Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

A/N: I just love all your reviews! Keep 'em coming! Here's the next chap, this one's a little longer. Hope you all likeey!

Haley's POV:

It's worse when it rains, everything's worse. Maybe it's just because it's so rare. I guess if you're gonna pick a moment to feel sorry for yourself, to regret your decisions and wish things were different, it'd better be the type of moment that doesn't come around too often. Otherwise how would you get anything done?

Maybe it just reminds me of home, not that it rained so much in Colorado, but it was enough that I have vivid memories of it. Like when Ben was little and deathly afraid of thunder, and he'd sometimes crawl into bed with me late at night if the storm was really bad. Never Tommy, he thought he'd make fun of him, call him a baby. Just me. And I remember Tommy's high school graduation, just before our parents died, back when we were all still a family, a happy, whole family. Everyone had to scrunch together under umbrellas when, halfway through the outdoor ceremony, it started to pour. By the time it was over the whole senior class had purple streaks running down their legs and faces from where the dye ran off of the cheap polyester caps and gowns. Some people were really upset, but we just laughed, said it'd be a day none of us would forget.

Maybe that's why it's so much harder when it rains. Thinking about those times makes me feel…not just lonely, but alone.

The first clap of thunder startles me so that I almost drop my hot chocolate. I know, I know, hot chocolate's for five-year-olds who need to warm up after building a snow fort, not 25-year-olds who have to crank the air all the way up on a brutally muggy night just to enjoy the warm treat. But it's comfort food, and I need it. It was either this or call home and run the risk of crying over the phone. And I just did that a couple of days ago.

Ding Doooooooonnnnngggggggg.

Oh God, I hate that doorbell. I set down my mug and head for the door, prepare myself for Spencer, the only person I can imagine it being. Who else would traipse out in this weather to this part of town in the middle of the night but a true blue stalker? But when I open the door I see that it's not Spencer. "Dean?"

"You mind if I come in?" he asks as he pushes his way inside, flinging some of the moisture off his wet hair. He stands in my living room a wide grin plastered to his face and a giant puddle forming at his feet and as I turn to close the door behind him I feel a weight lift and a smile come over me. I'm not alone.

"You know, when I gave you my number I thought you might call," I say as I move for the hall closet. I reach in and pull out a couple towels. "I didn't think you'd use it to look up my address and start stalking me."

"If I were stalking you I'd still be sitting in my car, hoping that you're one of those girls who likes to undress in front of the windows." I hand him a big red beach towel and place the others down by his feet to soak up the rain he's left in my carpet.

"I'm not one of those girls."

"Too bad." He dries himself off as best he can, starting with his hair, then running the towel down his arms, his legs. He uses it to squeeze some of the moisture out of his jeans, but it's no use, he's soaked, a soggy, dripping mess. I can't help but snicker. Glancing up he catches my eye just long enough to offer a goofy grin and a mumbled, "sorry," before he slips out of his soppy shoes.

"I'd offer you something to change into, but I'm a little low on pants that aren't a women's size two."

"Two? You need to eat something girl."

I shake my head and laugh. That's exactly what my brothers tell me. "C'mon," I say, heading into the kitchen. I figure the linoleum can handle his puddles more than my carpet. "You want something to drink?" I ask over my shoulder as he follows me through the doorway, socks sloshing.

"Uh, yeah, sure, what do you got?"

I open the refrigerator and start to tell him…beer, cola, OJ…but stop short when I hear a loud thud. "Are you okay?" I ask going over to help him up. I offer my hand and feel his clammy skin on mine, his fingers barely brushing past mine before he grabs on, softly, gently, to my wrist. I do the same and pull up, help him to his feet, and quickly lurch forward and snatch his elbow with my other hand when his foot slips out from under him again.

"Slippery," he says, embarrassed, as he steadies himself. I pull out a chair for him and turn away so he doesn't see me laugh, as though he actually thought I could keep a straight face through that. I left the fridge open and move to shove the door shut when he says, "Hot chocolate?" When I glance over at him he's leaning across the table and peering in my nearly empty mug.

"Yeah," I say and feel my cheeks start to burn. "Silly…"

"You have any more?"

"Yeah," I say. "I can make some more." He smiles at me and…looks at me. He doesn't smirk or offer that you-know-you-want-me grin like he had when we first met. No, he just smiles and looks at me, sees me. And I feel the blush burn even hotter in my face, the rest of my body flush.

"This is a nice place," he says, seeming sincere, as I pour some more milk into the pan on the stove. I laugh and he counters with, "Compared to some of the places I've stayed over the years, this little house looks like paradise."

"Right smack dab in the middle of Hell."

I don't know if that was the wrong thing to say, if it…I don't know…offended him or something, or if he just doesn't know how to respond. But he's silent for awhile and so am I as I stir up the cocoa. "You don't like it here?" he asks suddenly, quietly.

I don't know, not really. "I don't know."

"Because you don't like it here? Or because you just don't like not being there?"

"I never said I didn't like it."

"No, you said you don't know. Which is the same thing."

"No it's not," I say spinning around to face him. He gives me a knowing look and I feel myself blanche before turning back to the stove. He doesn't know me. You don't know me, Dean. But somehow, it feels like he does.

"So which is it?"

The cocoa sends a thick cloud of steam around my hands as I pour it into the cups. Stirring, stirring, stirring, I don't answer him, although I don't know if it's because I'm trying to ignore him, or because I just plain don't want him to know. Or if I just plain don't know. When I hand him his mug and sit down across from him he shifts in his chair, leans back with his arms folded across his chest, his wet shirt squeaking against the wooden back. Then he raises his eyebrows at me, clearly an 'answer the damn question' sort of look. And to my surprise, it works.

"I like it here…sometimes. I like my job. I have a few friends. I like my dinky little rental home." I stop, hoping that's enough, and blow on my hot chocolate. But he doesn't move, just waits for me to go on. "I miss my family, if that's what you want to know."

He sits upright and wraps his hands around the mug in front of him. Without looking up at me, he says, "Why don't you go back then?" And right away I can tell that this isn't about me at all.

Last night Sam told me, when Dean was in the bathroom, how much he was looking forward to law school, how excited he was. We talked about it for a few minutes, his plans, what classes he was taking, where he was going to live, what about Palo Alto he missed the most. But as soon as Dean came back to the table, he clammed up.

"My life," I start and search for the words I want to use next. "My life took me here." He scoffs and I duck my head, try to think of the right thing to say. But how do you explain to someone that even though it hurts to be away from the ones you love, sometimes you just have to be? To be yourself, to find out who you are.

I take a long sip and burn my tongue, and when I look back up, mostly to make sure he didn't see me sputter, I notice the look on his face. Crumpled, defeated. Alone. I know it well. "Sam's leaving," he says softly, staring down at his cocoa.

"When?"

"Few days." He sighs and leans back again, looks up at me. "He's got some kind of job. A real job." He says real like it's a dirty word, like escaping to reality instead of from it is the worse thing a person can do. And I don't know that I totally disagree. The real world sucks, most of the time. But not all of the time. And clearly not for Sam. Law school, a real job, sharing an apartment with his roommate from junior year, these are things he wants. They're things he's somehow managed to find. They're things that don't really include Dean.

Without thinking I reach for his hand, rest my palm on top of his fingers. And he lets me.

"You know why I came here?" I say, forgetting all about the long and involved Joe-centric conversation we had last night.

"Some jackass boyfriend," he says with a smirk.

"Okay, yeah, mostly it was because of him." I take a deep breath and lace my fingers through his. He squeezes them gently as I speak. "I left because of me too, because I…I had to…find myself." I know it sounds corny and contrived, and it kind of is, but it's the truth all the same. And he must realize that because I don't hear the chuckle I expected.

"And did you?" he asks.

I smile. "It's a process, I think."

"A process," he says with a sigh.

I don't know that I want to say what I'm about to say. I don't know that I should. I mean, I barely know this guy, but…there's something about him, and about his…manner?…that makes me feel drawn to him. Like we're two peas in a pod. "My whole life I've taken care of my family." I pull my hand out of his grasp and take another drink. "Even before my parents died. Ben's my baby brother, so it was always up to me to help him, watch out for him." The chair makes a shrill grating noise as I push away from the table. "And Tommy was always getting in trouble, just how he was. Until they died, and all of a sudden he was responsible for me and Ben."

I walk over to the counter and lean my hip up against it, then I look away from Dean, whose face shows too much care and concern for me to take right now. "He really shaped up. But ultimately – and I don't think either of them would really argue with this – I was the one who was responsible for everything. I paid the bills. I made sure Ben got off to school everyday and did his homework every night. I kept Tommy in line, or tried to at least." I shake my head a bit and turn back to the table. "That time…when you and Sam helped us…and he had been camping with his friends? He did that a lot. I mean he always kept in touch, he was always there when we really needed him. But he still wasn't there a lot. You know?" He nods so I go on. "And it used to make me kind of mad. But I get it now. He needed to get away and have a life of his own. And now Ben's doing it too, going to college. But me…I spent so long taking care of them that I didn't even realize I could have a piece of life all to myself. They were my life. So I started looking for other things, hobbies or jobs. I never went to college. I never even thought about what I'd do in the future, probably because the present took so much time and energy to get through. It was pretty overwhelming, I guess. Then I met Joe and he became my life."

I sigh and hop up onto the counter, let my feet dangle and knock into the cabinets below. "But that wasn't right either, because I was just trading one person – well, two people – for another. It still wasn't about me. I don't know, it probably isn't now, it might never be. But…" I look over at him and lock eyes, stare into his with an intensity I can feel burning even in my toes. "You can't define yourself through others. You can't live just for them. No matter how much you love them, no matter how much you think you need them and want them to need you. You just can't."

He breaks his eyes away from mine and looks down at his hands, sniffles just a little. I'm sure he won't cry in front of me, but part of me wants him to. Maybe if he does I'll feel a little less stupid about being such a crybaby myself. Maybe if he lets loose a little, I might be able to give myself permission to do the same. Because, really, even as I say the words, I wonder how much of it is true and how much is just a bunch of self-help philosophical bullshit I've managed to convince myself of.

When he speaks it's barely a whisper and I would have to strain to hear except that I don't. I already know what he feels because I feel the same. "I don't know how." He looks up at me and his glassy eyes are pleading from under the red lids. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to say anything more. But he does. "I'm my father's son," he says with another sniffle. "I'm Sam's brother, his…I take care of him." He roughly wipes the back of his hand across his eyes to get rid of the unshed tears before they start to trickle down his face. "But he doesn't need me anymore. Neither does Dad, I don't think. Not that that…" he stops and scoffs, puts on a smirk and straightens himself up in the chair.

"I saved you," he says louder and more composed. But it's all forced. "I saved you and your brothers and a ton of other people. Because that's what I do. Because they need me." I try to speak, but no words come. He gets up and grabs his mug, sets it down in the sink at my side. He's close enough to me that I can smell the sweaty rainy odor of his skin. I can feel the heat and moisture radiating from his body; it's a welcome sort of humidity for someone who's been in the desert so long.

"What do you need, Dean?" I ask, the words spilling from my lips. He shakes his head like he doesn't know, like he can't possibly figure it out. And without realizing I've even made the move, my hand lands on his cheek. He bows into it, ducking his head as though, if he tries hard enough he might be able to curl up inside it and lose himself in my embrace. And as soon as I see him do that, feel him shift beneath my palm, I know that I want to lose myself in him.

His cheeks are hot. I move my other hand up so that I cup his face like I might a small child, like I did to Ben when he was scared or Tommy when he felt too guilty to know how to say 'I'm sorry'. Now I do it for Dean, who doesn't seem to know how to say anything at all. So I don't make him. I just hold his head in my hands, brush away the few stray tears with the pads of my thumbs, and lean into him a little more. Our foreheads meet and I can feel his hot sticky breath on my chin. His hands come to rest on top of mine, and when I feel his fingers gently stroke mine – knuckle to tip, knuckle to tip – I look up and into his eyes.

And we kiss. Soft at first, hesitant even. Then harder, stronger, and at the same time our bodies press into one another. I wrap my legs around his waist to bring him closer and he moves fluidly, and fits into me as though we were made to go together. When my right hand migrates to the back of his head, my fingers weaving through his hair, his hand does the same to me. If I pull back, he follows, inching closer. If he does, I do the same. And so we teeter-totter back and forth, each giving up a little control to the other for just a moment before taking it back. We move in tandem, all the same, yet play the role of the necessary opposite, like two puzzle pieces that look nothing alike but fit together perfectly.

There's a tiny voice inside my head that reminds me I swore off men, decided to try things on my own for a while. But that voice is quickly drown out when Dean's hand leaves my hair and slowly moves down my back, sending tiny shock waves up and down my spine. I pull my lips away from his and use them instead to trace a line from his chin to his neck, then back again. I feel his fingers move under my shirt, undo the hook of my bra and brush against my bare skin. In turn I pull at his T-shirt, try to peel the wet cotton away from him, off of him.

When my lips move down to his now bare shoulder I feel his hot breath on my ear. "I need you," he says in a deep whisper. And I raise my mouth up to meet his again.