Dean held the door open for me as I stepped outside, the cool night air washing over my alcohol-heated skin. (Okay, so I'd had maybe one or two more beers than I'd really intended to, but whatever.) Judging by the star-strewn sky overhead and the distant sounds of the encroaching city a few blocks away, it was later than I'd thought. We must have been at dinner for a good three hours, though it hadn't felt nearly that long.

Dean let the door to the lobby fall closed behind him, ensuring it shut completely before joining me on the sidewalk. With narrowed eyes and a smile hovering around his lips, he gave me a long once-over, as if I might start stumbling all over the sidewalk any minute now. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Hands tucked snug into the pockets of my jeans, I wrinkled my nose at him. I wasn't that drunk. Pretty sure I wasn't even slurring. Okay, maybe a little, but not much, and it can be hard to tell with my accent anyway. "Just tryin' to figure how to go about this whole conversation." Nodding my head toward the far end of the block that lead to the parking lot, I fell into step beside him, taking a second to figure out where to start. "I guess I'm really tryin' to figure out what my first solid memory is. There's a whole handful that are pretty vivid but they're all clumped together and I can't untangle which one happened when. Does that make sense?"

"Does to me." Hands tucked into his own pockets, Dean shortened his stride considerably, neither of us in any kind of hurry as we ambled slowly down the sidewalk. "Gonna take a shot in the dark and say those memories probably aren't sunshine and rainbows."

"I do so love when you're wrong." What can I say, I really do. Or did. 'Cause I'm petty. It didn't take long for my grin to turn into more of a grimace, though, because he was mostly right. "Well, a little wrong. I started dancing when I was four and that's one of the best memories I've got." And let me tell you, all those of years of practice have come in way handier than I could possibly have imagined at the time. "But the rest ain't so great, so I guess you may have a point. And isn't that just annoying as all hell."

Even if I hadn't said it aloud, that annoyance was probably fairly evident in my tone—and in the fact that I flipped him off—and that little half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips spreading into a smug, shit-eating grin didn't help any. (I am not smug. -Dean) "Is it?"

"You know what else is annoying? The whole 'man of few words' thing you think you've got goin' on." The cracked cement grinding under my boots, I pivoted slowly to look up at him, rocking back on my heels as I gave him the same long once-over he'd given me a few minutes before. "Gotta admit, the whole tall, dark, and brooding thing kinda works for you." And before you ask, yes, that was alcohol-induced flirting. Sort of. Maybe. (Except for the 'alcohol-induced' part. -Dean)

"...exactly how drunk are you, Tinkerbell?"

"Drunk enough to answer to Tinkerbell." A fair question, all things considered, and probably rhetorical but I just couldn't resist attempting to wipe that smug smirk off his pretty face. Arms crossed, I thought about it for a second, doing a little mental math before answering, "Ninety-eight pounds. Three beers, maybe four, and...what time is it?"

"Uh-" Pulling a hand out of his pocket, he glanced at the ugly black plastic on his wrist, checking the time and looking a little surprised at the answer. "A little after ten."

"-over three hours is a blood alcohol level of about point one-four to maybe point two." Why do I know how to calculate that? Because I'm the size of your average fourteen-year-old girl and I don't fancy alcohol poisoning but I do like to drink on occasion, that's why. Two decent shots and I have to switch to water. At least I'm a cheap date. "I have a decent tolerance level for someone my size, but throwing up later is a possibility."

"Good to know." Hands firmly back in his pockets, Dean fell quiet for a minute, only the occasional scuff of a footstep and the distant sounds of a college town interrupting the silence. Looking pensive, he cleared his throat, not looking at me as he spoke. "So, you really are '174, full-ride Harvard' kinda smart, huh."

"It was my safety school." I actually did get a full-ride scholarship—just not to Harvard—but let's not get into that right now because it won't be relevant to anything until later. "I'm not really all that smart, I've just got a really good memory." They call it a photographic memory on TV and in movies and whatever. Think Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds. (More like Shawn Spencer with boobs. -Dean) That's not really how it works, of course, but it's close enough without going into a long and complicated explanation. Trust me, you'll understand later but—like my scholarship—it isn't relevant yet. "It helps that I'm really fuckin' cute, though, in a 'no one ever suspects the butterfly' kinda way."

We'd long since rounded the corner of the hotel, somehow coming to a stop at the edge of the parking lot tucked against the side of the massive building, though I don't think either of us had really been paying any attention to our surroundings until Dean's laughter started echoing back at us. "And so modest."

Slowly lifting both hands, I made an obscene gesture that was at direct odds with the smile on my face and the teasing tone of my voice. "I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses, Winchester. Trust me, the latter far outweigh the former."

—Come on, it's not like I'm blind or stupid. I've had men looking at me sideways since before I hit puberty. I'll never win Miss America, but I am goddamn adorable. Hell, stick a cheerleading uniform on me and give me a video camera and I could make some decent money. (How about no. -Dean)

People like the whole 'cute and innocent' thing, a fact I've been taking advantage of for years now. That being said, it can get fucking creepy. Ever been hit on by a forty-year-old middle-management type after being told you look just like his fifteen-year-old daughter? I have. So. Much. Ew.—

Hovering on the edge of the sidewalk just a few yards from where the Impala was parked, Dean's eyes narrowed as he eyed me critically. Or maybe it was concern? The two can look remarkably similar on certain people. "You know, somethin' tells me you're not the most objective judge there, Tinkerbell."

"You're probably right, though I bet the same can be said for you, too, Peter Pan." Skirting around him, I made my way over to the car, turning around to hop up and sit on the trunk before looking over at him again. "Or are you Captain Hook?"

"Probably." Because that's an answer. With a wave, Dean motioned for me to scoot over so he could join me, hopping up to sit just far enough away that he wasn't in danger of crowding me. Bootheels propped on the bumper and elbows on his knees, he smirked over at me. The corners of those gorgeous eyes crinkling at me, though at least he was nice enough not to laugh aloud. "You're stalling."

"Probably." (Definitely. -Dean) "I think my first solid memory is-I would have been around two or three, maybe? Not that it makes any difference, I guess." The anxiety I'd tried to drink away earlier was trying to claw its way back in, trying to flood my brain with useless information so I wouldn't think about what it didn't want me to think about. Nope, not today, thanks. Go fuck yourself. Not in the mood. "I remember it was cold out and there was snow on the ground. Not much, but enough to slip down the sides of the stupid too-small pink sandals I was wearing and freeze my toes."

"We were just leaving the house-well, it was a trailer, but same difference-and I was walkin' through the yard to get to the road and I look over and there's this little grey mouse sittin' there on the snow." Shifting to pull my legs up, I sat cross-legged with my elbows on my knees, trying to find something to look at that wasn't Dean. "Poor thing must have been starved and half-frozen. It was the cutest thing, though, just sittin' there starin' up at me like it was askin' for help." Have I mentioned that having a photographic memory sucks balls? Because it does the vast majority of the time. Thankfully I've managed to block a lot of stuff out, but certainly not everything.

"I remember picking it up, how small and fragile it was, so cold it couldn't even shiver-" A shiver rippled up my own spine as I tried to focus on the here-and-now and not a fifteen-year-old memory. Not always the easiest thing ever but I'd gotten pretty good at it by then. "I didn't hear Mama come up behind me, but there she was when I looked up. I shouldn't have tried to hide it. I should have just let it go, maybe it could have run off and-" Clearing my throat, I looked up and met Dean's eyes, flashing him a wry smile as I shook it off. "Not so fun fact, did you know mice can scream?"

"I did not know that, no." From his complete lack of expression and the muscle twitching in his jaw, Dean at least had a vague idea where this was going and didn't like it the least little bit. Can't say as I blame him, I didn't like it much either. "She killed it?"

"Right track, wrong train." With a tight smile, I sat back, taking a little morbid amusement in his bewildered expression. (And the horrified comprehension that slowly dawned on his face when I clarified was just utterly priceless.) Hey, what can I say, every good protagonist needs a tragic backstory, right? "She made me do it."

"She-" It didn't take long at all for horrified comprehension to shift right over into tightly-controlled rage. It was a good thing I realized that it was for me—not at me—otherwise Dean would have been just a little terrifying. Dude growls when he's angry. (And honestly, it's kind of hot.) If he was mad about this, he was going to be absolutely livid later. "And where is your mother now?"

"Memorial Park Cemetery, last I checked." And just like that, his anger cooled and if anything I'd say he looked aggravated. Knowing him like I do now, I think I can safely say that he was intensely disappointed that my mother was already dead and he wouldn't get to snap her neck like he so clearly wanted to.

Does it make me a bad person if I find that funny? I can't help it. My psychologist says I use humor as a coping mechanism and that it's a perfectly healthy response to trauma. Mostly. Everyone else just says I need a lot more therapy. (Why not both? -Dean) "Buckle up, Buttercup, it gets worse."

"What?" Laying against the back window of the Impala, Tink raised a brow at me before pushing herself up on her elbows, blinking suspiciously at me like I'd just tried to pick her pocket. Not that I didn't want to, figuratively speaking anyway. She's pretty cute when she's drunk. "Why are you lookin' at me like that?"

"I'm not lookin' at you like anything." Yeah. Right. I totally wasn't looking at her like she was the single most interesting thing I'd ever seen and every word out of her mouth just made her even more so. How many people could go through the shit she had and keep it together enough to function, let alone keep smiling? "Just-You're sittin' there telling me all this, talkin' about it like it's nothin'."

"You deal with shit every day, eventually you get used to livin' in the sewer." And she has such a way with words. Disgusting, maybe, but she does paint a picture. Shrugging a shoulder at me, she rested her chin on her knee, watching me from under those long, dark lashes of hers. "Besides, you're one to talk. Didn't you just recently shoot at a dead woman that was trying to brutally murder your brother? Because that's 'normal'."

"Fair enough." I couldn't really argue that. My life hadn't been any kind of normal for a long time. You'd be surprised what a person can get used to, though. After a while, you kind of lose sight of what 'normal' even is.

Craning her head around, Tink looked back at the driver's side window I'd shot out when I'd fired at that bitch Constance—now rolled up and obviously in one piece—before turning back to me with the most confused look on her face. "...that was busted. I know that was busted."

"It was. Now it's not." Turning a chuckle into a cough, I smiled, not wanting her to think I was laughing at her. I'd stuck my foot in my mouth enough the last few days, I didn't have any real desire to do it again any time real soon. "I fixed it while you were sleeping."

Sitting up a little straight, she glanced back at the window again before peering back around at me. Got to say, the look of surprise on her face was a little insulting. "You fixed it?"

"Like I'm gonna let anybody else touch my car." She might have known me for less than two weeks, but she should have at least figured that out. (Fair enough. -Tink) "Dad was a mechanic back before everything. I learned how to hold a wrench before I could walk."

"You mean before your Mom died." Her smile dimmed, those bright eyes shadowed as she studied me with what I probably would have taken as pity from anyone else. I'm not a big fan of pity. With her, though, there was no chance I could mistake it as anything but empathy. Hell, she's probably the single most empathetic person I've ever met. It's not a trait I envy. (Funny, I've said the same about him on more than one occasion. -Tink) "I'm sorry that happened."

I'd heard a lot of 'I'm sorry for your loss' and 'my condolences' and all that bullshit, and not a single person has ever sounded half as sincere as 'I'm sorry that happened'. I opened my mouth to give the usual 'it's okay' or 'it was a long time ago' but that isn't what came out. One of those times when my mouth knew better than my brain, maybe. "Yeah, me too."

The corner of her lips lifting in a little half-smile, she reached out and laid her hand on my arm. It didn't last long, a few seconds at most, but it was more than long enough to turn my brain into radio static. I think she must have taken that for me being uncomfortable or something because she quickly shifted the topic to safer ground. At least, it was at the time. "John was a Marine, wasn't he?"

Nodding an affirmative, I tried to figure out when in the hell I had mentioned that and couldn't think of anything. Sure, I'd told a few stories, but nothing that would have come up in. "When did I tell you he was in the Marines?"

"Back in Jericho, when you were talkin' to Sam on the phone after bustin' out of jail. You said somethin' about 'the same old ex-Marine crap', which honestly explains so much."

"Does it?" I certainly remembered the busting out of jail part, and talking to Sam, but I wouldn't have been able to recall the exact conversation if you put a gun to my head. And apparently that's funny, or at least she seemed to think so at the time. Sliding back, I leaned against the glass, my hands clasped on my stomach as I studied the unassuming little thing sitting on the other side of the trunk. "You don't miss much, do you?"

"I'd like to think that's true." Mimicking my posture, she leaned back, lacing her hands together and crossing her ankles as she smiled over at me. "Somethin' tells me you don't either."

"I have my moments." Don't we all? I just kind of wish I had more of them. "Weren't we still supposed to be talkin' about you?" I wasn't looking forward to talking about me as it was, no need to get into that part sooner than we had to. "What about all those issues of yours you said you'd explain?"

"Just hold your horses, Winchester. I'm gettin' there." Resting her head against the glass, she closed her eyes and lifting a hand, gesturing vaguely in my direction. "I'm just easin' you in, is all. It's purely for your benefit."

"Is it?"

"Okay. Fine. Shut up." And she says I'm rude. ('Cause he is. -Tink) "Guess we'll go with the easiest phobia first." Because any phobia is 'easy'. It's all relative, I guess, but I've seen her struggle with this shit for years and none of it has ever been easy. And that's what makes her a total badass. Just my opinion. (...stop it. -Tink) "When I was little-Before I learned how to take a doorknob off from the inside-"

Well, that's a fun way to start a story. "I already don't like where this is headed."

Slowly rolling her eyes up to the night sky before they rolled right on around to me, she blew out an exasperated breath that stirred the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. "Didn't anybody ever tell you it's rude to interrupt someone when they're talkin'?"

Oh yeah, definitely. Just not since I'd hit puberty. "Nope."

"Like I was saying-" Opening my mouth like I was going to say something else, she hesitated until she realized I was just being an ass. If looks could kill, I'd be dead a thousand times over by now. (I think you've died enough, thanks. You already hold the record. -Tink) "Back before I learned how to get out, Mama would lock me in the closet when she had shit to do and didn't want to be bothered to remember I existed."

She leaned her head back, gaze going up to the stars shining faintly through the light pollution before glancing over at me and noting the look on my face. "It really wasn't so bad most of the time. I'd hide a couple of books in there with a flashlight and some snacks and just-just go off in my own head, you know?" Was she seriously trying to comfort me because I was getting upset about the shit that was done to her? Kind of sweet, yeah, but that's also kind of seriously fucked up.

"Sometimes, though…" Her already soft voice trailed off and for a second she wasn't looking at me, the ghosts of her past popping up to haunt her. If only those ghosts were as easy a little salt and a match. "Time moves funny when it's really dark and quiet, your mind starts playin' tricks." Blinking rapidly, she shook her head as if to clear it. Wrinkling her nose at my expression, I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or amused. "Don't look at me like that, it's not like your life's been all glitter and happiness."

"I was never locked in a closet." At least, I was pretty sure I'd never been locked in a closet. Hell, for the first four years or so, my life was not only normal, it was a fucking Norman Rockwell painting in comparison. "Well, I mean, there was this one time I'd gone back to this girl's place and her boyfriend came back early-"

"You know, not sure that counts." Eyeing me like she couldn't figure out if I was serious or not, she shook her head, a hint of a smile creeping up to crinkle the corners of her eyes. She went quiet for a second before opening her mouth again and I'm pretty sure what came of it surprised her as much as it did me, "...just out of curiosity, how many girls have you been with?"

"That seems like one of those questions I'd have to be incredibly stupid to answer." You'd be surprised how often I know it's a bad idea to say something and I end up saying it anyway. Or maybe you wouldn't. I'm not really known for keeping my mouth shut, even when I should really know better. (It's just part of his dubious charm. -Tink) "I don't know. Too many." And yeah, I could have lied, but even I'm not that stupid. I might have still been in some kind of denial or I don't even know, but the writing was on the wall long before I chose to read it and thankfully at least a small part of my brain seemed to realize that fact. "That bother you?"

Sitting up, she pulled her knees back up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs as a cold breeze sprang up out of nowhere to play with the ends of her hair and raise goosebumps on her pale skin. Have I ever mentioned that she practically glows in the dark? Oh, and also that she has the uncanny ability to ask simple questions that on the surface seem totally innocent but are actually incredibly loaded? Because she does and she does. (No idea what he's talking about and I do not glow in the dark. -Tink) "Should it?"

"No." I'm not sure if I could see the writing on the wall back then—even if I wasn't up to reading it yet—or if it was just the only answer my malfunctioning brain could come up with, but it's true. Not before or since has there ever been anyone that Tink's ever had to worry about in that regard. (Doesn't he just say the sweetest things. -Tink) And on that note, definitely time to get the conversation back on track before I ended up answering questions I did not want to end up answering just then. "Weren't we talking about something else?"

"Were we?" The fact that she used the same 'man of few words' tone I'd been using all evening wasn't lost on me and by her grin, I knew she could tell I'd caught that subtle bit of attitude. "So, I guess next up is the water thing." I could see a shiver ripple up her spine. Seriously, girl has like no insulation. "If you thought the mouse was fucked up, this one definitely won't change your mind."

"Your lips are turning a little blue there, Tinkerbell." Reluctant as I was to suggest pausing the conversation again, I couldn't have her freezing to death on the trunk of my car. I started to suggest we go back up to the room until a better—and closer—option sprang to mind. "You wanna sit in the car instead of on it?"

"I'm a little Bleu everywhere, Winchester." Cute. Real cute. Sliding to the edge of the trunk, she swung her legs over and glanced at the car before her head swiveled around to look at me. "The heater works, right?"

"Yeah, the heater works." Hopping off the trunk, I dug the car keys out of a pocket and held them up, grinning as she broke out in goosebumps again and started shivering in earnest. "Come on, before you turn into a pixie-sicle."

"Oh my god, stop tryin' to make the whole fairy thing happen. It's not going to happen."

"Wanna bet?"