. He's not even at the gas pumps. He's just sitting in the parking lot. ''It's a real gas guzzler, this ugly ass thing.''

''Turn around and go home.''

''But what if they have good coffee here?''

''I'm being serious.''

''So am I. You know how much gas station coffee means to me. I was raised on it. Drink it all the time. I'm a connoisseur.''

''You are not going into the Glades without me.''

Oh, buddy, we are well past that. ''The ship might've sailed on that one.''

''What does that - How long have you been - '' Sam breaks off in yet another one of those exasperated huffs of his. ''Dean.''

''Sam.''

''Okay.'' Sam audibly takes a breath. ''Just. Tell me where you are and stay there until I get to you.''

Oh my god, the friggin' drama. ''I'm not doing that,'' Dean says bluntly.

''But - ''

''What am I? A child? Come on,'' he scoffs. ''Is this because I'm technically retired? Because - quick news bulletin: not so retired anymore.'' He grabs Paige's missing poster again and pushes open the door, switching his phone to his other ear as he steps out into the daylight. ''I don't know if you know this, but I'm an adult. I can take care of myself.''

''You literally just died!''

''Eh,'' Dean brushes past that, slamming the door shut. ''Old news. I came back.''

''You're a target!'' Sam is starting to sound rather frustrated. ''What part of that are you not getting? As long as Laurel loves you, you're in danger. That's why she left. If Edie can use you as leverage, she will. And you're just out there wandering around her hunting grounds like it's no big deal?''

''Sammy - ''

''Do not Sammy me. I'm telling you this is not a good idea.''

''I'm just trying to make sure this woman isn't lying in some piss soaked alley with a needle in her arm,'' Dean bursts out. ''She has a family.''

''And so do you. This is not your job.''

''Just because it's not my job doesn't mean it's not the right thing to do.''

''You don't even know her.''

''Oh, well, then I guess I'll just let her rot.''

''You know that's not what I - '' Sam groans, frustrated. ''Why are you doing this?''

''Uh, because I'm not a heartless bastard?''

''Yes, but we both know that's not why.''

Dean gives up, tilting his head back to throw a dramatically exasperated look at the sky, just beginning to clear, above. ''I'm hanging up.''

''Man, come on.''

''Sam - '' Dean stops when he spots a couple of teens exiting the convenience store, strolling around to the side parking lot where he is. Neither of them notice him, too busy chatting and slurping nosily at their Slurpees, but he turns away anyway, lowering his voice. ''Someone has to look for this woman,'' he says. ''What am I gonna do? Leave it to the cops? The SCPD is fucking useless and you know it. They'll trip over her body and forget to call it in. Her family's exhausted and stressed. They need help.''

''Yes,'' Sam says calmly. ''I agree. But why does it have to be you?''

''Because.''

''Because why? I can handle this.''

''I'm already here. What's it matter?''

''What about Oliver? Madison did ask you to contact the Green Arrow. Are you planning on doing that or are you just going to assign this to yourself and no one else?''

''I left a message,'' Dean says tensely. ''I'm not exactly BFFs with the guy. What do you want me to do?''

Sam says something, probably something exasperated and frustrated, because those seem to be his only two moods right now, and Dean does hear part of it, but then he turns back to the side of the store and catches sight of a familiar face walking up to the front of the store.

She's not paying much attention to her surroundings, keys in one hand, digging around in her messenger bag for something with the other. Her dark hair is partially obscuring her face, but he recognizes her right away. It's a face he knows well, but hasn't seen in awhile. ''Sam, I gotta go.''

''What? No, wait - ''

''I'll call you when I'm done here.''

''Wait, wait, you didn't tell me where you - ''

Dean ends the call against his brother's very loud wishes and tucks his phone back into his pocket, heading towards the store. He's not entirely sure why he's so surprised to see her - presumably she has a life and things to do and maybe one of those things is taking a hit of that sweet, sweet gasoline that is gas station coffee. Maybe she's in dire need of a sugar rush that only a Big Gulp can provide. He's not judging. It's just that he is surprised to see her here. In the Glades. As far as he knows, she's a bank teller down in Orchid Bay. Long way to go just to end up at a 7-Eleven for lunch.

He pulls open the door and step inside, instantly transported back to his childhood - and adolescence and a huge part of his adulthood - by the familiar smell of burnt coffee, that plastic-y nacho cheese, and whatever the crack is that they put in their taquitos. The only constant in his nomadic childhood were those disgusting hot dogs. He passes by the cash register when he spots the lineup, wandering deeper into the belly of the store.

He finds her at the back of the store near the Slurpee machine, struggling to get the lid on a plastic cup full of electric blue slush with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos between her teeth, and a pack of Twinkies, a Slim Jim, and one of those ubiquitous - yet suspicious - 7-Eleven hot dogs squashed in her other hand. If he tried to eat that for lunch, his wife would kill him.

Actually, no, that's not true.

Thea would kill him.

She's the one who passive aggressively sticks heart healthy, calorie wise, sometimes vegan recipes to the fridge with post it notes stuck to them full of exclamation points.

He once watched her take a cheeseburger out of her brother's hands seconds before he took a bite of it, replace it with some kind of veggie wrap, and say, ''I haven't seen you eat a vegetable since 2007. I don't know how you're still alive.''

One time, Dean bought home a bag of Peanut M&Ms, ate half of it, and then she came out of nowhere, took it from him, curtly told him he'd had enough sugar for the day, and handed him a bag of baby carrots when he complained.

Her reasoning is, ''Since you guys have survived the stupidest crap with no effort, I figure it's going to be something mundane like heart disease that eventually takes you down. I'm just trying to mitigate the damage.''

She's very scary.

She is also part of the reason why he hides his candy in his garage.

''Tina?''

Startling, nearly spilling the Slurpee, Tina Boland whips around. ''Dean!'' Her eyes widen in surprise for a second and then a beaming smile crosses her face. ''Oh my gosh, hi!'' She gives up on trying to keep her lunch off the sticky counter in favor of hugs, depositing it all before wrapping her arms around him in a warm embrace.

He knows he shouldn't be wasting time here. He has a case now. He's on the clock. But, wow, is it ever nice to spot a familiar face. Someone who doesn't know that his wife left him.

''I feel like I haven't seen you in forever,'' Tina says, pulling away.

''It's been a minute,'' he agrees. ''We keep missing each other at drop off.''

''Oh yeah, I had to switch shifts right before Thanksgiving,'' she says regretfully. ''It's super exhausting. I'm waking up at like five in the morning. The nanny's been taking the boys to school most of the time. I don't miss the early morning drop off tears, but I do miss you guys.'' She smiles again, warm and pleasant. ''You ever figure out if Nicky's mom is a celebrity trying to lay low?''

''She's not,'' he says. ''She's just a sunglasses inside kind of person, I guess. Carly thinks it's an anxiety thing.''

''To be fair, they are really nice sunglasses,'' she laughs. ''So, how are you?''

Not a question easily answered. ''I'm good,'' he says, as convincingly as possible, which, in all likelihood, is not all that convincing. ''Everything's good.'' He turns away to hide his thin smile, popping a lid on her Slurpee and handing it back to her. ''You?''

''Oh, you know.'' She waves a hand. ''Same old, same old. Work sucks. The boys are driving me batty. You know how it is.'' She takes a sip of her radioactive looking sugary drink. ''I took the day off, so of course this is the morning they decide to act like fools.''

He places a hand on her shoulder, steering her over to the counter so another customer can squeeze past them to get to the magazine rack over by the bathrooms. ''Of course.''

''They're little angels for the new nanny, but the second Mom's home, the tables turn. Ethan spent an hour picking out what he wanted to take for Show and Tell and Dylan decided he didn't want to go to school at all, which, naturally, meant a showdown at the car.'' She shakes her head, looking exhausted just thinking about it. ''I thought we were never going to get out the door.''

''I can relate. Mary tried to dodge school this morning too.''

''I guess I didn't realize how high the stakes were when it comes to preschool Show and Tell.''

''How ignorant of you,'' he jokes, and she laughs.

Because she's nice like that. Tina always laughs at his jokes. Even the ones that aren't funny. Though that could have something to do with the flirting. It does occur to him, then, that he doesn't think they've ever had a conversation without flirting.

Tina Boland is, without a doubt, the closest parent friend he has. She is an island of normal in the sea of weird parenting politics that is Mary's preschool. They got along right from the jump - even if their kids didn't. She has understood ever pop culture reference he's made, including the off the wall obscure ones, they have the same sense of humor, and they can both be a little too sardonic at times. One might even say abrasive. They were also both widowed when they met.

When they first met, Laurel was six months gone, Tina's husband had been in the ground for over two years, and they were both being encouraged by the people in their lives to move on. Find happiness. Start again. No shit they flirted. A lot. He's good at that. So is she. Their entire friendship was based on it. The one ill fated ''date'' - if that's what you want to call it - they went on didn't end with any real fireworks and it never went further than that one coffee date and that one kiss, but the flirting never really stopped. Harmless, yes, but...

Okay, so, here's where he might've fucked up:

He never mentioned that to Laurel.

He told her that he had been on a ''date'' while she was dead, even told her about the kiss, and he told her about Tina, that she was a friend, an ally at Mary's school, but he didn't tell her that she was the one he went on a date with. He didn't tell her about the flirting.

In his defense, he didn't choose to purposefully keep it from her the way he kept the spell's deterioration from her. It just never came up. It's not like it's crossed his mind as of late. He and Tina haven't seen much of each other over the past couple of months, both of them busy with kids and holidays. It's not that big of a deal. But - well, yeah, he probably should have told Laurel about this one. That might've been a thing to do.

And that's on him.

But also she walked out on him, so...

Maybe they're even.

''Hey, how's Mary doing, by the way?'' Tina asks, stepping closer to him to get out of the way of another customer reaching for a straw. ''I know she was sick over Christmas.''

''A couple weeks before Christmas actually,'' he says. ''But - uh, yeah, it was pneumonia. It was a stubborn bitch of a thing. She spent a few days in the hospital. Not the best way to start the holiday season, but she's better now. Fully recovered. Wants to be a nurse.''

''A very worthy career.''

''She's so serious about it too,'' he says. ''She's started calling her stuffed animals her patients. She wakes up every morning and does her rounds. Does temp checks and hands out meds. Then she comes home from school and does the same. She asked for a blood pressure cuff the other day.''

''That's adorable,'' Tina grins. ''When I was her age, I wanted to be a pilot.''

''I wanted to be a firefighter for a minute when I was kid.''

''You would've looked great on the calendar,'' she says, with a laugh. ''It's really good to hear she's doing better. I know you guys have had a...rough year.''

Oh yeah. That rough year. All that hopeless miserable grief the whole world knows about. It never gets easier - being the Black Canary's widower. Nobody knows his name, only a few Channel 52 viewers know what he looks like thanks to the front lawn debacle last April, but they know what he's lost. At least they think they do.

What a circus his life has become.

And he used to think it couldn't get any weirder than hunting monsters.

''It hasn't been the year we were hoping for, that's for sure,'' he admits, attempting to side step the topic of his dead wife - who is not all that dead anymore. ''Hopefully this new year lets the light in a little.''

''How's that going so far?''

He does his best to keep the casual smile on his face. He tries not to think about Seabeck or the pleading letter Laurel left him with when she walked out on him in the middle of the night. ''Too early to tell,'' he decides. ''It's a work in progress. A friend has a place in California and we spent part of January there. It was good. I think we both needed that. Mary especially. She's like her mother. She loves the sun.''

''That sounds nice,'' Tina says. ''It's always good to recharge and get some sun. This city can be...smothering.''

''That's one way to put it,'' he says. ''What about you? Anything new with you and the boys?''

''Well, let's see. Yesterday I caught them peeing off my balcony. So that was new.''

''At the same time?''

''They were having a contest.''

''I'd say I'm glad I don't have boys, but my daughter sticks random crap in her mouth so there's no way to escape the chaos. One time she came up to me, grabbed my hand, and spit out a chewed up worm into it. Kids are gross.''

''Ugh,'' Tina pulls a face. ''I think I'd rather deal with my boys trying to pee in the pool from the balcony.''

''Happy to put things into perspective for you,'' he says, and she laughs again, head tossed back.

''They've certainly inherited their father's wildness.'' She reaches past him to grab a few packets of mustard and relish, tucking them into the cardboard sleeve with her probably-lukewarm-by-now hot dog.

''Just his?'' Dean asks, needlessly filling a small cup with some of the terrible, excessively hot coffee from the coffee machine just to have a reason to take some of the cashier's time later. ''None of yours?''

Tina shoots him a sly grin. ''We'll have to see when they hit their teens.''

''Oh god,'' he winces. Now there's a newfound fear he hadn't been ready to think about. ''I hope my kid doesn't end up like me when I was a teenager.''

''Right? That's the nightmare.'' She lets him help her with her items, shooting him a grateful smile when he picks a few things up to carry them up to the register. ''You and I need to get lunch sometime and catch up more,'' she says. ''You're my only non-work adult friend.'' She doesn't wait for an answer, sliding her hot dog onto the front counter with a sunny smile at the cashier. She pays for her gut-bustingly horrific lunch - and his coffee, blatantly ignoring his protests - and then turns back to him with a smile as she steps away from the counter. ''Seriously, I've been so starved for some adult interaction since I switched shifts.''

''Sure, I'm down,'' he says. ''That sounds great. Any time you want to grab a bite text me. You have my number, right?''

''I do,'' she nods. ''I'll text you.''

''Looking forward to it,'' he says, which... In hindsight, might've been a little too flirty.

''I'll see you around, Dean.'' She winks at him one last time before pulling out her sunglasses and pushing out into the sunlight. She's gone, out the door and walking away before he realizes he never even asked what she was doing in the Glades.

He watches her walk away for a second before turning back to the cashier. Since there's no one else in line, he figures this is his moment. He puts on his best disarming smile. ''You mind if I ask you something?'' He puts his coffee back on the counter and pulls Paige Crawford's missing flyer out of his pocket while the clerk watches him with utter boredom on his face. ''I was wondering if you've seen this girl around at all?'' He hands over the flyer. ''Maybe in the last week or so?''

The clerk takes the flyer and gives it a cursory onceover. His blank expression never changes. ''She's missing?''

''She's been out of touch for awhile,'' Dean says. ''Her family's getting worried.''

The clerk lowers the poster for a second to scrutinize Dean. ''You a cop?''

''Family friend,'' Dean lies. ''She and my wife go way back.''

The clerk nods, but ultimately can only offer a shrug. ''Sorry,'' he says, handing the poster back. ''Haven't seen her.''

''Right.'' Dean takes the poster back, folding it up to put in his pocket. ''Thanks anyway.''

''You know if she lives around here?''

''She's not from around here, no.''

The clerk nods knowingly, though the odd blank expression on his face never slips. It hasn't changed at all actually. ''Those are the ones this place swallows whole,'' he says ominously. ''The dark just eats them up and then - poof.'' He waves his hands. ''There's nothing left.''

''Place definitely isn't the way it used to be,'' says Dean. He knows he should get going. He has to pick Mary up at 2:30. He should be going somewhere else, maybe the shelter down where CNRI used to be. He should be working the case. Plus, there are two people waiting to pay behind him and he should get out of their way. But, still, he hesitates. ''You know, uh, that's actually an old picture.'' He fishes his phone out, bringing Paige's Instagram page back up, picking out a recent picture, and handing it over. ''This is closer to what she looks like now.''

The clerk takes the phone. ''Oh. Huh.''

''Look familiar?''

''Not sure.'' He hums thoughtfully, staring down at the phone with his permanently blank expression.

Dean turns to give the man and woman in line behind him what he hopes is an apologetic yet charming smile. They both stare at him, as blank and expressionless as the clerk. It's an unsettling look and the sight of it, coupled with the clerk's deadpan delivery makes something twist in his gut. He doesn't let the smile slip for a second, keeping it stubbornly etched onto his face as he turns back to the clerk, eyes raking over the rest of the store as he does.

Aside from the two behind him and the clerk, there are three other men in the store. There's a guy over by the magazine rack, one standing in the snack aisle, staring intently at the chips, and one fondling a bottle of orange juice at the back. That guy has been staring at that same bottle of orange juice for at least the past five minutes. It can't take that long to read the nutritional info on a bottle of Minute Maid.

He resists the urge to sigh.

Oh, come on.

It is still not even noon yet.

He checks his watch. This better not take too long. He was hoping he would have some time to stop by the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner in between working Paige's case and picking up Mary.

While the clerk is busy looking - or pretending to look - at the phone, Dean looks at the convex mirror in the corner of the ceiling. He tries not to make it obvious that he's looking. Just a quick sweep. At first glance, there is nothing out of the ordinary, but when he looks closer, he notices something in the bottom corner of the mirror. A pair of feet. A pair of feet that don't belong to the kid standing behind the counter.

Should have known this is where his day was going to go.

''Nope.'' The guy behind the counter, who is not, it would appear, the actual clerk, hands the phone back. ''Never seen her before. Sorry.''

''That's all right,'' Dean says, accepting the phone. ''Thanks for your time.'' He takes a second to put it in his pocket, attempting to stall long enough to give himself some time to formulate a plan. He has no plan. He looks at the counter, eyeing the items in reach. ''Just one more thing,'' he says lightly, dragging his eyes back to the fake clerk. ''If anyone wants to leave,'' he says, voice a slow drawl, glancing towards the fake customers. ''Now's your chance.''

In the span of about half a second, the atmosphere in the place shifts. There is a split second where he can practically feel the air thicken with tension, feel them all change their posture, aloof and casual becoming something colder, tenser, alert. It's a tiny pause, not even long enough for them to look at each other, and then they're off.

Dean, he would like to reiterate, has no plan.

He's just going to try not to die. He's not really into the idea of dying in a 7-Eleven. It doesn't seem preferable. Also, he has a child to pick up from school later. He made her a promise. The girl knows how to hold a grudge.

Fake clerk is the first to move, jerking suddenly, reaching for something under the counter, but Dean is quicker. He grabs his cup of steaming hot coffee, throws it in fake clerk's face, and grabs onto his shirt and yanking him down, slamming his head into the counter. The guy starts to slump and Dean, sensing the movement behind him, grabs onto the Take a Penny, Leave a Penny mason jar and whirls around, smashing it into the man's head hard enough to shatter the glass.

When he feels the woman try to grab onto him, managing to grasp at his jacket, he sends his elbow into her nose hard and she shrieks, reeling back. He takes one second to turn, kicking a wire rack full of maps into her, knocking her, at least temporarily, to the ground, and when he turns around, the dude full of blood and glass is pulling out his gun and the poor pathetic one in the chip aisle is fumbling hard with his own weapon.

Dean doesn't even have time to waste with exasperation. He lunges, grabbing the gun from the bloody glass covered guy, managing to point it up at the ceiling just as the trigger is squeezed. Dean takes advantage of the distraction, wrestling the guy's arm behind his back, twisting until something cracks. The guy doesn't scream in pain, which is mildly impressive, but he also doesn't drop the gun. It's like he's locked onto it.

Whatever.

Dean can adapt. He shoves the man forward a step and helps him fire the guy at Chip Aisle Guy before he can even get a shot off. The aim is terrible and awkward and Dean has little to no control, but he still hits Chip Aisle Guy in the leg. Given the scream, the immediate drop, and the amount of blood, the shot might've been a little too good.

There is no sense of victory or relief in the shot, not just because he doesn't love shooting random people but also because another bullet is fired from another end of the store. It whizzes past Dean's head. The next one hits the cash register.

He moves instinctively, albeit violently, to save his own life, pulling the glass faced broken armed man in front of him like a shield. Not proud of that and it's not even a smart choice considering human bodies make terrible shields against bullets, but it's instinct. He's being fired at. The two remaining men, now over by the Slurpee and coffee machines, are not amateurs. He can tell just by the way they're holding and firing their guns. Whoever they were before this, they have at least some experience.

By some miracle, he is not hit with a through and through and is able to buy himself enough time to escape and duck behind the counter. The first thing he notices is the body of the actual clerk on the ground, bound, gagged, and bleeding from the head. The second thing he notices is the fake clerk, bleary eyed and bloody but still conscious and clumsily trying to cock a rifle.

''Oh, come on.'' Swiftly, Dean grabs onto the barrel of the gun and slams it back into fake clerk's forehead before ripping it out of his hands and delivering one more blow. Fake Clerk drops back down to the floor.

Dean turns his attention to the real clerk. The bleeding head wound looks superficial, but his wrists and ankles have been bound, there's duct tape over his mouth, and there is way too much blood surrounding him to just be from that one cut. When he turns the body over, he spots the gruesome neck wound. The body is cool to the touch and stiff. No pulse.

Guess nobody here is having a good day.

''Fucking - '' Dean grunts, looking down at the rifle, which is unloaded and, with no ammo in sight, ultimately useless. ''Should've just stayed in bed.'' He looks around the small space behind the counter, desperate for something, anything to use as a weapon. If it were five years ago, there's no way he would have come in here unarmed, but it's not. These days, he rarely goes anywhere armed. Why would he need to be armed as a stay-at-home dad? It's not like he's Florida Man, living in some dick shaped bonkers state where it would be totally normal to walk into Subway armed with multiple assault rifles and a bazooka. Even if he could make it out to his car, it's clean. There is nothing in there that would help him.

He's just going to have to work with what he has.

''Today is just not my day,'' he spits out, grabbing a Maglite off the shelf. He looks up, expecting one of them to be peering over the counter with a loaded gun at any moment, but he hears nothing. He tests the weight of the heavy Maglite flashlight. This could do some damage.

Everything is still quiet.

He weighs the risks of trying to converse with them. Dolls are not that talkative. They're barely human anymore. Edie made sure of that. They fight the same fight. They are given the same orders. Fed the same lines. They won't have much to say. But he has nothing else to do. He has no way out. There is a back entrance and a front entrance and he can't get to either. Might as well try to get some answers while he's trapped like a rat.

''Hey, so, I got a question for you,'' he calls out. ''I know this is never an easy one to answer, but where are we? Where do you see our relationship going?''

There is no answer to this question.

''I'm serious,'' he insists. ''Should I be shaving above the knee and expecting company? How committed are we? Because I'm prepared to give you an out here. You only get one of those. Otherwise you're stuck with me, and I'm a clingy bastard. I'm just forewarning you.''

Still no answer, but he can hear them murmuring to each other. He's not even sure how many of them there are. Two, he knows for sure, but more could have come in through the back. They've paused their attack for a reason. They could just be strategizing but for all he knows, they could be waiting on backup. He rummages around on the shelves, trying to look for weapons, but there's nothing. There is a small monitor with the feed from the security cameras, but it quickly becomes evident that it's been tampered with. The screen is still displaying a completely normal day, with customers milling around, waiting in line. It's no help.

He's got a rifle that isn't loaded, a heavy flashlight, and that's about it. He is going to have to make that work. ''Still haven't answered my question, boys,'' he calls out to them. ''Is this an attempted murder or an attempted kidnapping?''

Finally, one of them answers. The voice is surprisingly soft and completely devoid of any emotion. ''Edie needs Laurel.''

''Do I look like Laurel to you? I know the jokes about married couples melting into one, but that's not actually how it works.''

''We have to do what we can to get to Laurel.''

''Uh-huh.'' Dean pulls his phone out again, scrolling through his contacts, but he doesn't call anyone. ''So I'm leverage?''

''We - '' The voice halts. It's hard to discern what the tone is. ''We have to get to Canary.''

''Is that what Edie told you to do?''

No answer.

Dean is still looking down at his phone. Who should he be calling? Sam? No idea where he is, but he likely won't get here in time. Same for Cas and Sara. There is only one person who he knows is in the Glades right now and that's Laurel. He could call her. He could call her, hope she picks up, and leave the line open. If she knew what was going on, she would come.

That is precisely why he's not going to call her.

''Using me as bait isn't a terrible plan,'' he throws out conversationally, putting his phone away. ''At least not as far as Edie's deranged plans go. But there's one pretty big hole here. Laurel and I are separated. We're not even on speaking terms right now. She left town a couple weeks back.''

''We know she's back,'' one of the Dolls says. ''We know she'll come if we have you.''

Dean closes his eyes, swallowing down a sigh. The problem is that they're right. If Edie takes him, calls Laurel up and says your life for his, she'll do it. Won't even think twice about it.

''We have to do what's best for Edie,'' another Doll's voice says. He sounds so sure of himself and his orders.

''Why is this what's best for her?'' Dean asks. ''Can you answer that? Why is this the way? Do you know?''

Nobody has an answer for that. There is no way any of them know the answer to that question. They didn't choose to fight one woman's sad little war. They were brainwashed into it. They don't even know what they're fighting for.

He looks at the fake security feed, impulsively reaching out to turn the monitor off. The screen goes dark and within seconds, he spots something in the reflection of the dark screen. A movement just behind him. He turns just in time for the woman with the broken nose to pounce. She comes at him with a knife in one hand, tackling him back to the ground. Because he has that split second of preparation, he is able to just barely catch her wrist before she can stab him.

He's not sure if everyone has the same plan or if she's just gone rogue, but she is without a doubt trying to kill him.

The woman, despite being on the petite side, has an impressive strength to her. He struggles a lot more than expected, groaning with effort as he tries to keep her from plunging the knife into his throat. Finally, she shifts, moving slightly forward and he brings his knee up into her gut. When her body reacts, curling inwards, a winded sounding moan escaping her lips, her grip on the knife loosening, he kicks her off him.

The knife goes flying, but she comes back like a boomerang, grabbing onto the metal trashcan behind the counter and whipping it into the side of his head. It's an empty trashcan so it's not like it's a hard enough blow to knock him out, but he sure as hell feels it. It's that familiar firework feeling, an explosion of pain as his body lurches to the ground and a momentary fog that dulls his senses. He can feel the blood running down the side of his face.

Shaking off the daze, he gropes around for the Maglite, grabbing onto it just in time to turn and hit her over the head with it as she lunges at him. She goes down hard, dropping like a rock, and he slumps back to the ground in relief. He brings a hand to the bloody gash on the side of his head. He doesn't think it's a serious wound, it doesn't feel worryingly deep, but it's a head wound and those fuckers bleed. ''Son of a bitch.''

Okay.

Now he's getting a little miffed.

He doesn't even take the time to catch his breath, crawling over to the woman's body. He checks her pulse and then takes her gun. The two Dolls left are both armed. They were both firing standard Glocks and they both fired off at least one round each during their initial attack. Only one of them reloaded from what he could hear. All right. All right, he can do this. He's got it covered. He just needs to get them to use up their ammo. No big. This is now a gunfight. He can do that. It is substantially less cool than it looks in every action movie, but he can handle it. He's been here before.

Slowly, he gets to his feet and peeks over the counter.

They aren't even looking at him. He can see them both, hovering over by the coffee machine, looking honest to god casual. They're not trying to attack him, they're not even looking his way. They look like they're waiting for something. That...could be bad.

In theory, he could take both of them out right now. It would be easy. Two shots. Two shots and he could walk right out of here and not have to find out what they're waiting for. Except, of course, that they're just people. Completely human. They're not demons, they're not monsters. There's no way to compartmentalize this. No way to rationalize it. These are humans who were taken from their lives, brainwashed, violated, stolen from, and sent out to be soldiers in one pathetic woman's war.

He ducks back behind the counter. He'll do what he has to, but he doesn't want to kill these men. So. Okie dokie. Non-lethal takedown it is then. He peeks over the counter again and before he can change his mind, he takes his chance. He lines up the shot and fires at the coffee machine next to Doll #1, splashing hot coffee all over him.

It gets their attention.

Dean crouches back down below the counter just in time to miss the first barrage of bullets. He chuckles to himself, lips pulling back into a wry smile. ''Let's see how this goes.'' He does it twice more, popping up to fire a few pointless shots, making sure none of them hit the men but instead drive them away from the front exit, and then he abandons the gun.

One of the Dolls is out of bullets. Which means one more to go. He picks up the Maglite and wipes at the blood on the side of his head. Then he turns up the radio playing over the sound system as loud as it will go. 90's noise - or, as Sam calls it, grunge - pours out of the speakers, so loud it's disorienting. ''Okay, Cobain,'' he mutters. ''It's just you and me. Work with me here.''

He takes a deep breath, focuses, and makes his move. He takes off, darting out from behind the counter and down the side aisle. The Dolls' remaining bullets follow him the entire way. He stays low and lucks out, none of the bullets hitting him directly, but glass cold drink fridge behind him is practically demolished, glass spraying everywhere. He covers his head to avoid the spray of glass and energy drinks and then, just as fast as it began, the shooting stops.

Despite the deafening Nirvana playing over the speakers, he does catch the frustrated expletive that comes out of the Doll's mouth. He didn't think it was possible, but somehow he has managed to piss off the brainwashed, soulless soldier.

In fairness, that does sound like something he would do.

The one disadvantage to the loud music is that he can't hear them coming, but, given that at least one of them is soaked in coffee, he sure can smell him. He turns, catching Doll #1 by surprise, bashing him under the chin with the Maglite, sending him crashing to the ground. But he doesn't quite catch Doll #2 until it's too late. He turns and gets a right hook before he even fully lays eyes on the guy. It's a competent, strong hit too. There's weight behind it. It's hard enough to get him to drop the Maglite and send him into one of the remaining intact fridges.

He stays where he is, one hand pressed against the cool glass door and when he notices #2 moving closer, fists clenched, he pulls open the door of the next fridge and slams it into #2's nose. The glass, as thick as it is, cracks at the blow. So does the dude's nose.

Over the blaring music, Dean can just make out the barely audible sound of the bell above the door at the front, signaling the arriver of a newcomer. He turns to look and it's just -

Instant exasperation.

He is not sure what he did to end up in a shitty low budget action flick with the quality of something that would be relegated to the clearance rack in Blockbuster, but he would very much like to be excluded from this narrative.

The guy in the doorway, all armored up, wearing all black and a ski mask with an entirely unnecessary and dramatic outline of a skull on it, is holding a machete.

No, really.

He is actually in real life holding a machete. In broad daylight. In a 7-Eleven. Before noon. On a Wednesday.

It is the middle of the workweek and this dumbass motherfucker is walking around looking like an extra from some off brand comic book movie released in 1996 that has a Rotten Tomatoes score of 15%. Everyone thinks comic books are cool until they have to live in one. This is the most ridiculous bullshit he has ever been a part of.

And that's saying something.

One time an archangel tried to full on Buffalo Bill him because of a family squabble and somehow that was not as outlandish as this.

Dean gapes at the embarrassing tacky ass monstrosity standing in the doorway, waiting, calm as can be. ''Shouldn't you be at Comic Con right now?''

The guy just tilts his head to the side and looks at him.

Dean shakes his head, disgusted. ''What kind of fucking nerd hell - ''

And then he gets tackled.

It's more violent than he was expecting. Doll #1 seems awfully bitter about the whole bashing his teeth out thing. Dean groans, struggling to catch his breath, dazed from the impact. Doll #1 roughly yanks him back to his feet, pouncing to grab him in a headlock.

Dean struggles, but isn't terribly concerned with the temporary confinement. He is far more worried about Big Dude with a machete over there. He's still just standing there, head cocked to the side, watching.

Doll #2, struggling back to his feet with glass in his head and blood streaming from his nose, pulls out a cattle prod.

''Hurry up,'' #1 grunts out. ''We need to - ''

Dean snatches the knife from #1's belt and stabs him in the thigh. Whatever the guy was going to say dissolves into an unintelligible howl of pain and his grip loosens considerably. Dean is easily able to free himself from the weakened headlock, giving #1 a harsh shove just in time to catch #2's hand as he tries to go in with the cattle prod. Dean groans, trying to keep one eye on Machete Guy and keep #2 from shocking him at the same time.

Machete Guy is still just standing there.

Doll #2 puts up a good fight. He's stronger than he looks - and that cattle prod is getting uncomfortably close to Dean's throat. Finally, he abandons the plan of removing the cattle prod from the equation before doing anything else and just sucker punches the guy in the gut. Doll #2 groans and sputters, but still doesn't drop the cattle prod. It takes a hard jab to the throat get him to do that. He falters on his feet, staggering, and Dean grabs onto his jacket and sends him careening into the nearest shelf. There is a sickening crack when #2's jaw hits the shelf and he crashes to the ground, along with most of the inventory, burying him in a mountain of Doritos.

Dean glances at Machete Guy, but doesn't have much of an opportunity to call out a greeting or ask what CW show he's escaped from because Doll #1 is getting to his feet, woozily making an attempt at an attack. Without even thinking about it, Dean grabs a nearby jug of window washing fluid, unscrews the lid, and throws the chemicals in his face. Doll #1 stumbles back, hands moving to claw at his eyes.

At this point, it might have been more merciful to just shoot them. If they would just stay down...

Dean moves to grab the cattle prod, but it's not there.

Machete Guy isn't where he was either.

Dean starts to turn only to come face to face with Doll #2 seconds before he tackles him to the ground. Dean grabs onto the Doll's arm to keep the cattle prod away from his chest, grinding out a ''shit'' through his teeth. The strangest thing he notices is that the Doll isn't even looking at him. His attention is on something off to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots Machete Guy, slowly meandering around the side to get to them. His focus seems to mainly be on the Dolls.

Oh.

He's evaluating them. He's the teacher. He's the head boy.

Dean grabs onto the bloody knife lying on the ground that #1 must have pulled out of his thigh, thrusts it into #2's gut, and grabs the cattle prod as it begins to slip out of the guy's grasp, shocking the Doll once, twice, and then one more time until he's out.

Guess they failed the test.

Exhausted and more than a little pissed off, Dean struggles to his feet, grabs onto the blinded, still flailing Doll #1, and drives him headfirst into the wall, knocking him out cold. He has no time to relax, turning his attention to the newest absurdity in his stupid fucking life.

Machete Guy moves closer and closer, casually striding down the aisle.

Dean, bruised, bloody, and beaten, but full of rage more than anything else, doesn't move. ''So are you the trainer then?'' He looks at the bodies splayed out on the floor. ''Could've done a better job there, pal.''

Machete Guy laughs, a throaty, familiar sounding rasp. He stops a few steps away, eyeing Dean like he's appraising his opponent.

Dean stands straight, pushing away any and all soreness, putting all his faith in the adrenaline still racing through his veins. ''Well, big guy,'' he says, spreading his arms wide. ''Here we are now,'' he grins. ''Entertain us.''

Machete Guy seems to consider this for a second. And then he strikes. No witty comment, no threats, he just moves - and he moves fast. He swings the machete with trained precision. Dean ducks the first slash, barely ducks the second, and then, on the third, he veers hard to the right, and brings the cattle prod up and into the guy's chest. It does have an effect on him, at least enough to elicit a pained shout, but not enough to drop him.

Dean, who would very much like to avoid getting his head chopped off with a machete, takes advantage of the tiny falter and swings the cattle prod up towards Machete Guy's neck. It doesn't quite work as intended. Machete Guy catches his wrist. At the very least, he does have to drop the machete to do it.

In what can only be described as a petulant and bratty move, Dean reaches up with his free hand and tears the guy's obnoxious ski mask off seconds before he gets a hard kick to his chest. He lands hard on his back, gasping, winded, the cattle prod clattering to the ground.

The other man, unmasked, no longer looks as calm.

Dean would be more concerned with what that lack of calmness means if he wasn't looking right at a dead man. ''You... How are you - ''

Ricky Moretti, not as dead as previously thought, cuts him off with a mocking laugh.

As soon as his face is exposed, the need for the mask becomes immediately obvious.

This man, standing there panting and furious, is alive, but only in theory. The guy is crumbling. Literally crumbling. He doesn't look quite like an extra from The Walking Dead - breathing, able to be injured, cognizant of what he's doing and what's going on around him - but he doesn't seem 100% alive either. He's pale, unnaturally, unhealthily so, his skin is cracking and flaky, there is still a gruesome bullet hole in his head, and there is something very wrong with his eyes. They look almost snake-like - glassy, milky, his pupils slits.

Talk about Coming Back Wrong.

Dean's first thought when he lays eyes on whatever fresh hell this is - other than, you know, ew - is, Holy shit, she did it.

Edie finally did what she always intended to do. She made a weapon. She pulled him back, made him something barely human, barely alive, but wholly hers. Her ultimate soldier, crafted for her and her only. This is what she was going to do to Laurel?

This?

The woman made a monster.

Moretti, or whatever's left of him, grins with his crusty lips. ''You think,'' he growls, with his raspy half dead voice, ''you can kill me?''

He charges, one hand reaching for Dean. This time, however, Dean is the faster one. He grabs the cattle prod and goes right for the throat, sending thousands of volts of electricity directly to Moretti's throat. It's not enough to kill or even incapacitate whatever Moretti is now, but it is enough to send him down to one knee, howling. That's good enough.

Dean scrambles to his feet and takes off. He makes it to the short hallway by the magazine shelf where the bathrooms and emergency exit are, but when he tries the door, it doesn't budge. It's not locked, he can tell that by the sliver it opens, but there's something blocking it from the outside. He can't tell what. A car maybe? He looks over his shoulder and tries again, putting all his weight into it, but the door doesn't open. ''Fuck me.''

Then, abruptly, just to really make things fun, the power goes off.

The music and the lights switch off, plunging the entire store into an unnerving silence. It's not all that dark thanks to the natural light coming in through the front doors and windows, but it's silent. He turns, looking towards the front of the store, but there's no one there. He peeks around the corner. He can still hear Moretti groaning, but he can't see him. What he can see, just a step away, is a lone gun lying on the ground. He risks a look in the direction of the body lying on the floor, a smear of blood from where he dragged himself from the chip aisle. The Doll he shot in the leg. The guy's unconscious, bleeding badly, but still breathing. He won't be needing his gun anytime soon.

Dean takes a risk, darting out to grab the gun before ducking back into the hallway. Now this he can work with. He looks around the corner one more time and spots Moretti, on his feet, huffing and puffing and fixing his black ski mask back over his head. Good. Nobody needs to see whatever Saw movie shit that was.

Dean looks over at the front door. He checks his watch. He'd like to know who cut the power. He'd like to know if there are more Dolls on the way. But what he really wants to do is leave. ''You're not lookin' so hot there, Ricky,'' he calls out. ''Have you not been wearing sunscreen every day?''

There's a grunt and then, ''Snake Eyes.''

''...What?''

''Snake Eyes,'' Moretti repeats. ''That's my name now.''

Dean has to close his eyes to keep from rolling them. Do you ever find yourself missing the apocalypse years? Because right now, in this singular moment of complete and utter stupidity, that's where he's at. ''Oh my god,'' he bursts out, lip curling in disgust. ''Did you name yourself? You can't name yourself, you insufferable bastard.'' Then, to himself, he mutters, ''I hate this guy.''

There's a laugh. It sounds like Moretti is getting closer. ''Are you hiding from me, boy?'' He sounds amused. ''You're not even going to try to fight? Just gonna hide away like a pathetic little piss ant? Is that fear I smell on you, Winchester?''

''You that desperate to roll around with me?'' Dean tries to track Moretti's footsteps. ''Why, Ricky, I didn't know you felt that way about me. I'm flattered, but I think I'm gonna have to pass. I'm married.'' He waits a single breath and then he moves out from behind the wall and fires a shot.

Moretti flinches, hands flying up to protect himself, and the bullet just grazes his left hand. He grunts and when the second bullet just misses his ear, he decides to charge rather than fall back. Dean fires another shot and it hits Moretti's shoulder and then another and it slices right into his side. Moretti looks like he wants to keep trying, but he hisses, wounded, retreating into a nearby aisle. Then, once again, he laughs. ''That all you got?''

Dean ducks back into the hallway, clenching his jaw.

''I'm disappointed,'' Moretti sneers.

''This isn't disappointing,'' Dean responds, keeping his voice mild. ''You know what's disappointing? Stepmom. You ever seen that movie? They marketed that shit as a feel good family film and then halfway through it's like - by the way, here's a surprise cancer plot and Susan Sarandon dies at the end. That's just sadistic.''

He can't tell if Moretti has to take a minute before he responds to that one because he's tending to his wounds or because he has no idea what Dean has just said. ''You think your smart mouth's gonna get you out of this one?''

Dean eyes the fire extinguisher on the wall. ''I guess we'll see,'' he says. ''My mouth's gotten me out of worse situations.''

''You got two choices here,'' Moretti spits. ''You're either coming with me or you're telling me where your wife is.''

Dean looks at the magazine rack, glancing at the plastic rack, trying to see if he can see Moretti approaching through the reflection. ''How the hell am I supposed to know where she is?'' As quietly as he can, he ditches the gun and takes the fire extinguisher off the wall. ''Didn't you get the memo? She left me. Left town. I don't know where she is.''

''I call bullshit.'' Moretti doesn't sound more than mildly inconvenienced by his gunshot wounds.

What did Edie do to this guy?

''Your prerogative,'' Dean shrugs. ''Last I heard she was in California.''

''You and I both know she's not in California. She's here.''

''Is she?'' Dean catches sight of Moretti's reflection in the magazine rack. ''I hadn't heard. Like I said, last I heard she was in Los Angeles. Maybe she needed some sun. Maybe she's going to try to make it as an actress. Who knows with her. She changes goalposts yearly.''

A shadow falls over the magazine rack. He waits until Moretti fully comes into sight and then he strikes, hard and fast, stepping out and smashing the fire extinguisher into Moretti's head.

Moretti drops with a grunt, but is trying to get right back up again in seconds.

Dean hits him again, catching him under the chin and laying him out flat on his back.

Despite that, Moretti is still trying to shake it off, to get up, still conscious and ready to fight.

When he tries again, weaker this time, Dean pulls the pin on the fire extinguisher, aims, and squeezes. The spray of white doesn't hurt Moretti, but the force and surprise of it does push him back down, disorienting him. ''Got a name suggestion for you,'' Dean says brightly. ''How about Cockroach? I think that's a better fit, don't you? Certainly better than Snake Eyes. That's just obnoxious.''

Moretti coughs and sputters and growls like a rabid dog. There is something decidedly inhuman about his creepy movements. ''Where is she, Dean? Where's Canary?''

''I don't know, Darrin, why don't you ask Samantha?''

Visibly struggling, Moretti lumbers back to his feet with a roar of, ''WHERE IS SHE?!''

Before Dean can even fire off another witty remark, there is a thud from above. One of the ceiling panels flings open and a body drops down between the two men. The figure, with her disheveled blonde hair, stands straight, facing Moretti.

With her back to Dean, he can see the emblem stitched in white onto the back of what looks like a brand new black leather jacket. A bird, wings spread, lined in yellow. It's a canary.

''Not in California,'' Laurel says, her voice a protective snarl, a harsh warning, right before she opens her mouth -

- and screams.

.

.

.

end part eighteen

---

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter include: At one point, Dean has a nightmare that involves the graphic death of two of his loved ones. Both flashbacks in this chapter take place in February 2014 and deal heavily with depression, anxiety, addiction, and the aftermath of a suicide attempt. This chapter also includes an emphasis on parental abuse and how it follows you. And violence. This chapter definitely has some violence.

NOTES:
- Dean's ''she will be the Black Canary until the day she dies'' line was a referece to a similar well known BC line from the comics.
- Also a reference to a well known comic book line from Injustice is Dean's line from the second flashback: ''Dinah Laurel Lance. The prettiest girl in the whole damn world.'' It's originally an Oliver line, but Arrowverse Oliver does not deserve that line so I'm giving Dean his cookies.
- The jacket Laurel was wearing at the very end (and yes, we will find out where she got that from in the next chapter when we get into the separation arc from Laurel's POV) was taken from her outfit from the Green Arrow Rebirth run, most notably drawn by Otto Schmidt
- Chapter title comes from You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette