A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you all had the merriest of Christmases or whichever holiday you and your family celebrate!

I do apologize for taking such a long hiatus...this past year has been a whirlwind! I'm officially a college graduate and have been settling into my new career as a high school teacher. It has been both an interesting and wonderful transition, but also exhausting! I haven't had much time to dedicate to writing as I settle into a new schedule and figure out the wisest way to manage my time, but I'm hoping that will change as the school year progresses and I get more comfortable with the demands of the job.

For now, I hope you all enjoy the newest chapter! It is a bit shorter than my usual fare, but this felt like the best spot to end the chapter. Each time I tried to add a bit more, it ended up feeling forced and awkward. Things will be heating up quickly as the story moves forward. Enjoy and be sure to let me know what you think! :)

Lauren

Chapter Three

Three is a Crowd

Snkt. Snkt. Snkt.

Dean tried to focus on the road. He tried to focus on the feeling of Baby's tires chewing the asphalt of the open highway and the thundering of the horses beneath her hood. Driving had always been a soothing thing for him—no worries, just him and his brother, Baby, and the open road. Or at least it used to be.

Snkt. Snkt. Snkt.

His eyes rose to the rearview mirror. To her, sitting cross-legged in the center of the backseat as if she belonged there, eyes hidden behind wayfarer sunglasses and hair tamed by a tattered Cardinals baseball cap turned backward. To the black-handled butterfly knife flipping through nimble fingers with a speed and skill that was simultaneously entrancing and disturbing, the clicking blades and handles discordant with the rock music playing over the radio.

Not that Erica seemed to notice. She was busy interrogating Sam, who was all too happy to accommodate her questions:

Where are we going?

Warsaw, Missouri.

To check on a friend of yours?

Yeah, Kevin. He's a prophet.

A quick beat of silence.

Like metaphorically?

More like biblically.

On and on it went, each question augmented by those damn blades whipping through the air. How many knives did the woman own?! If he had been in a better mood, Dean might have realized the hypocrisy of the thought, considering he had four blades on his own person at the moment—five if he counted Erica's confiscated switchblade still heavy in his jacket pocket. The hunter tried to think of ways this could have been avoided, but each line of thought only served to make him grumpier. After all, he couldn't even blame her presence on Sam. This was all his own fault. The light glinting off the butterfly knife as it spun and twisted in Erica's capable hands mocked him.

Did you forget she's a threat?

The voice in his head was uncomfortably familiar as it sounded in rhythm with the dancing blade over his shoulder. It had been taunting him from the moment they left the bunker. Longer, really, though quite some time had passed since it had been this insistent.

A little bit of fire and some daddy issues and suddenly you've got no spine?

I raised you better than this.

She could be dangerous, and yet you invited her for a ride-along!

What's wrong with you, boy?

Even from the grave, John Winchester had a way of making his disapproval known.

Snkt. Snkt. Snkt.

Dean had stayed out of Erica and his brother's way all morning, taking advantage of the alone time to organize his room. His room…it still felt strange to think he had a space all to himself. Not in a bad way, of course. His room was awesome. It was more the fact that he couldn't remember ever having a space of his own to decorate however he pleased.

He'd had his own room before his mother had died, but the colors and decorations had been picked for him by his parents. He'd been too little to have any say in the matter. Technically, someone could argue that Baby was his to do whatever he wanted with, but to make any major changes to the car that had been his closest thing to a home for so many years just felt disrespectful. Even in the home he'd tried to make with Lisa—in a different lifetime he fought to forget—she had taken charge of the decorating and he had let her. Nothing in that house had been truly his.

Dean hadn't realized how dehumanizing it was to not have a space for his own until he'd spontaneously decided to start hanging his assorted guns and knives on one wall just to break up the boring, flat beige. From the moment his hammer seated the first nail in the wall, a sense of excitement he hadn't known for a long time overcame him. He'd felt almost frenzied as he sought the perfect spot for each of his meager belongings. Pride swelled in his chest when he was finished and every corner of the room displayed pieces of himself. This is me, the room said. I belong here and I'm not going anywhere.

He hadn't realized how much time he'd devoted to the task until Sam had finally checked in with the news that Erica was taking a break in the bunker's gym and that their research was amounting to a pile of bupkis. Not Sam's word choice, of course, but the elder Winchester wasn't surprised. Still, he had offered to scrounge up some lunch for himself and his brother, extending the proverbial olive branch. He had even decided to bite the bullet and cook some burgers rather than make a run to the local diner. If they were going to make this their home, he might as well go all-in.

Lunch began peacefully enough, aside from Sam's gentle teasing about his brother's questionable cooking skills. Dean had been more than proud to prove his little brother wrong as Sam's ribbing shifted to praise. But then Dean's phone rang and Kevin sounded a desperate SOS. The hunters were moving as soon as the call ended, the transition into action seamless after so many years at work.

Dean headed for his room, turning into the right hallway only to nearly collide with Erica coming the opposite way. Luckily, both hunter and soldier were quick on their feet: she stepped backward with a surprised gasp while he sidestepped her and continued to his room without a word. Long strides carried him to his bed and he had already retrieved his duffel from underneath when Erica's voice sounded, "Is everything okay?"

The question came from closer than he had expected, and the hunter glanced to find Erica had followed him, centered in his doorway with concern furrowing her brows and pitching her voice. Or maybe her workout was the culprit, Dean thought offhandedly as a cursory scan took account of her gym attire along with a sheen of sweat, flushed skin, and heaving breaths. How could anyone think that was relaxing?

"A friend called," Dean reported between piling clothes into his bag. "It's probably nothing, but we're going to check on him."

"That's heavy artillery for nothing."

Dean finished snapping a clip into his pistol, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket and tossing a couple extra ammo boxes into his bag beside the sawed-off shotgun, demon-killing blade, and a few other odds and ends he might need before replying to the soldier's unspoken question. "I said it's probably nothing."

"Right." Erica's voice trailed off as if she thought it best not to inquire further. "Have fun I guess"—sneakers squeaked against tile as she pivoted to leave— "I won't wait up."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean called to her retreating back. "You need to pack it up, too."

"Me?" Erica leaned against the threshold, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why?"

Dean thought it should have been obvious. "You aren't staying here while we're gone."

"You're kicking me out?"

No way in hell I'm leaving you here alone, Dean thought as he zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Aloud, he suggested, "Sam can call you when we get back and you guys can pick up your little side project."

The hunter forced Erica back into the hallway as he shouldered past and closed his bedroom door behind himself. Erica's hands fell to her hips. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"I hear California is nice this time of year." Dean said, his tone casual as he remembered a random travel special he'd seen recently. "Take a road trip and do some whale-watching."

"You can't be serious?"

"As a heart attack, kid."

As Dean reached the head of the hallway and the junction that would either lead him back toward the garage or deeper into the dormitory wing, he glanced back to see Erica hadn't budged. Whether angered or stunned by his announcement, he couldn't quite tell, but he needed her to get a move on either way. "Look, I don't care where you go but you ain't staying here."

"Then I'll come with you guys."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, that's not an option, sweetheart."

"Why not?" Hands still on her hips as she shifted her weight to one side, Erica countered, "You just said you didn't care where I went."

"I didn't mean it as an invitation, and you know it!" Dean spat, agitated steps carrying him back down the hall. "I ain't babysitting!"

"I didn't ask you to." Erica's cool indifference did little to sooth Dean's irritation. "I can handle myself just fine. Besides, you said it was probably nothing."

"Yeah. Probably," Dean echoed. "Which means it could be something. Which means it could be dangerous."

Erica cocked one eyebrow. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

Dean growled low in the back of his throat, tilting his face to the ceiling as he wondered what he had done to deserve this. It was a long list, he supposed. Deciding a different approach might be more effective with his stubborn opponent, he raised his hands in concession. "You're right. You're ex-military-tough as nails; the army probably prepared you to face down the kind of crap that would send other people crying to mommy."

A crooked, smug grin oozed onto Erica's lips. Before she could get too cocky, Dean added, "They didn't happen to teach you any Latin though, did they? No? That's a shame. You'll need it for exorcising demons."

Erica's grin fled in favor of a stony, unamused stare as she crossed her arms over her chest. Before she could reply, however, Dean continued, "How about how to kill a vampire? That shit about staking them in the heart is just for the movies. Beheading is the only thing that works." He threw his head back dramatically. "Ugh, and don't even get me started on witches! Those bitches…well, they're real bitches."

"But I'm sure it would be a cakewalk for you, right?" Dean clapped his hand down on Erica's shoulder, his tone teetering at the edge of condescension. "Hell, with all your special training, you might even be able to teach me and Sam a thing or two!"

The hunter seized victory as Erica bit her bottom lip and lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening on her arms as her stiff posture deflated. Turning to make his final exit, Dean could not resist a parting comment. "You might have instincts and training working in your favor, kid," he began, "and I'm the first to appreciate a give-'em-hell attitude, but that doesn't mean you're qualified to face real monsters."

"Then teach me."

The request lacked the defeat Dean had been so certain of. When he checked to be sure he'd heard correctly, the hunter found Erica standing firm, feet squared with her shoulders, jaw set, staring straight at him. "What?"

"You heard me," she said. "You're supposed to be the best at what you do, right? I'm a quick study"—the words came out in a rush, as if she had to release them before he could interfere. "Teach me about this stuff."

"Kid, I'm as much of a teacher as I am a babysitter." Still, Dean had to appreciate her determination even if it was misguided. "Why do you want to get mixed up in all of this anyway? Trust me when I say this life sucks."

If the hunter had known this would be what cracked Erica's resolve, he would have started here. All pretense of confidence disappeared as her face went blank and she suddenly found her sneakers particularly fascinating. As silence stretched throughout the hallway, Dean thought she didn't have an answer for his question-at least not one she was willing to share. Her reaction surprised him, even piquing his curiosity-not that he'd admit that or call her out on it. Whatever had spurred such a shutdown was her own business. He had enough crap of his own to deal with.

"My father would have taught me if he had stuck around," Erica finally said just as Dean had been ready to give up and leave. All previous bravado was gone, her voice wavering as she stared at the floor tiles. Another long moment of quiet nearly convinced Dean that might be all she had to say on the matter, but then green eyes rose to meet their match and Erica continued, "I've lived most of my life ignorant of what was really happening in the world. If I can change that now-well, better late than never, right?"

Something about the statement—an underlying, bitter candor Dean hadn't heard any other time Erica spoke about her father or her childhood—struck a tender chord with the eldest Winchester. Words tripped from his own mouth before he could think them over. "Chances are your dad got himself killed. You'll end up the same if you aren't careful."

They felt harsh and acidic as they dashed off the hunter's tongue. Wrong on levels he couldn't identify by anything more than the pit opening in his chest. But it was too late to take them back. Forward was the only option. "You don't owe anything to a man who abandoned his family for some demon vendetta. Do yourself a favor and forget about him."

Erica laughed a dry, humorless laugh. "Easier said than done," she noted. "Even if I wanted to forget, I couldn't. I don't expect you to understand."

But I do. How many times had Dean still heard his father's voice in his head, criticizing every decision and misstep from beyond the grave? How many times had he condemned the way his father had raised him and Sam in one breath, only to turn around and shower praise in the next? He understood better than he would ever admit aloud. Maybe it was because of that understanding that he wanted a different path for Erica.

"This isn't a life anyone chooses, kid. It's too late for me and my brother, but you can still get out. Live a normal life. Your own life."

While not psychic by any means, the hunter wasn't surprised—though perhaps disappointed—when Erica shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere until I finish whatever my father started. Like it or not, you're stuck with me. For now, anyway."

Dean had thought about protesting further. He had considered picking Erica up, slinging her over his shoulder and depositing her on the bunker's doorstep before locking the door behind him. He had even contemplated handcuffing one of her wrists to the desk chair in her chosen room with a couple water bottles and some snacks within reach. But he hadn't done any of those things. Maybe he saw a bit of his own drive in the ex-soldier. Maybe he was just going soft in his old age.

"Ten minutes," he had said instead, supplementing his words with a long-suffering sigh for effect. "If you aren't in the car by then I will leave your ass."

So now she was riding along.

You're a damn fool.

Snkt. Snkt. Snkt.

His mood fully soured, Dean cursed his momentary weakness. What the hell had he been thinking anyway? This was his and Sam's life. No matter how much she wanted to, Erica didn't belong.

"So these tablets—the Word of God, or whatever—what do they-?"

"You know, our road trips don't usually have this much talking."

A lie—he and Sam would chat about some of the stupidest things during long car trips, after all—but Erica didn't need to know that. Dean kept his voice as steely as the blade twirling between her fingers while meeting her sunglasses in the rearview mirror. "And so help me, woman or not, I will kick your ass if you cut my upholstery."

An awkward silence filled the car. Dean felt the weight of Sam's stare on the side of his face, silently questioning his sudden outburst. He ignored him, his own eyes resolutely on the road ahead. Erica, on the other hand, could potentially be a lot of things but she clearly wasn't stupid. She muttered an apology and folded the butterfly knife, tucking it into the pocket of her leather jacket as she slumped back in the seat. Clenching her hands in her lap, she hunched forward, withdrawing into herself like a kid chastised by her parents.

Sam turned in his seat enough to meet Erica eye-to-eye—not that it did any good since her sunglasses were too dark to tell if she was looking at him or not. "Don't take it personally," he suggested gently.

Oh, no. Please do, Dean thought. Then maybe his dad's voice in his head would pipe down.

Erica decided silence was the best way to handle the situation. Glances in the rearview showed her plugging a speaker into each ear before hiding behind the issue of Sports Illustrated she'd bought during their last gas stop. Dean couldn't decide if this was better or worse.

While he was glad Sam and Erica's game of twenty questions had ended, now his radio was clashing with feedback from the ex-soldier's headphones. Her music was loud enough to be easily recognized as some of that poppy, modern trash that tried to pass for rock music. Dean knew if he were to turn the radio down a few notches, he'd even be able to discern the lyrics. If the kid wanted to blow her ears out and be deaf by forty, that was her own problem. But she could've picked some better music for the job.

Jeez. Maybe he was getting old.

A/N: Thanks again for reading! Please drop a review and let me know what you think! :)

Lauren