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"I have to pee," she whines, last word long and drawn out.

Sam doesn't so much as look up from the file in his lap, merely muttering, "No, you don't."

"Yes," she argues from behind, leaning her head over the seat, "I do."

Dean glares at her through the rearview mirror, eyes bouncing deliberately between the road and her smug face. "You just went," he tells his niece, tone terse and clipped.

"That was hours ago," she tries.

Dean turns to his brother, implores, "Sam."

To which he simply offers up a distracted warning. "Rachel."

And the distinctly 16-year-old whine returns. "Come on."

"That's it! I'm turning this car around," Dean booms in frustration. The other two in the car merely stare for a moment, shocked expressions glazing their faces. Then they both break into fits of laughter. "What?" he challenges, "Think I won't?"

"You haven't turned away from a hunt in your entire life," Sam manages. "Not once."

Rachel pipes in with a mocking, "I'm gonna turn this car around," prompting an even more vicious glare from her uncle.

"Yeah, well," he bites out, knuckles white on the wheel, "I've never been stuck in the car with a teenage girl for freakin' ever either." He glimpses his brother from the corner of his eye, says in an angry yet pleading tone, "I can't do it, Sam. I can't take it."

He shakes his head, tries not to laugh, because, come on, if he can live with her everyday, Dean sure as Hell should be able to put up with her for a few hours. Even if she is working hard to push all his buttons at once. "You're the one who thought this'd be a good idea," he says with a shrug, laying blame right smack where it's due.

And it's true, he had been behind the idea of her going on a hunt, even if took forever for her to convince him, even if he personally was still nothing but hesitant. He had told Sam it would be fine, good for her. He hadn't taken into consideration what it would be like for him.

This was never supposed to happen, not really. They'd had an agreement, all of them, Sam, Sarah, Dean and Ava, not to raise their children in that awful world that they'd been brought up in. It was decided long before they were even born. The kids wouldn't know. They'd never have to be scared of those things others assumed didn't exist, they'd never have to face the terrible realities their parents had all been privy to. Never.

But then Rachel found everything – their journals and arsenal and all that they'd been not careful enough to hide. And Maya…became more like her father. And while Samantha was too young to know anything, and the boys were mostly out of the loop, they all knew that that initial agreement, the promise they'd made to their kids before they ever even were, could never be kept.

Even so, Dean was stunned at how quickly Sam had agreed to this weekend jaunt, he being the one who was so adverse to the idea of his daughter even being trained and taught for hunting purposes. Dean had the feeling that if he would have suggested taking Rachel out on a hunt just a couple of years ago, Sam would have kicked his ass for even putting those two words – Rachel and hunt – in the same sentence.

But, he suspected, things changed when Maya developed abilities. Now there are times that he can see his father's face clearly in that of his little brother, that same concerned scowl, same distracted grin. Like he's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like in the meantime he'll do whatever he can to protect his family, help his children learn how to protect themselves, for when it finally does.

Maya started training with him just after they all found out about her dreams. It was a precaution everyone felt necessary to take. Rachel helped, mostly with the research aspect, explaining to her what was what – No, they do exist, I swear. – and what needed to be done to guard one's self against – Why would it have to be kosher salt? That doesn't even make sense. But Maya was about as good at that sort of stuff as she was at her sixth grade studies – that being, not very.

On the physical end, she excelled. Aside from being increasingly clumsy, giant limbs having recently gone through yet another growth spurt now putting her eye to eye with her older sister, she knew how to carry herself when it mattered. There were times the girl could barely walk without tripping over her own two feet, but a sweep kick combination was no problem. And she was coachable, a brilliant surprise for Dean who'd only ever known her to be stubborn and hardheaded, like her father. Maybe it had to do with her being in organized sports since she was four, but the minute the lessons began, she was all ears, ready and eager to learn and please.

Rachel was the exact opposite. Knowing his nieces as well as he did he never really thought they were that much alike, Rachel being more outgoing and buoyant, Maya quiet and gloomy. Rachel loved kids, people in general, even when she was annoyed with them there was still this underlying ease and comfort in being around others. Maya was standoffish, uncomfortable in large groups, wary in intimate settings. Where Rache had too many friends to keep track of, Maya had only one of any consequence – John – all others floating aimlessly in the periphery, mere acquaintances, team or schoolmates. Even in their looks and demeanor, though at first glance they were clearly sisters, the older they got, the more they changed.

But it wasn't until he started working with both of them that he really saw how different they were. Though Maya was typically quiet and moody, making her silences and avoidance seem like some sort of misanthropic necessity, Dean now saw that she was simply more introspective, more visceral. She wouldn't open up and talk about something, no matter how small or unimportant, until she had first figured it all out on her own. And even then, half the time she'd say nothing, forcing him to pry inquiries out her, because if she couldn't do it all on her own, she seemed reluctant, even scared to say so.

And Rachel, always so much more of a go-getter, seeming so much more controlled and ready and up for the next thing. She was seldom reluctant to ask for help, too often talk, talk, talking her way through things, never wary of having someone around to spitball with. For her it wasn't about wanting to please or succeed. She didn't have that stubborn pride like her sister, or that fear that if she couldn't do something on her own everyone would be disappointed in her. That didn't matter. For Rachel the consequences were always much more dire, her having a sense that if she could not do something, grasp something, well enough, she would be letting everyone down in a way that could very well impact life and death. It was nothing to admit she needed a bit of help every now and then when the people she loved were at stake.

It wasn't until Dean started working with them both, seeing how easily certain things came to Maya and how desperately she struggled with others, that he noticed how difficult so much of this was for Rachel. And more importantly, how hard she worked, quietly and unbeknownst to him, to get better. Especially with the physical training.

Rachel had always been in shape, the younger Winchester household sticking to a healthy lifestyle, always with fruits and veggies packing the fridge and suggestions of long walks or trips to the park when boredom struck. But she was never really athletic, never played sports for more than a season at a time – soccer when she was eight, basketball at nine, lacrosse at thirteen and so on. Dean always figured, sexist or not, that certain moves she just could not get, certain combinations that simply would not work, were simply the result of her being a girl, having other anatomical issues that might impact her abilities. Truth is, kick boxing and Krav Maga simply weren't her strong suites. But she worked at them anyway, perfected her technique no matter how long it took, no matter how lacking it may be in areas. All in all, Rachel was truly, wholeheartedly committed. Which is why he finally gave into this whole ridiculous idea of taking her on a hunt in the first place.

It was when she said, "I want to be ready," without a hint of hesitation or fear. "I want to be ready when whatever is going to happen, happens," her words carrying the weight of that heavy implication, that things would not stay so calm and peaceful in their family forever. That even they, the adults, the parents, the trained hunters, would not be able to safeguard their children indefinitely. Whether they liked it or not, whether any of them felt capable of admitting it or not, their lives would never be the same, not now that the demon, or a demon at least, had found them and theirs. Not now that Maya had the sight her father had always cursed.

So when she said those words, something inside of Dean shifted, because he really hadn't thought about it before, her being ready. For this. Even though it made perfect sense. Even though she'd made it perfectly clear all along that her main reason for training and learning was to be prepared should she have to take of the little ones. Even though he encouraged Maya to tell her the truth, even now, encouraged her to share things with her older sister – She might be able to help. He never really thought she'd ever have to.

"I want to go on a hunt," she'd told him, voice steady, face stiff with resolve. "I have to know what it's like."

He couldn't help it, without even thinking the word, "No," fell from his lips with harsh finality.

But she pushed the issue, over and over again for weeks, months. "It would be good practice," offered up with so much sincerity it made his heart break.

But still his answer was, "No."

She tried another tactic, ridiculing him endlessly, pushing his buttons 'til he might relent. "What are you scared I'm gonna show you up? Scared I'll kick a little more ass than you, old man?"

And his lips might have twitched into an annoyed little smirk, but his response was the same. "No."

When she actually begged, tears in her eyes, begged him to let her to do it, because she simply needed to, he felt his resolve weaken. "You're not ready," he'd told her softly, which even she took as progress, enough of an opening to work with.

"Tell me what to do," she'd said. "Tell me what I need to work on."

And he did, even made up a test, both written and physical, one he was sure she wouldn't pass.

But she did.

"It's too dangerous," was his next reason. "You could get hurt." To which she scoffed and rolled her eyes in all too Winchesterian fashion, informing him that that was bull. She could get hurt anytime, anywhere. Like say, at the mall, tripping over a shoelace and careening down the escalator.

When he laughed, reminded of the fairly recent incident that resulted in a broken arm, and told her that a person that clumsy had no right holding a gun, let alone firing one, she spent six straight hours doing target practice. Until nearly every shot was dead on.

Having no more legitimate excuses, because she wouldn't buy the utter truth – You just can't – he did what he always did when the girls wouldn't listen to him growing up, he blamed their father. "He wouldn't like it," he'd said, with a firm and knowing shake of the head. "I'm telling you, he'd be pissed as hell that we're even talking about it."

She merely cocked an evil brow at him and said, "So now you're scared of your little brother?"

But Sam wasn't pissed as Hell. In fact, she'd managed to talk him into it even before Dean himself had been fully convinced. She knew her father, of course, knew just what to say, no flattery or puppy dog eyes would work on him. He was a realist, at his core maybe even a bit of a pessimist, the kind of person who was always waiting for the next awful thing to come along, never truly believing that it's the nature of the world to have things work out. So it really didn't take a lot to get him to see how important it was for her, for all of them really, to be prepared. It was a necessary evil.

It was Sam who found the job, a simple salt and burn a few states over, one that they likely would have overlooked in their semi-retirement, opting rather for quick jobs close to home or ones requiring such expertise they felt no others could handle them. But this one seemed perfect, just the right job to show Rache the ropes while also posing only a minimal amount of danger.

They eased their wives concerns, assuring them both it was perfectly safe, assuring them both that this was not going to evolve into any sort of pattern or routine. And they lied to their other children, even Maya, whom they figured would beg and plead to come along, saying they were off to visit a couple of colleges, plant that seed of higher education in the 16-year-old's mind.

It all had seemed, once they hit the road anyway, like a fairly good idea, like it might have actually been the right decision after all. But then Rachel started in on Dean during breakfast, chiding him for eating so much fried food, asking if he knew how many calories were in those pancakes he was smothering with extra butter and syrup.

Then, not an hour later, she got a call on her cell, some random friend whom she felt the need to chatter on endlessly with – the conversation really only lasted about five minutes, but in high-pitched teenage oh my God, he said what? You're kidding! time, it went on forever.

And now, this.

"Seriously," she tries again. "Just pull over somewhere, side of the road. I don't care, I'm not picky. I just have to go."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before your fourth cup of coffee," Sam chides with a wide smile.

"Dad," she whines in protest, leg visibly jackhammering underneath her.

Dean huffs, more than fed up. "What is with you? Are you on your period or something?"

Sam gasps, "Dean," falling from his lips in a horrified reproach.

"Yes, Uncle Dean," Rachel deadpans, rolling her eyes at her idiot relative. "I'm on my period. That's why I'm telling you to pull over on the side of the road, because what I really want most in this world is to squat down in some ditch and change a tampon while my father and uncle watch."

Sam, face now entirely devoid of color, lets out a desperate sounding, "Rachel!" just as Dean jerks the wheel of the car towards the shoulder, sending it skidding and shuddering to a violent stop.

"Thank you," Rachel tosses over her shoulder as she quickly hops out of the back and takes off in search of cover.

"Didn't do it for you," he mumbles, mostly to himself. Then, in a near whisper, "Think I'm gonna puke."

Sam turns to his brother slowly, stares at him dumbfounded for one long moment before, "Asshole," drips from his tight lips amid a flurry of half-hearted punches.

Yeah, this was a great idea.

The hunt was supposed to be pretty straightforward, open and shut. Simple salt and burn. As though anything in their lives had ever been simple.

But the angry spirit haunting the high school's theatre – yeah, apparently it really can happen, two injured students and one dead Drama teacher as proof – wasn't the jilted Homecoming Queen who'd drank herself to death at the close of last year, despite what Sam and Dean thought. Rachel, of course, "totally could have told you that," long before they went to dig up, pry open, and burn to ash her remains. Had they consulted her, that is.

But of course they hadn't, for some reason deciding to leave her out of that part of the hunt, as though all she had wanted to do on this little foray into the supernatural world was to dig up and burn some bones. And it wasn't until they broke into the theatre that night, the one that had been closed off for nearly a week now, ever since the fatal accident involving falling sets, that they realized their mistake.

There had been reports, made mostly by students, and really kids can't be trusted to know what they see or hear, that someone or something had been back there, crying and quietly murmuring to herself just before props took off flying across the auditorium, the intricately painted landscaped Alps crashing down upon Maria and Captain Von Trapp, and Mrs. Vossi, the sadly smushed drama teacher. There were also rumors that the cries and whispers could be heard everyday following, despite the theatre being locked down.

Dean explained that it was just good business to go back to the haunted place to investigate, make sure that the malignant spirit was truly gone, before skipping town. And he said it all with a hint of arrogance, a superior, not that we really have to because we always get the job done, and get it done right lilt. Which made it all the more humorous when his EMF meter started going haywire in his palm.

They never saw a thing, no ghost or apparition – which, truthfully, made her kind of mad, coming all this way and still seeing nothing – but when the lights they never turned on began to flicker, spotlight sweeping aimlessly across the stage without anyone in the balcony to guide it, and the sound system emitted a nasty high-pitched squeal, they decided to go. Better safe than sorry, even if whatever haunted that place didn't want to do them any harm, even if all the faux mountains had already fallen and the danger of catching a wildly flung Styrofoam boulder seemed minimal, the last thing either Sam or Dean wanted was to get caught breaking and entering with their teenaged daughter/niece.

Dean muttered absently to himself – what the hell? I don't get it. – on and on as they checked into a hotel. She could still hear him going on, thinking and arguing out loud as he got into the shower, filthy from grave digging. Sam played his typical role as researcher, sitting down at the table, opening up his laptop and working through what went wrong, what was it he had missed?

Rachel, for her part, only sat on the corner of one of the beds, silently contemplating, trying to figure out why exactly they had been so convinced it was the Homecoming Queen to begin with. "I mean, it makes no sense," she says finally, coming up with nothing but frustration.

"She's the only one at the school who's died within the last three years," Sam defends wearily, never good at taking criticism.

"Yeah, but, a Homecoming Queen?" she questions, disbelief wrinkling her nose and furrowing her brow. "I read up on this girl, and she barely even went to school, didn't belong to any clubs, never participated in any activities. Dad," she says pointedly, making sure he's paying attention. His eyes crawl up to meet hers and she says, "This girl wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near the school's theatre. Pun intended."

Sam's tempted to let it go, brush it off, what does she know anyway, she's never done this before. He did all the research, compiled everything, just like he's been doing for countless cases throughout the decades, since long before she was ever even born. He's right. He knows it. Maybe they hit the wrong grave, or there's something else out there she's tied to. But it's her.

Only it's not. He realizes that when he glances up at his daughter, sees the odd, knowing sparkle in her eye, that I've got it look on her face. He recognizes it from Sarah actually, the glint being identical to the one she gets whenever the answer to a certain puzzle finally comes to her. He's spent the last twenty years trusting that look, knowing that it's never been wrong to date.

"There's no one else, Rache," he says, more a challenge than a chide.

She moves over to the table across from him, turns the laptop to face her and starts Googling away. "Maybe you were just looking in the wrong place," she tells him lightly.

The corner of his mouth twists up into a coy grin, mixture of curiosity and pride, as he asks, "How do you mean?"

She shrugs. "You looked for people who were part of the school who died. Most kids in high school don't give a crap about theatre." She stops short, glances up to catch his disapproving, watch your mouth glare before going on. "There could be people in the community who support the arts, or just plain like high school plays, parents of kids in the drama club."

Sam's face suddenly twists, brow furrowing. "Former drama students," he breathes out, thought just coming to him. But when he looks over at his daughter he can see that she's been thinking it all along, simply waiting for him to catch up.

She turns the computer toward him, an obituary blanketing the screen. "Carol Mays," she says triumphantly. "Graduated two years ago, went on to Vassar where she hung herself from her dorm room bunk bed."

"Hanged," he corrects absently, skimming the article before him. Mays was a typical drama dork in high school, best known for her stunning portrayal of Laura in Tennessee William's The Glass Menagerie. "Huh," he mutters once he's done. "Seems like everybody in this town knew her as the kid who liked to act."

"Maybe it was the only thing that made her happy," Rachel suggests. "Maybe that's why she wanted to come back."

Sam looks up at his daughter, wide smile taking over his face. "That's not bad, Rache," he says simply, his eyes showing so much more. "Not bad at all."

It's hell to convince Dean to head back out across town to another cemetery, to dig up another body, all in the same night, and mostly only on a hunch. But they manage, Sam being convinced his kid knows what she's talking about. And when they return to the theatre the next day, surprise, surprise, not so much as a bleep on the EMF, or a tingly feeling at the base of their spines.

So she was right, her first hunt a success. And yet, for some reason, she seems compelled to mope aimlessly for nearly a week after, taking little pride or joy in her achievement. All she can think about is the girl's obit picture, the smiling face of someone so sad and confused, innocent. All she wanted was a way out, and all she got was more and more lost.

And yes, she was harming others and had to be stopped as a result. And yes, by burning her bones, putting her to rest, no matter what sort of rest it might be, they had probably done her a favor as well. And yes, she, Rachel, had done a good job, figured it all out rather easily, like a natural, her uncle had said, and she should be satisfied with herself. But the fact of the matter is, they killed that girl, all over again. It needed to be done, that's true, she'd never argue that. But she can't find it within herself to take joy in a thing that is by its very nature a necessary evil.

Because when it comes right down to it, evil is still just that: evil.