Alrighty, I just want to say thank you to the people who left reviews. It means a lot, truly it does. And a shout out to chaiwalnuts for picking up some things in the first chapter that I didn't think anyone would catch onto until a few more chapters. I left a lot of hints there as to how this story will progress as I have done with this chapter, so I'm eager to have peoples theory's thrown my way.
And many thanks to TheSilentLady1002, chaiwalnuts, SilverD15, Windschatten, LadyWilliams, and my Guest reviewer for your wonderful comments.
If you're feelin' kind, leave a review.

Chapter Two

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog."
-Mark Twain

Chapter Quote: "I'm thinkin' it's some weird cult shit."

They were hunting a witch; they knew that much, but every lead always came to a dead end. In all honesty it was starting to grate on Dean's nerves – he didn't understand why this time it was so difficult to gank the son of a bitch. Five weeks of this bullshit, with five bodies and absolutely nothing. Every time they got close, it was like the bastard knew and would just pack up and leave.

And Dean . . . well, he needed to kill something — something that was real nasty; something that made his skin crawl, something that challenged him – to fill his head with only thoughts of getting the job done, leaving no room for anything else. Because otherwise he'd have to deal with the chaotic thoughts running around in his mind; thoughts that only he had privy to. Like the weirdo trench coat guy that claimed he was 'An Angel of the Lord' and the one to pull him from the fiery depths below; the dude terrified him a little. And the memories of the rack that haunted his every waking moment; repulsive nightmares that were a mixture of truth and imagination disturbed his sleeping mind. It was starting to make Dean twitchy; itching to take down a big baddie so he could feel like he was doing something right, something good. Maybe then he'd be able to look at himself in the mirror longer than five seconds; to look upon his reflection and truly like what he saw – what he's become.

Dean knew that Sam knew that something was up. How could there not be? He came back from the dead – from hell . . . but Dean wasn't ready to talk about it, told Sammy that he didn't remember; he didn't think he'd ever be ready to confess to the unspeakable things he did to those souls while he was down below. He always thought that he'd be able to hold out, that when others would have given in, Dean would be a mountain that refused to be moved. He was so fucking naïve, so completely and undeniably fucking naïve. Thirty years of that bullshit torture routine and he caved. It infuriated him; made his head pulse with rage every time he thought about it.

More than anything he was terrified that this wasn't real. That Sammy sleeping in the passenger seat beside him was some new form of torture Alistair had conjured up, that at any second he would be pulled from the happiness and flung straight back to the rack with the sensation of his flesh being peeled slowly away from his body; being forced to watch the skin rip with nothing but the fingertips of whatever fucker that was assigned to him at that time – shredding the flesh away from his person at an agonisingly slow speed, and falling away in bloody ribbons before his eyes.

Dean gave his head a slight shake as if he could physically remove the nausea that swirled in his stomach while trying to rid his mind of the thoughts, push them to the furthest corners of his mind. He knew that they'd come crawling back in about twenty minutes, they always did. But he wanted a clear head, even if it was only for a little while. The eldest Winchester brother pulled into the junk yard, coming to a stop in front of the old and thoroughly lived in home of Bobby Singer. Being here made him calmer, made the tension in his shoulders loosen; felt like he could finally catch his breath after holding it for too long for fear of drowning in the sea of suffocating memories and emotions.

"Up an' at 'em, Sammy!" Dean shouted as he clamped a hand down upon his brothers shoulder and shook roughly, watching his younger sibling jump into a sitting position – looking around wildly for danger; his hair a mess and clothes wrinkled.

"C'mon, man." Sam huffed slightly, pulling his lips down into a frown and giving Dean his best glare. A raspy chuckle escaped his throat while he watched Sam rub the sleep from his eyes, mumbling about something that Dean couldn't quite catch; so he left Sam to his complaining to hop out of the car, and headed towards the porch; hearing the slam of the car door behind him.

Dean didn't knock, he never did; not with Bobby anyway because he knew he was welcome here, hell – the only place he'd always be welcomed without a doubt. And he found Bobby where he always found him; sitting at his desk surrounded by old musty books and a glass of whisky in hand.

"Hey Bobby," Dean greeted half-heartedly, smile not quite reaching his eyes, trying not to let on to how tired he truly was. "We've got something, and we need help."

It was all he had to say to get Bobby's undivided attention. He still wasn't used to that, Dad never did that – Dean didn't think John Winchester knew how to turn his mind away from the job, even in the end it was always about the one job: get the thing that killed mum.

The eldest brother turned away from Bobby who was watching on in concerned interest and headed towards the kitchen, pried open the fridge to grab two beers and passed one to Sam who had finally made an appearance; placing himself at the small kitchen table. Dean cracked the bottle open hearing the fizz as he pocketed the cap before leaning heavily against the counter top to take a deep gulp of the amber liquid that instantly gave his body a soothing chill.

"I still think we should be focusing on this angel guy." Sam directed at Dean before Bobby could question what they needed help with. Sammy just couldn't leave it be, kept at him like he would finally cave under Sam's constant nagging. Dean was already shaking his head – no – before his younger sibling had finished talking, he did not want to focus on the angel guy; didn't want to acknowledge the angel guy, wanted the angel guy to go back to wherever the hell he came from – because angel guy could be a demon guy for all they knew. "Well tell me what else it could've been?

"All I know is that I was groped by an angel." Dean retorted with his jaw clenched as he stepped forward in frustration, but changed his mind and leaned back against the counter again; fidgeting with the bottle in his hands. He didn't want to talk about it unless Sammy was going to start agreeing with him.

"Oh, c'mon Dean, why would this Castiel lie to you?" Sam didn't get it. He wanted this to be a good thing; Dean guessed that Sam needed it to be a good thing. But it never was, it was always something bad or led to something bad. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, they would end up shit creek without a paddle.

"Maybe he's some kind of demon?" Dean threw out vaguely, grasping at straws. "Demon's lie."

"A demon that's immune to salt rounds, and devil traps, and Ruby's knife!" Sam listed off in protest, watching as his brother picked up a cold slice of pizza that sat untouched on the counter, sniffed the food before throwing it back in the box and pulled a sour face like it had personally offended him. "Dean, Lilith's scared of that thing." He continued to argue fiercely, trying to get Dean to open up to the idea that angels could be the good guys.

"Don'cha' think if angels were real," Dean started, watching as Sam rolled his eyes at the condescending tone; tongue darting out to wet his lips as he became more impatient with Dean – who chose to ignore his brother's antics and pressed on. "Some hunter, somewhere would have seen one. At some point. Ever."

Sam grinned sardonically, "Yeah. You just did Dean."

Dean huffed a little, rubbing his palms against his jean covered thighs in frustration before coming off the counter and gesturing to himself, "I'm tryin' to come up with a theory here, okay," Sam gave another eye roll that made Dean want to smack him upside the head if he did it again. "Work with me."

"Dean, we have a theory–"

He cut Sam off before he could start, "Yeah, one with a little less fairy dust on it, please."

"Look, I'm not saying that we know for sure," Sam countered with raised brows, weariness leaking into his voice. "I'm just saying that I think–"

"Okay, okay, okay." Dean interrupted the younger sibling once more. "That's the point, we don't know for sure." He gestured in annoyance, trying to get Sam to at least listen to reason. He didn't understand why Sam was so ready to jump on the angel bandwagon. "I'm not going to believe that this thing is a freakin' angel of the Lord because it says so!"

"Do you two chuckle heads wanna' keep arguing religion or do you wanna' talk about those murders?" Bobby barked impatiently, his voice gruff as always and took a long swig of the whisky unflinchingly – not even a blink. He regarded the brothers through squinted eyes, daring them to continue their argument.

"Uh, yeah." Sam agreed and felt a little scolded by the older hunter; like he was ten years old again. His brow creased as he pushed up from the chair and made his way over to Bobby, Dean following close behind.

Dean knew that Sam wanted him to view the whole angel thing as a jolly good time, but he couldn't. It rubbed at him the wrong way; like Castiel himself was running a cheese grater up and down his arm repeatedly. It was fishy, hella' fishy; quite frankly he just wanted to sweep the whole incident under the rug and forget it ever happened, because if there were angels, there was a god – and that freaked him out more than demons will ever again, because why would God give a rats ass about him? It creeped him out.

But more importantly Dean wanted to know everything about the case they were trying to work; knew Sam was just as frustrated as his older brother. Five people had died because of this witch and they couldn't catch them, every time they got close the bastard was gone without a trace – the only clue was another horribly disfigured body that looked to be mummified; the head cleanly severed from the body with the chest slashed open; skin and flesh neatly pulled away from the sternum, and the mediastinum finely cut to pull apart the ribs, exposing the heart and lungs – only the body was missing those two important organs.

It was gory, that was for sure. Dean had definitely seen worse, way worse; but it was creepy – especially with the overly complicated symbols strategically painted in blood on the ground around the victim. It was some serious crap this particular witch was meddling with.

Sam gave Dean a side glance, which pretty much meant that the conversation about angels wasn't over. It was quiet for a moment between the three before Bobby grumbled something neither of the brothers could catch and continued on louder for them to hear. "You're dealin' with a Valtushard." Bobby informed the two young hunters as if they should've known as soon as they saw the first body.

Dean's brow furrowed, lips stretching and mouthing the word out before trying to pronounce it. "Volta . . . Vulteh– what?"

Bobby would've found the whole thing comical if he didn't think the two were being idiots. "A Valtushard." The aged hunter sounded the word out like he would for a three year old: Val-too-chard. He only received two bewildered looks in return. Bobby grunted before taking another swig of the whisky, noticed that there was only a little left so he downed the rest, and then quickly refilled his glass; placing the bottle back down beside the book he was reading about those winged dorks before being interrupted. "A type of witch. The ritual that's being used is a soul spilt – specifically to separate a witch's power from their soul."

Dean wasn't surprised Bobby knew what they were hunting or what the witch was up to, no – it was something else entirely. "Wait, wait. Type of witch? The hell does that mean?" Dean demanded. There was only one type of witch, the demon dealing kind and that was that; no if's no buts, no coconuts.

"You got three types," Bobby started, going straight into teacher mode as he held up three fingers. "Number one: Borrowers, someone who deals with demons for mojo – common, ones that you're used to dealin' with. Number two: Students, someone who studies witchcraft, but don't got a lot of mojo. Number Three: a Valkaras, a natural born witch." Sam opened his mouth, ready to fire off and ask the necessary questions, but Bobby powered through; he knew Sammy too well. "And a Valtushard is a Valkaras gone nuclear – they steal power by hunting other natural witches; the murders are all part of the ritual."

Dean scoffed, opened his arms in a shrug before clapping his hands together.

"Okay, so then why have we never dealt with a Valkaras?" Sam interjected before Dean could start poking holes in Bobby's lesson.

"Because their typically known as 'White Witches'. Good guys. And because most hunters," he gestured towards the brothers. "Assume that every witch they come across is bad news, so they stay under the radar."

"So," Dean dragged out the word as he concluded, taking a seat on the couch. "Dead guy number five is a Valkaras? And he got the mojo sucked outta' him?" Bobby grunted his agreement as he gave the eldest brother a withering look over his whisky glass for the attitude. Dean couldn't help it, honestly – he had been hunting for too damn long to not know this already, so it must be bullshit. Dean had never met a witch that didn't want to screw him or his brother over; they were all power hungry nut jobs. On the other hand, it was Bobby, and Bobby didn't make shit up.

"Alright, so how do we find the Velta– you know?" Sam fumbled the word as he took a seat beside his brother, taking in the information while fiddling with the cap from the bottle of beer in his hand that remained full.

"Can't do that without another witch."

"Well that's just spiffy," Dean grumbled, sarcasm dripping from his tone. His frustration and aggravation came bubbling to the surface, and he fought the urge to get up and start pacing. "I'll just call up Glinda and we'll be right to go."

"If your drop the attitude, I can give you the name and address of a friendly." Bobby scolded sternly, brows lowered over his eyes. He was well beyond annoyed with the older sibling's attitude.

Dean heaved a sigh, "Sorry man, long day." Bobby gave a nod, acknowledging the apology. Of course Bobby had no idea how weighty those words were, but Dean was sure he could take a guess.

"Her name's Eleanor Barrois. An old friend," Bobby informed them as he grabbed a pen and paper to quickly scribble down the address. "You be respectful or she'll light your ass on fire." He received only raised eyebrows.

"Why would she help us?" Sam questioned, stretching his legs out in front of himself while leaning back into the cushion of the couch, and finally taking a small sip of beer. "You said they like to keep on the down-low."

"Because a Valtushard killed her daughter," Bobby informed the duo and stood from his seat to stride over to a pile of messy books in the corner of the room, picking one seemingly from random and paging threw it; looking for whatever it was he was looking for. "Never did catch them though."

"Where can we find her?" Dean sounded off after he skulled the rest of the amber liquid.

"Louisiana."

"Police are askin' for any information that could lead t' tha' arrest of Satan's Killer; tha' serial killer that 'as been terrorizin' our country for tha' last five weeks, an' has now murdered five people; most recently Victor Forman of Beaumont. This is Steven Connor an' y' listenin' to 96.4 fm." The radio hosts raspy voice trailed off with the beginnings of a Chris Isaac song filling the space of the small diner.

"Well fuck, another body." Daniel muttered, his words laced with orange as he leaned against the counter beside Wendy as she sat upon the bar stool, and ate the breakfast Marco had ready for her when she walked in for the five o'clock morning shift. Wendy glanced at the tall man with the honey locks and blue eyes.

Wendy had known Daniel Cox since she was eleven years old, he was the very first friend she had made when she had begun living with her grandmother, told her she was weird upon their first meeting during lunch in the school yard after she told him that it wasn't his fault his father hit his mother, and offered one of the banana muffins Grams had packed her – Danny followed the insult up with how more people should be like her. He figured out pretty soon after that just how weird she was, and defended her whenever he thought he needed to.

"That's'ah naughty word, Danny." Wendy scolded half-heartily after swallowing a mouth full of scrambled eggs, watching the man beside her pop his knuckles before flexing them.

"They gave tha' fuckin' guy ah name, Wendy." Daniel ignored the blonde's chiding tone. "Jesus Christ, yea – 'cause that'll help 'em catch tha' fucker." Daniel sat down forcefully on the bar stool next to Wendy, chewing his thumb nail in thought.

"I guess they do it t' make it less scary." Wendy attempted to sooth the aggravated man with words instead of invading his feelings and manipulating his emotions, she had enough of doing that lately and she didn't want to invade the privacy of one of the very few friends she had.

"What?"

Wendy realised her words must have confused him, seeing as his brow was scrunched while his eyes became squinty. "Well, give somethin' ah name an' it sounds less scary. Gives people ah false sense of security, they think they know what they're up against if they know tha' name of that somethin'."

"Yea, I guess." Daniel huffed out a long breath, irritation still coursing through his body, but less so now after her words. "Let's hope they catch tha' guy soon."

Wendy hummed in agreement. She was worried, maybe even a little scared. Grams had clashed with a Valtushard along with Wendy's mother, Selene, while she was still a child – it was how Selene died. And it made Wendy anxious – made her want to scratch at her wrists, drag her fingernails along the inside of the pale skin to stop herself from thinking about the gruesome murders and the person who caused the horrifying acts. Focusing on the pain made it easier to breathe, made it easier to not let those thoughts swirl inside her mind and disturb her throughout the day. It didn't help that everyone else was thinking about it too – that they felt frightened and nervous; paranoid even.

Grams had had what Wendy could only describe as a meltdown two days ago and began warding the old farmhouse for the second time along with the property that surrounded it. Wendy had walked into the home after a long shift at the diner late on Friday night, and was greeted by an aggravated Nancy whom darted from under the couch in the sitting room and crouched lowly behind Wendy; hiding.

Wendy had let the walls come down to touch her mind with Nancy's, the familiars memory invading her head like a fog – watching Grams hurry around in the basement surrounded by bookshelves, jars, papers, and ingredients; it was a mess with books scattered across bench tops and tables. Eleanor's hair was a tangle of curls, sticking up in every direction as if she were constantly running her hands through it; Wendy was proven right as she watched her grandmother do just that.

The sleeves of her grandmother's silk blouse had been rolled up to the elbows, wrinkled beyond perfection and blotted with various stains that Eleanor Barrois would have never let happen under normal circumstances. Grams was flicking through the pages of an old tome that looked too fragile to touch before growling out in frustration and flinging the object across the room. The reaction alarmed Wendy. It was troubling seeing her grandmother in so much distress.

Wendy shooed the memory away to rub at her face tiredly. Giving Nancy an appreciative scratch behind his ears, the young blonde had made her way further into the house and towards the kitchen, finding the door to the basement unlocked and wide open with countless different smells coming from the room below. Wendy's soft footfalls creaked on the fifth step down like it always did, no matter how lightly she stepped. The basement was a well-lit decent sized room with the walls painted white and hardwood flooring. Shelving with books and other odds and ends lined the walls, along with a stove top in the far corner of the room which had something boiling in the massive pot that sat upon it. And at the centre of the room was a large island topped with a thick sheet of oak – which had a scattered assortment of things sprawled over it.

That was where Wendy found her grandmother. Anxiety filling up her entire being, making it difficult to breathe, like having a golf ball stuck in her throat. The feeling was over whelming – so Wendy pushed the emotion down forcefully, putting effort into reaching out with a wave of clam that washed over her grandmother; feeling sweat beginning to appear across her brow as she fought the urge to let her walls collapse and accidentally pry into Grams' mind after a too long day at the diner.

"Grams?" She had called softly, watching as the older woman straightened from her hunched over form; visibly more relaxed than before. "Is everythin' okay?"

Grams heaved a long sigh before turning to face her granddaughter, "No, honey. It's not." Eleanor's tired eyes regarded Wendy wearily as she tried to brush the wrinkles out of her blouse, but gave up after realising it was pointless. "Tha' killin's gettin' closer. Too close an' y' magical signature will be sniffed out . . . been tryin' t' find'ah spell or ah potion t' dampen it . . . even considered findin'ah talisman. Hex bag won't be strong enough."

Wendy wrung her fingers together; a nervous habit that even the hospital couldn't get out of her as she tried to not let her mind drift away from her grandmothers words. "We could make somethin' from scratch? Might be more powerful."

"We'll have t', it'll take time though." Eleanor puffed up her cheeks as she placed her hands upon her hips, and exhaled loudly. "I'm'ma make some calls – for ingredients."

Wendy didn't know how to comfort her grandmother without the use of her powers; her head felt too heavy to assist for too long and her walls were starting to melt-down into paste; letting in the thoughts and emotions of close by neighbours – whispering in her mind and shivering through her body. She just didn't know the right words to say to ease the stress that the older woman felt at that time. So Wendy offered her grandmother the only thing that could help – even if it were only a little bit, "Tea? Lavender perhaps. It'll clam ya' down." She gave Eleanor a dreamy smile as the cracks in her walls began to show. "Then we can start brainstormin' together, idea's will start flashin' like lightenin'," She laughed breathily at her little joke, completely missing the look of heartbreaking concern on her grandmother's face. "an' we'll make some lists, I like makin' lists. Like makin' the bullet points evenly spaced as little stars." Wendy turned on her heel, humming a tune while doing so and left the older woman in the underground room, taking the calm that she just managed to project with her – leaving Eleanor to feel cold and alone in the too big room.

Wendy had noticed that after that night her grandmother had started to try and repress her emotions, kept the walls up around her mind so Wendy couldn't even grasp a stray thought. Perhaps her grandmother thought she was easing the strain on Wendy, but she couldn't ignore the fact that Eleanor's blocking was because she was scared. She had never seen her grandmother scared; angry, sad, happy – but never scared. And that in turn made Wendy terrified, began to make her jumpy more than usual; startling at small noises or a person suddenly speaking – even the drifting thoughts that managed to pierce her mind.

She had also taken it upon herself to listen in on the thoughts of her customers. It made her feel sick with guilt at the invasion of privacy she was using upon these unsuspecting citizens, but she felt it necessary. Wendy mostly tuned into the officers or the Sheriff, even the wandering drifters that were just passing through. Sometimes the drifters were what Grams called Hunters – people who track down and kill the dangerous creatures that lurked in the darkness of the world. Wendy kept away from them, they were a good information source, but no less dangerous – especially with the warnings her grandmother instilled into her when she was younger. There was an older gentleman a day ago that came through; a hunter whom was looking into the same murders that had Grams worried. He was flirting pretty heavily with Joyce and gave her the name Charles, when in reality it was Rufus. Wendy didn't tell Joyce that though; hunters often gave fake names, and Rufus wasn't looking to hurt anyone that wasn't hurting someone else.

"I'm thinkin' it's some weird cult shit." Marco cut into the conversation – bringing Wendy out of her own head as he came out from the kitchen with a tea towel draped over his shoulder, and his dark curls pulled back away from his face in a small bun that sat at the nape of his neck. He was dressed casually in a white shirt that showed the lower half of the Aztec-like tattoo that covered his left arm.

Daniel eyed Wendy with concern before turning his attention to his partner, "Awh yea," Danny grinned, raising his brows at Marco. "An' whys that?"

"Well, the murders are all the same but in different parts of the country. A cult sounds better than just one person." Marco suggested as if that was the most logical answer. He tinkered around the coffee pot before pouring himself a mug and adding cream.

"Could jus' be'ah person catching ah plane." Danny countered with a smirk, knowing it would irritate his lover.

Marco scoffed, raising an eyebrow at Danny as he leaned over the counter top towards the blonde man. "Puh-lease, way too expensive."

"We won't know until they catch tha' person." Wendy chimed in before the debate could turn into an argument, feeling Marco step up to the challenge Danny presented before quickly fading due to Wendy's input.

Marco took a gulp of the bitter liquid, leaned away from Danny and pointed a finger at Wendy, "They didn't catch the Zodiac Killer."

"Y' such'ah downer." Danny scolded which only had Marco flipping him off before trotting off into the office down the hall, Danny watching him go with hooded eyes attached to his dark jeaned bottom. "He watches way too many crime shows."

Wendy hummed happily as Danny's emotions filled her with warmth. "Y' looove him." She sang happily as she cleared her plate of food, standing from the stool and collecting her dishes to bring them to the kitchen for Jeffery.

She stepped out of the kitchen, letting the door swing close behind her as she grabbed her notepad from the counter to place it into her apron pocket, looking up at the sound of the chime the bell above the door made to see her Mr. Glowy. To say she was surprised was an understatement, it had been five days since she last saw him, and while Wendy was disappointed – she had shrugged it off thinking he was another drifter just passing through; someone who had caught her interest, but wouldn't be seen again.

Gabriel threw the blonde a grin before he swaggered off to the very same seat he occupied days ago. Her thick brows creased as she watched him with silver eyes. Wendy brought down her walls to reach out to read him, but was meant with something solid and difficult to penetrate, so she left it be. She was beside his table in a matter of seconds, looking down at his form silently – trying to pick up anything.

"Uh-uh," Gabriel wagged a finger at Wendy, giving her a knowing look. "You won't be getting in here unless I let ya', sunshine." He tapped his temple with his index finger and Wendy couldn't help but pout a little.

"I'm'ma little surprised t' see y' is all," she commented quietly, her eyebrows pulling together. Wendy was still trying to get any whiff of emotion off the man, but it was silent on his end. She sighed, "what can I get y'?"

"When do you get off?" Gabriel countered, clasping his hands together as the door chimed once more – a woman entering, pulling off her hat to slap it against her thigh, muttering about something – and grinning when he noticed Wendy's eye twitch a little in irritation that wasn't her own.

"At lunch." She said briskly, gave her head a little shake to rid the hat slapping woman's agitation from her body; reinforcing the walls around her mind so it wouldn't happen again anytime soon.

"Great, we'll go for lunch."

"What if I'm busy?" Wendy retorted softly, but not unkindly; her head tilting slightly to the right, regarding him with those enchanting silver eyes he was so absorbed by.

"Are you?" He cocked a brow at her.

"No."

"Then lunch it is," Gabriel declared as he jumped up from his seat, startling Wendy a little, watching while he basically bounced on the spot with his hands stuffed into his pockets. "I'll pick you up out front, sunshine." With that he was off and she wondered why he even sat down to begin with.

She felt Danny tiptoe up behind her munching on some jam covered toast, hearing the crunch as he bit into it, "Who'sthatguy?" He mumbled around the food.

"Gigi," Wendy answered, and slowly turned to face her friend – looking somewhat confused – as Danny shoved the remainder of the toast into his gob; crumbs scattered around his scruffy mouth. "I think he asked me on'ah date."

"Oooh, Weeeendeeee," Danny sang while watching his tiny blonde friend frown at him; feeling mischievous he quickly spun on his heel and marched off down the hall to the small office shouting, "Marco, guess what!"

Wendy had never been on a date before. Well, that was a lie. Wendy had never been on a good date before. Mainly because people either thought she was too weird to date or they thought she'd be an easy lay due to her weirdness – she didn't understand where anyone would get that from though; it didn't even sound logical to her. She remembered her first and only date, after graduating from high school she had accepted a date from Shaun Havald, it had gone well – he seemed nice enough though his thoughts were mainly focused on guessing her breast size; it was the end of the evening where he tried his luck at pulling over on the side of the road and got handsy (thoughts turning dark, dangerous), no matter how many times she said 'no'. Wendy had sent him to sleep and implanted the fear of sex into his mind, afterwards she made the twenty minute walk home by her lonesome in the dark; she hadn't felt alone though, so that was nice, but as soon as she walked into the old farmhouse she made a beeline for the shower and scrubbed at her skin as if Wendy had even the slightest chance to physically remove the feel of him from her person.

But she had avoided dating since then – a lot of people didn't have kind thoughts, so it made liking someone difficult especially when she'd catch snippets of their thoughts about how good her lips would look wrapped around their cock.

Wendy's shift passed quickly, the hours blurring together as the breakfast rush started at nine and didn't end until eleven. Wendy's feet were sore from standing for a long period of time, numbing a little at her shins, and her head ached from the walls she would let down to listen in for any information about the murders, and then building them back up again and again was making her sleepy. She wondered if she could just go home and sleep or try to at least, maybe Gabriel wouldn't be offended – but no, she wanted answers from the strange man, needed answers. Who was he, what was he? With anyone else it would be so simple to pluck the answers from their mind, but that wasn't possible in this situation because Gabriel was able to block her which has never happened before. Sure, Grams could block Wendy from her thoughts and emotions, but if Wendy pushed hard enough those walls would crumble under the weight of her power.

So Wendy stood in front of the diner, waiting patiently from Mr. Glowy to appear and answer her questions.

"Well, don't you look gorgeous," the Mystery Man himself cooed from beside her; like a mother to a newborn baby or when you see a puppy – like labradoodle puppies; they were just so curly and fun loving. Wendy faced him as his words swirled around her in a bright fluffy pink. "And you're wearing cowboy boots. That's so cute, with your little yellow dress and your little boots. You're just a ray of sunshine."

No one had ever paid that much attention to her clothing choices before – well aside from Grams, but that didn't count. Wendy was automatically filled with a tingling warmth that was all her own; no interference from anyone around her. And for the kind words he bestowed upon her, she gave him her best smile; the one that Pop used to say reminded him of Wendy's mother. Immediately Gabriel grinned, placing his hands into his pockets and cooed at her again. She could have sworn she heard him sigh out an, "aww babydoll." Wendy could feel her face burning; no doubt it was a bright red from his praise.

"Thank ya," Wendy gave him a dreamy smile as she took a step towards him, "it has pockets!" She placed her hands in said pockets as a demonstration. Gabriel gave a laugh then offered his arm and she accepted; placing her hand in the crook of it. "Where're we going?"

"There's a little Chinese restaurant two blocks away, thought we could go there?" Gabriel shrugged as he led her down the main street of the town that was bustling with the townspeople. Wendy noticed a few people eye the two of them – thoughts like never seen him 'round here before or Heard tha' Dawson girl escaped ah mental hospital slithered threw a gap in her shield.

The walk was short and silent. Not that awkward quiet and everything else is loud silent. It was a comfortable silence, and Wendy tended to be a quiet person – she was quite content to be in the company of someone and not ruin the moment with words. Sooner rather than later they were both out the front of the tiny restaurant that Ms. Jones owned. Ms. Jones wasn't a particularly nice person, she was angry all the time and was rude to anyone she came into contact with, but her food was incredible – Wendy knew she was a lonely woman whom had been through three divorces and didn't have the children she so desperately wished for; it was why she was so angry, she was stuck in the mindset of 'if I can't be happy, you can't be happy' – so whenever Wendy had the opportunity to eat out she would come here and compliment Ms. Jones' food; send her little swirls of joy and making her feel relaxed even if it was just for a little while.

Besides, Wendy liked Ms. Jones; liked her brashness and how she refused to filter what she said. Wendy fond it refreshing as St. Francisville was filled with people who were sugar sweet to your face, but said awful things behind your back. But Ms. Jones wasn't from the south, didn't have those mannerisms ingrained into her, so she told you like it was; didn't like to sugar coat her words or beat around the bush – and so Wendy looked up to the older woman a little for not breaking under the pressure of the small towns social rules.

Gabriel opened the door for the young blonde woman with a dramatic sweeping gesture of his arm, sending Wendy a flirty wink as she entered the restaurant. Today she would find out why he was so familiar, wouldn't let him dance around it like their last conversation; she wanted answers and she was determined to get them.

No matter how vexing she had to be.

Okay, here it is. Oh god, I have no idea if it's good or if Gabriel is in character! I don't know and I'm stressing a little about it.
As always reviews would be appreciated; they keep me writing.