Dean shoveled another mouthful of stew into his mouth and moaned. "Thiff iv amaving." He squeezed the words around a big chunk of tender beef.

Ruthie sat in the brown recliner to the right of the bed, eating her stew with considerably better manners. She beamed at the compliment. "It's my dad's favorite." She flinched, then looked down into her bowl.

Dean stirred his own stew, giving her a moment of privacy.

Soon, she smiled again. "He was a terrible cook. He'd mess up Hamburger Helper. I figured out pretty young that if I ever wanted good food, I'd have to make it myself."

"So you taught yourself?"

She nodded. "With a lot of trial and error."

"Well, here's the thing: I can see vegetables in here. And I don't even care." He took another giant bite and closed his eyes while he chewed. "Sam will be jealous. He's been trying to get me to eat vegetables for years."

She raised her head, a sudden spark of interest in her eye. "Sam? Is he your brother?"

Damn. Her cooking was making him careless. No more slip-ups. He gave her a brief nod, as though this wasn't important information. "How about you? Brothers? Sisters?"

She shook her head. "I'm an only child."

"Mom?"

"She died when I was little. It was always just me and Dad."

For a minute, it was quiet, just the sounds of their spoons scraping their bowls. Dean had been alone before. He knew how it felt. He didn't wish it on anyone. "But you've got people, right? A life to go back to? Friends? A boyfriend?"

She gave a tiny start, and her eyes jumped to his. Damn again. He didn't mean it that way.

Her face went all deer-in-the-headlights for a few seconds. Then she shook her head and went back to staring at her bowl. Dean waited, but apparently that was her answer.

"So, you're not working now? Gonna start job hunting soon?"

She shrugged.

He set his bowl aside. "Hey, listen. I've lost people too, okay? It sucks. It's the worst. But you can't just shut everybody out. It won't help, trust me. You know people in Boise. You should give them a call; let them help you."

She raised her face to meet his gaze. He wasn't prepared for the fierce set of her jaw or the blaze in her eyes. "Let me ask you something, Christina. Am I in danger?"

"What?"

"You're so eager to tell me how to live my life, but you won't tell me who or what attacked you in my backyard. As though I'm safer not knowing. As though someone or something is going to come looking for you. So I want to know: am I in danger?"

Yes. Of course she was in danger. She was helping Dean Winchester. When did that work out well for anyone?

As she watched his face, her expression softened. In a quieter tone, she asked, "Are we in danger?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "It's possible, yeah."

She took a shaky breath and sat back in her chair. "You're not…you're not some drug lord or violent felon or something, are you? Am I going to be arrested for harboring a wanted criminal?"

That put a half smile on his face. "No. You're not. I'm not." He had been on the FBI's Most Wanted list once or twice, but she didn't need to know that.

She nodded and took another slow breath.

"You know, we'd be safer if I had my gun."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I've got my dad's shotgun."

"That's good. But my gun is better."

She crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow. "Is that so? You're saying a pistol is a better close-quarters defensive choice than a twelve gauge, Mr. Hunter?"

This girl was full of surprises. "Not usually. But this time, yeah. My gun is better."

She frowned at him, and he could almost see the gears turning in her head, trying to crank out a scenario where what he'd just said made any sense.

Suddenly, her eyes flew wide open and she leaned forward. "Ooh! I know. You need your special gun because you're hunting a werewolf, and it's loaded with silver bullets."

Dean froze. Had she been toying with him this whole time? Was she about to wolf out? Never taking his eyes off her, he went over the room again in his mind, searching for weapons: the lamp, the mug, probably knives in the kitchen. If she didn't rip his throat out before he got there.

A giggle bubbled out of her. "Jeez, Chrissy, relax. I was joking. Stop looking at me like I'm a psycho."

It took a second for that to register. She was staring at him now. He forced a chuckle. "Right. Funny. Sorry, guess I'm a little on edge. I'd probably be less jumpy if I had my gun."

She rolled her eyes and stood up. "Do you want any more stew?" She came to the bed and held out her hand for his empty bowl.

"No, I'm good." He picked up the bowl and held it out to her. Right as she reached out to take it, he grabbed her hand. She jumped and tried to pull away, but he held on tight. No claws came out. No long canines. No yellow eyes. Dean exhaled, satisfied she wasn't a werewolf. "Ruthie. Listen to me. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't need my gun to do it." He gestured at his torso with the bowl. "Even like this."

"Let me go," she said, voice steady.

He released her hand and held his up. "Okay."

He expected her to back away fast, but she stayed where she was, sizing him up. He set the bowl down and tried again. "You said I need rest, right?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes," she answered slowly.

"Well, I'm never unarmed, okay? Not ever. And I'm telling you right now I'm not sleeping a wink if I don't have my gun."

She stood there looking at him in that way of hers he already recognized. Like she was taking him apart and then examining each piece one by one. It made him feel even more naked than he already was. He wanted to look away, but forced himself to keep looking back into those dark eyes.

Just when didn't think he could stand another second, she threw her hands in the air and made an exasperated noise. "I can't believe I'm even considering this!" she half-shouted.

He had her. Time to pour on the charm. He put on his most irresistible smile. "Come on, Ruthie. You can trust me."

Now she looked at him from eyes wide with incredulity. "Oh, sure." She gave him an acidic smile. "I trust you, you trust me. We're a happy family, Bobby John Campbell."

The way she spat the phony names at him felt like a verbal slap—one he probably deserved.

Maybe it was a moment of weakness. Maybe it was because he already felt alone enough out here in this damned wilderness without Sam. Maybe it was because he hadn't had a meal that good in a couple years. Or maybe he wanted her to give him a real smile instead of this caustic one that stung him from feet away. Maybe it was all of the above. He lost the goofy grin, looked her in the eye, and said, "My name is Dean Winchester. Me and my brother, Sam, we track down bad guys. Guys who hurt people. And we stop them." Her eyes and mouth went from narrow to round as he spoke. He kept going. "There's some stuff I can't tell you, and you wouldn't believe me even if I did. But I can tell you this: I'm not gonna hurt you. And the guy who did this—" he swept a hand in front of his left side "—if he does come back, I will protect you. You have my word."

Then he waited. He waited while she did her eye detective thing, wondering if he'd cried wolf too many times for her to believe him now. A taut minute slipped by. Then she gave him a slow nod.

"Okay, Dean." She reached down and retrieved his empty bowl and spoon from the bed, and without another word, went to the kitchen and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Then she disappeared into the little hallway, returning a minute later with his .45 in hand. She held it barrel down, index finger stretched across the trigger guard. Like a pro. Daughter of a cop, she'd said. She turned the barrel toward the wall and held it out to him, grip first.

He reached out, took it from her, and held it a moment. The cool ivory against his palm really did help him breathe easier. "Thank you." He set it on the bedside table. "Your dad teach you?"

She nodded.

An aroma he hadn't noticed before suddenly wrapped around him: a bakery smell, fruity and sweet and pastry-like. His mouth started watering despite his full stomach. "Ruthie, what is that smell?"

"Oh. When I took the stew out of the oven, I put in a pie. It should be done soon."

"Pie?"

"Uh-huh. Apple."

Dean swallowed. "You made pie? Homemade apple pie?"

"Yep. Dad's other favorite. I finished laying the top crust just before I found you." She paused, forehead wrinkled, looking at him in concern. "Dean? Are you okay?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, of course. I'm good."

She didn't look convinced. "You looked like you were about to cry."

"What? No. That's—no. I'm fine. Just getting tired."

"Oh. Okay. Well, let me turn the light out. I'll be quiet so you can get to sleep." She reached for the lamp.

"Wait." He held out an arm to stop her. "Could I maybe have a piece of that pie first? You know, if my nurse says it's okay?"

He got the real smile he'd been waiting for.