She stood alone, as always, wrapped in thick black shadows that filled the emptiness surrounding her. There were no walls, no ceiling, no sound, nothing but the warped and splintering boards beneath her feet and the endless darkness that pressed against her until she couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think…

Light.

Blinding, searing light slicing its way into her brain. She tried to turn away, to close her eyes, to block the agony that spread wherever the light touched but it was all in vain. Even the nothing was preferable to this.

And then, as always, the music started…

Growing from the faintest whisper, it rose up around her, louder and louder as it turned and shifted from the beautiful melody it was supposed to be to a raucous cacophony that threatened to tear her apart and scatter the pieces. And, as always, she knew what was expected of her, what she had to do to make the torment end...

The tightness in her chest eased as she lifted an arm.

The scorching radiance dimmed when she opened her eyes.

The suffocating darkness receded as she took a step.

She spun as the dissonant noise faded into the familiar and once-loved notes of 'Für Elise', everything blurring around her until the lights bled into shadow and shadow seeped into music and it all rained down to puddle thickly on the floor around her, trying to snare her ankles.

A glint sparked out of the corner of an eye and she slowed, her mouth going dry and sweat beading on her lip as dread crept up to overwhelm her. She knew what was coming and she was powerless to stop it. She always was. She also knew she should just get it over with, then she could wake up and get on with it, but it was always such a torment to take that first step…

Closing her eyes, she reluctantly turned to face the mirror that had sprung up out of the empty to stretch away into the void. It had no beginning and no end, just an endless expanse of silvered glass that reflected the emptiness mercilessly back at her.

Slowly she stepped closer and raised a hand to touch the glass. She didn't want to. If she'd had a choice, she'd have run screaming in the other direction, but she didn't have a choice.

She never did.

The mirror rippled at her touch, creaking and moaning under her fingers as cracks sprouted and spiderwebbed, marring its perfection. She tried to snatch her hand back, pulling desperately against the invisible force that held her fast, but her struggle was for nothing.

Always for nothing.

She watched the cracks spread and widen, the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears loud enough to drown out the incessantly repeating notes that still pulsed in the air around her.

...No. Please, no. I don't want to do this again. Please, make it stop...

But no, she couldn't leave, couldn't hide, couldn't run away or fight back. She was stuck watching as those cracks opened wider and wider until the glass inevitably shattered and rained down around her in a glittering ruin that sliced flesh to bone.

...but it wasn't the glass she feared. It wasn't the pain or the blood that streamed from a hundred cuts to pool around her feet...

Smoke rolled over her, thick and acrid as a lit match, sprouting teeth and talons as it swirled around her, shrieking with the voices of innumerable damned souls. Delicate tendrils of inky mist reached for her, wrapping around her, smoothing her sweat-soaked hair and caressing her skin as it whispered reassurances in her ear.

It wanted in. It was desperate and hungry and it would be so easy and everything would be okay if she'd just let it in…

It promised an end to loneliness and pain and the everyday slogging misery of existence.

It lied. It always lied.

And she always said yes.

With a triumphant howl that rang like church bells in her ears, it invaded, forcing its way in through every cut and flaw both physical and emotional and she was forced to watch in growing horror as all trace of color drained away and her skin turned as pale and flawless as a porcelain doll.

It wasn't until her eyes turned black and her skin cracked that she opened her mouth to scream…

I came awake all at once, biting back the scream that had jammed in my throat as I lashed out blindly at whoever the hell had just grabbed my shoulder. (Because it's just such a huge mystery, I wonder who it could possibly be...)

"Ow! Hey, watch it." Dean took a hasty step back with a pained look on his stupidly pretty face, rubbing his arm where I'd just popped him one. (In my defense, I'd like to point out that I wasn't expecting to get smacked and Tink may be very small, but it is all muscle and she hits like a fucking brick. -Dean)

—Hey, it's totally his own fault. It's not like he didn't know by then that I'm both a shitty sleeper and that I didn't like to be touched. So, you know, serves him right and I don't even feel bad about it. (Yeah, she does, or she wouldn't be spouting off about it. I'd like to point out that she's beaten my ass way worse, more than once, on purpose, but this she feels guilty about? ...Okay, maybe I should clarify here because I really don't want anyone to get the wrong idea. She's my sparring partner. Damn good one, too. -Dean)—

"It sounded like you were having a bad dream, I was just tryin' to wake you up. You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Was just a-" ...and that's about when I realized he was only wearing jeans. And nothing else.

—Now, sorry to interrupt myself yet again, but I want you to keep in mind here that up to this point, while I'd been around the man for like just over a week, I had only seen him fully dressed. You know, boots/jeans/t-shirt/long-sleeved flannel, and more often than not a jacket on top of all that. (And do not get me started on the serious kink this whole damn family has for flannel. My closet looks like a lumberjack exploded.) To put it bluntly, I'd never seen him without a shirt.

And also please keep in mind that I was (almost) nineteen, seriously affection deprived, and already physically attracted to the man to an unsettling degree. Now add in the fact that dude is built like a linebacker and almost as hot as I think he is and you can imagine the look on my face right about then. Yeah, it was just as funny as you're thinking.

...and now we return to our regularly scheduled program where, if you'll recall, I had just started stuttering and blushing like a starstruck tween at a Backstreet Boys concert.—

"-Just a, um-" It's like someone had opened my skull and scooped out my brain and then replaced it with cotton candy and TV static. There might have been drool. "Just a-"

"Just a bad dream?" A little smile played at the corners of his lips—something between a smirk and one of those boyishly charming grins of his—and there wasn't a doubt in my malfunctioning mind that he knew exactly what my problem was and while I'd like to say that I totally played it off as me just being fuzzy because I'd been abruptly awakened from a horrible dream…

I'd like to, but I can't, and it's now one of those memories that randomly pops into my head every few years and makes me die a little on the inside. Like now.

"You wanna talk about it?"

And he didn't even make a smart remark about my obviously rampant hormones, instead focusing on my dream. I totally would have said something snarky, but he's a better person than I am. (No. I'm not. -Dean)

"Nope, I'm good." What was I going to say? Yeah, sure. I just have this recurring dream where a cloud of evil turns me into a porcelain ballerina and I shatter into a million pieces? Because that's sane. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I shook the remnants of my nightmare out of my head while somehow managing to peel my gaze away from his chest. And biceps. And hips. And what was I saying again… (Oh, I am totally getting laid tonight. -Dean) "What time is it?"

Glancing at the hideously clunky black plastic thing on his wrist that he called a watch, Dean cleared his throat before answering, "About ten to six."

"Shit. Seriously?" Scooting to the edge of the bed, I winced as my stomach growled at me, forcefully reminding me that I hadn't eaten anything since Jericho and I'd apparently missed out on lunch. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pass out like that. Why didn't you wake me up when you got back?"

"Because Sam said they'd never find my body if I did." Chuckling, Dean stepped back into the bathroom, resuming whatever I'd apparently interrupted. Shaving, if the scent drifting out of the bathroom and the bit of foam on his ear was anything to go by. "I don't know what you did for him last night, but you got yourself a fan."

"I just cleaned him up and talked to him until he fell asleep, is all." I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes for a second, listening to the water running in the sink and trying to wake up the part of my brain that said Dean Winchester was a No Good-Horrible-Terrible-Awful-Very Bad-Idea, because apparently that little voice was choosing to sleep in today. "It's not a big deal."

"Uh huh." The water shut off and Dean re-emerged from the bathroom with a towel in hand, skin still wet where he'd rinsed the last of the shaving cream away. Well, except for that one bit still on his ear but I found that I didn't really want to say anything to him about it. It's weird how the small things are the most endearing. (Agreed. -Dean)

Making his way across the room, he gave his damp hair—because apparently he'd taken a bath, too, and I'd just slept right through it and then hadn't even noticed—a final scuff with the towel before tossing it onto the dresser next to the TV and retrieving a clean t-shirt from his duffel bag.

Pulling his shirt on over his head, he shrugged it into place and glanced at his watch again. "You might wanna think about getting ready for our 'date'."

"Is that what we're callin' it?" Look at me, all making eye contact and everything like an 'adult' and totally pretending I hadn't just been leering at his bare flesh like an inebriated frat boy over a hot coed. Go me.

"No, that's what Alfred called it." Way to play it safe, Winchester. Joke it's a 'date' when you wouldn't mind it actually being one and if you get rejected, well, it wasn't like you were serious anyway. Like asking someone out on April Fool's day. Classic. (Don't pull that shit, people. It's a dick move no matter the motivation. Same goes for the fake 'I'm pregnant/April Fool' bullshit. Just no. Number one life lesson right here: Don't be a dick. -Dean) "I'm just goin' along 'cause I'm hopin' for real food."

I'd been leaning half off the bed while he finished getting dressed, digging around in my bag for my brush so I could at least try to look somewhat presentable for our not-a-date, when he had to go and make a comment about food. Which gave me an idea. Maybe not a fully-formed, it's-all-consciously-there kind of idea, but definitely an idea. Something about 'the way to a man's heart' and 'stomach'...

Straightening up with brush in hand, I glanced at the kitchenette as I pulled the hair-tie off the end of my braid and started to untangle the thick mass of pain-in-my-ass that I had to deal with every day. "I can do that."

"...do what?"

"Make real food. Like meatloaf and cookies and shit." Flinching as the brush snagged in a particularly vicious snarl, I probably let out a few choice words. Or at least thought them. "I mean, we'd have to go get supplies, but if we're gonna be here a few days and we have a kitchen, we might as well use it." Too busy getting my hair brushed out and back up into its normal low-maintenance style, I hadn't noticed the way he was looking at me until I glanced up. "...what?"

"You can cook?" You'd think he'd just won a ten thousand dollar scratch-off or a tour of the Playboy mansion. Lucky for me, the man is very easily pleased. "Seriously? You're not just fuckin' with me?"

"I mean, I'm not gonna challenge Gordon Ramsay to a cook-off, but I'm not gonna poison anybody." Patting the end of my hair into place over a shoulder, I stowed my brush back in my bag and stood up, flashing Dean a grin. "At least, not on accident. There is, however, a condition." Because turnabout is fair play.

"Of course there is." Arms crossed, Dean leaned a hip against the dresser, looking unsurprised and very amused and possibly a little smug though I have no idea what the hell he'd have to be smug about right then. "What is it?"

"You have to share, too."

I can't really blame him for being a little confused at the apparent non-sequitur. "...share what?"

"Our 'date'." He didn't use air quotes when he said it but, again, he's a better person than I am. "You made me agree to share my issues. You have to share, too." Getting a good look at the expression on his face while I went to retrieve my boots, you'd think I'd kicked a puppy. (Not a big dog person. -Dean) "You started it, Winchester, so you can stop lookin' at me like that."

With a long-suffering sigh that started somewhere under his boots and rumbled up through all seventy-four inches of him, he shrugged a shoulder, apparently resigned to his fate. "I guess that's fair."

"Damn straight it is."