"Shouldn't we take my truck?"

Dean stopped with his hand on the driver's side handle and half-glared at Ruthie. Had he misjudged her? What was her problem with Baby?

She seemed to shrink under his gaze. "What? I just thought it would be better on the snow."

"She's right, Dean," Sam said. "I'm lucky I made it down."

Dean glanced from one of them to the other. "Alright," he said. "I'll drive." As the other two headed back toward the truck, he gave his car a comforting pat. "Sorry, Baby. I'll be back soon."

Ruthie took the back seat of the cab and Sam rode shotgun. As Dean revved the engine, Sam turned to face Ruthie. "I meant to tell you, thank you." He jerked his shaggy head toward Dean. "For taking care of him."

She nodded. "You're welcome. I'm just glad I found him in time."

Dean pictured himself lying there on the ground, slowly being buried alive under feet of snow. He resettled himself in his seat to disguise a shiver. He really was lucky she'd found him. Then a new question popped into his head. "How did you get me inside?"

"I used the wheelbarrow."

Sam swiveled toward Dean with an open-mouthed grin. "She put you in a wheelbarrow?"

Ruthie shrugged. "I didn't have a lot of options."

Sam threw his head back and laughed. "I can see it. Oh, man. You have to reenact it when we get there."

"Or not." Dean jabbed the radio's power button. The signal wasn't great, but the melody of "More Than a Feeling" was unmistakable. A smile pulled at his mouth. Eyebrows raised, he looked at Ruthie in the rearview again. "Boston, huh?"

She lifted her chin. "My daddy raised me right."

"Yes, he did." Dean grinned and turned up the volume. Before long, even Sam joined in their enthusiastic, off-key singalong.

As they approached Ruthie's cabin, though, the mood in the cab grew solemn. Dean turned down the radio. "So, Sam, about that second wolf. It might not be there anymore."

"What? Why?"

"I ran out of silver bullets. I hit it with Ruthie's shotgun and got her outta there."

Sam stared at him, then shrugged. "Okay. So we find it."

Dean glanced at Ruthie again. She held his gaze. She seemed okay, so he went on. "The guy who helped you out this morning. His name was Vern. He made it to the cabin. The wolves were there for me. They got him." Dean clenched his teeth and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Like he'd almost told Ruthie: helping the Winchesters rarely ended well for anyone.

After a moment, Sam turned to Ruthie. "You knew him?"

She nodded. "He was a friend of my dad's."

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"Thank you." She swallowed, but did not cry.

Dean was surprised at how relieved he felt—at how much he didn't want to see her cry. He cleared his throat. "So, I'm thinking we take care of the one in the house, then we go find his pal, if he's gone. And Ruthie can report finding Vern." He braked and turned the truck onto the snow-covered gravel drive. The small white truck that had been behind Vern's tractor was gone. Damn. He should've taken the battery, but he was too focused on getting Ruthie out of there and finding Sam. Now how were they going to find the werewolf?

First things first. They had to get the dead one out of there before the cops came for Vern.

He pulled the truck off to the right, careful to park so that Vern's tractor hid most of the blood spatter from view. He glanced again at Ruthie in the rearview. She kept her eyes averted from the mess, gaze glued to the cabin's front door. As an ER nurse, she must have seen a hell of a lot of blood. But he knew firsthand that it was different when it was a friend. He shut off the engine, then pulled out his .45 and loaded it, just in case. Sam drew his silver knife.

"Okay," Dean said. "Ruthie, stay close."

They piled out of the truck and followed Dean and Ruthie's recent tracks to the front door. It hung several inches open. Dean pushed it wider, and a chilly breeze hit his face. Straight across the cabin from him, the back door dangled off its hinges. Wolf Number Two's work. A little pile of snow had drifted in onto the floor. Dean held his gun out, cleared the tiny laundry room, then stepped through the short hall into the main area. A quick scan revealed no one else was there—besides the body on the kitchen floor. He turned toward it, and froze. Sam and Ruthie followed him into the room, then stopped like he had, all staring into the kitchen at the same thing.

Two words, scrawled in blood across the white refrigerator: "Not Over."

Sam eventually broke the silence. "Well that's…ominous."

Dean tucked the gun into his waistband. "You know me," he said. "Winning friends and influencing people."

Sam and Ruthie both turned to gape at him.

"What? I read. Come on, Sam. Gimme a hand."

Dean's boots made sticky ripping noises as he stepped through the tacky mixture of half-dried blood and hot chocolate on the linoleum. He stooped and gripped the body beneath the shoulders. Sam took the feet. They hoisted it and started toward the back door.

"Dean, if you rip those stitches again…" Ruthie warned.

He paused and raised the werewolf's bloody, blistered head and torso a little higher, displaying it for her. "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like to do this?"

Her lips twisted and she crossed her arms. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Burn it," Sam said.

On his way out the door, Dean saw her crouch down and start digging through the cabinets, pulling out spray bottles and rags.

By the time he and Sam had hauled the body through the snow into the woods, found enough dryish firewood, and gotten the fire blazing, the daylight was fading. They hadn't come up with any great ideas for tracking the remaining wolf. They could have Ruthie mention the little white truck to the police and hope for a lead. They could wait a few days and listen for any more kills. They could drive around town looking for it, but he doubted it had stuck around. They'd wiped out its entire pack. It would get reinforcements before trying to fight them again, the sonofabitch.

Satisfied that the body was going to thoroughly burn, he waded behind Sam through their tracks back toward the cabin. Up ahead, two wooden wheelbarrow handles stuck out from a drift by the back door. He imagined her struggling to get him into it, then wheeling him across the clearing, arms and legs dangling over the edge, swinging around with every bump. He couldn't blame Sam for laughing.

Smoke puffed from the chimney—Ruthie had started a fire. Through the broken door, he glimpsed her bustling around in the kitchen, ponytail swinging.

"Dean!"

He nearly ran into Sam, who had stopped and turned to face him. "What?"

"Where were you? I've been talking to you. And what were you smiling about?"

"Nothing. I wasn't."

Sam shot a skeptical glance back toward the cabin. "Okay, sure. Anyway, I was saying, we can't stay here."

Dean frowned at his brother. "Why would we stay here?"

"I mean none of us can stay here. She can't stay here."

A single moment of confusion gave way to rapid-fire images: The werewolf with its arms locked around Ruthie, its fangs at her throat. The back door exploding open. The husky, bearded, second wolf and its glowing, hate-filled eyes. Blood-red graffiti, so out of place in her tidy kitchen. "Not Over."

Sam was right. She couldn't stay here. Not until it was over. Not until she was safe.

He set his jaw and nodded at Sam, who gave him a single nod in return.

Before they reached the cabin, a rich, meaty smell wafted out to greet them. Sam's stomach rumbled like a diesel engine, and his long legs churned faster through the snow.

"Whoah there, Usain," Dean said, but Sam just sped up.

By the time Dean stepped through the doorway, Sam was hunched over a steaming bowl at the little table, shoveling beef stew into his piehole. Ruthie stood by the stove, ladling stew into another bowl. The floor and refrigerator were spotless.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing to the empty chair at the table.

He shut the door behind him as best he could with the broken hinges. Plenty of icy air still flowed through the gap, but the potbelly stove was putting out so much heat that the cabin still felt cozy. He took a seat, and Ruthie set a big bowl of beef stew in front of him.

"Thanks. I'm starving."

Sam made a scoffing noise and dropped his spoon into his empty bowl. "You're starving? I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Ruthie took Sam's empty bowl and headed to the stove, where she started filling it up again. Dean took a big bite and closed his eyes while an involuntary moan escaped.

Ruthie laughed. "I think that's the same sound Sam made."

Sam reached with eager hands for the bowl she offered. "Thank you. It's really, really good."

"Told you," Dean mumbled through another mouthful. "What do you put in this? Crack?"

Ruthie just smiled while she filled her own bowl, then perched cross-legged on the end of the bed. The three of them ate in contented silence.

He and Sam finished at the same time. Ruthie hopped up and took their dishes to the sink.

Dean decided now was as good a time as any to tell her. He braced for a fight. "Listen, Ruthie, as long as that thing is still out there and pissed, you can't stay here."

She didn't even look up from rinsing the dishes. "I know."

He and Sam exchanged surprised glances.

"Okay. Good. So you'll go back to Boise until we kill it."

Now her eyes shot up to his face. "No!" Her cheeks colored, and she ducked her face down again to the sink. In a softer, strained voice, she said, "I'm not going back there."

Sam's forehead wrinkled and he looked to Dean for an explanation. Dean shook his head and shrugged.

Sam turned toward Ruthie. "So where will you go?"

Her mouth opened; she looked up first at Sam, then Dean. Then her mouth closed again and she turned away. She went to the oven and pulled out the leftover pie. Sam shot him another puzzled look, and they waited while she took down plates and fussed over the pie. Soon, she came to the table and set big slices of warm apple pie in front of each of them. Sam hesitated, but Dean dug in. Ruthie went back to her spot on the foot of the bed and sat down, hands in her lap, before taking a deep breath. "I was thinking I should stay with you."

Dean stopped chewing, and Sam paused with a bite halfway to his mouth. She sat quietly, waiting.

Dean managed to swallow his bite. "That's…really not a good idea."

"Why not?"

He looked to Sam for help, but Sam was pretending to be focused on his pie.

"Well, for starters, we're on the road a lot. Like, most of the time."

Her dark eyes brightened with curiosity. "Where are you when you're not on the road?"

His first instinct was to hedge, to tell her he just meant they stayed in motels. But if he'd learned anything in the past thirty hours, it was that it was pointless to lie to her. He sighed. "Kansas. There's a bunker—"

"A bunker?" She sat up straighter.

He'd really gotten her attention. Sam's too. His brother was staring holes into him even while eating his pie. He needed to nip this idea of hers in the ass.

"Look, Ruthie, it's not gonna happen. Me and Sam, we're hunters. It's hard, but mostly it's dangerous, and we're not dragging a civilian into this life." He saw her preparing a comeback and added, "You'd be dead weight."

She flinched. An uncomfortable knot twisted in his stomach, and he looked away. He grabbed his fork, but set it back down. He wasn't hungry anymore. Not even for apple pie.

"Was I dead weight this morning?" Her voice was low but steady as she gestured to the spot in the kitchen where she'd clocked the werewolf with her saucepan. Before he could come up with a response, she went on. "I'll stay out of your way. And I'll be safer with you than on my own, or with anyone else. Nobody else even knows werewolves exist."

"Ruthie—"

"You said yourself that you brought this to my doorstep. Now I have to leave my home, but you can't guarantee it won't find me somewhere else. It left a threat—in blood—on my fridge! Don't you think you have a responsibility to protect me?"

Dean sat with his mouth hanging open. The little cabin now felt like a courtroom, and he was being grilled on the witness stand. Sam, still bowed over his plate, peered up at him, waiting along with Ruthie to see what he'd say.

Ruthie still sat with her hands in her lap, big brown eyes fixed on him. How come it always felt like she was looking into him instead of at him? He shifted in his seat, grasping for a way to get control of this conversation. "Why won't you go back to Boise? What are you running from?"

She stiffened, and her lashes fluttered like wounded butterflies. Her voice came out tight and thin. "That's none of your business."

Dean sat back and crossed his arms. "You want to come with us, live under our protection? Everything is our business."

Her eyes darted to Sam with a pleading look.

"Maybe we can help," he said.

She shook her head. Sam mirrored Dean, folding his arms and waiting for her answer.

Her posture deflated and she looked down at her hands. "You'll think it's stupid." She took a deep breath, then looked up at the ceiling as if deciding how to begin. "I was engaged." She gave her head a little shake. "No, I have to go further back. I grew up here, in this cabin. There aren't a lot of people around. I had one friend. One. Monica. She's been my best friend since first grade." She paused and swallowed, then hurried on. "She was one year ahead of me. My senior year was miserable without her. I couldn't wait to get to college. We were both in nursing school together. She got a job in Boise. As soon as I graduated, we got an apartment together, and I applied at her hospital. She already knew everyone there. It's a small place. Everyone loves Monica. All of her friends became my friends."

Dean glanced over at Sam, but his brother was focused on her story. Dean wondered where she was going with it.

"She was in pediatrics, and I was in the ER. She introduced me to Mike. He's a vascular surgeon. He and I…" Her gaze and her voice dropped. "We got engaged." She blinked several times. "I was happy."

She wiped her palms on her leggings. "Then Dad got sick. I came home to take care of him." Her mouth tightened. "Even before then, I knew something was off with Mike. But I didn't want to believe it. I wanted things to be good, so I pretended they were." She took a shaky breath. "One night when Dad was feeling pretty good, he insisted that I go to Boise to see Mike. I decided to surprise him." Now her arms wrapped around her stomach. Her voice and eyes went dead. "When I knocked at his place, Monica came to the door. Wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else."

Dean looked at Sam, but his brother was staring down at the floor. He couldn't quite believe this was the secret. He couldn't believe that she, the tough-as-nails, don't-give-me-any-BS Ruthie he'd been getting to know, had been run out of town over a cheating fiancé. "Let me get this straight. You won't go back to Boise because of this douchebag and your skank ex-friend?"

"Dean." Sam was giving him his Don't Be An Insensitive Jerk look.

Ruthie grimaced. "It wasn't just them," she said. "After Dad died, I tried to go back to work. By then, Monica had moved in with him. Everyone went overboard trying to act normal around me. It was so obvious and awkward: the big, fake smiles, and how people would suddenly stop talking when I came in. Everyone pitied me. Then they started taking sides. Team Ruthie versus Team Monica. Things got so tense that several nurses quit. I was walking around in a spotlight. It was unbearable."

Dean's blood pressure was steadily rising, but he couldn't tell if he was more angry at the dick who'd cheated on her, or the bitch who'd betrayed her, or at Ruthie for running away. He leaned toward her and raised his voice. "So screw 'em. Why are you hiding here? Go get a new job, meet new people."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Hey, Miss Congeniality. You do realize it's been less than a month since I lost my dad, my fiancé, and my best friend?"

Sam spoke up. "I get it, Ruthie. But don't you think that right now, because of everything that's happened, you might not be thinking clearly? Coming with us isn't going to solve any of your problems."

She shook her head. "There's nothing I'm looking to solve. I've already decided I'm not going back to Boise. If I'm going to start over, it's going to be a fresh start, somewhere else." She stood and paced to the potbelly stove. "I've always had great intuition. I can read people, their motivations, their intentions. That's one reason this has messed me up so much. I didn't see it coming. It shook me. I sort of…I guess I just lost faith in myself." She turned, gaze steady on Sam, and jabbed a thumb at Dean. "Then he showed up."

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise and pointed to himself.

The life that had drained out of her tone while she'd told her Boise story came rushing back. "This shifty guy who had no business being in the woods shows up in my yard, armed, shredded almost in two. I stitch him up, and then all he does is lie to me every time he opens his mouth."

She walked toward Sam, eyes sparkling in the dim lamplight. "But in spite of all that, I knew he was good. I just knew." She put her hands down on the table and turned to Dean. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me. I knew when you started telling the truth. I knew I could trust you." She paused, and her voice lowered. "The day before Dad died, you know what he said to me? He said, 'Ruthie, trust your instincts. They're almost always right.'" She looked back and forth from him to Sam. "And my instincts are telling me to stay with you two."

Damn. That was a hell of a speech. Dean eyed Sam, but his brother only looked across the table at him, waiting. So, Sam was leaving the decision up to him. Were they really considering this?

Ruthie seemed to sense his wavering, and pounced on it. "Might come in handy to have your own personal nurse. I can patch you up after your run-ins. And you probably don't have lots of time for housekeeping. I can keep the bunker clean for you."

An image of Ruthie in a French maid costume barged into Dean's mind. He gave his head a small shake, then stole another glance at Sam, who just tilted his head to one side.

"And…" her forefinger tapped the table beside his pie. "I can cook."


The Impala idled outside the police station. Dean turned down the radio and asked Sam, "You sure you're okay with this?"

Sam arched one eyebrow at him. "Even if I wasn't, it's too late now."

"Yeah, but are you?"

Sam smiled and shook his hair off his shoulders. "Yeah, Dean. I'm okay with it."

"It's just until we gank that wolf."

"I know."

Ruthie emerged from the station and climbed into the back seat. Her hastily packed bag was in the trunk. "They're going to get Vern," she reported.

Dean guided Baby out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He turned the radio back up just in time to hear, "Here I am, on the road again…"

In the rearview, Ruthie's dark eyes twinkled at him. "Bob Seger, huh?"

He didn't miss a beat. "My daddy raised me right."

She laughed her apple pie laugh, and he grinned.

"So, Ruthie," Sam said. "There's a lot of stuff we should probably fill you in on, but I don't want to freak you out."

Another laugh. "Too late." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Tell me everything."

Sam looked to Dean for approval.

"You heard the lady." She could handle it. He had a feeling she could handle just about anything now.

The highway streamed past and shrank in the rearview behind Ruthie. He relaxed, hands on the wheel, while Sam started her crash course in the Life.

There I go.

Turn the page.

To Be Continued