Sam turns just as the strange woman delivers whatever news she has in a voice too soft for him to hear. Dean doesn't seem to fall apart at first glance, but he lowers – then drops – the gun as if he doesn't know why he has it any more and that's enough for Sam to begin to worry. He's not even engaged enough to see the woman catch it. Then Dean's eyes shutter and harden, and Sam knows with a terrible, absolute twist to the gut that yes, Cassie is gone for good. The woman in the dark dress is still speaking, but Dean looks down at the ground and sets his jaw.
"I don't want to hear the details." She stops abruptly and takes a step back, laying the gun on the Impala trunk. Sam doesn't need to be psychic to feel the anger streaming from his brother. Dean turns, grabs the gun, and Sam's throat closes because what if Dean can't handle it and kills himself right here and he's not sure he can handle losing someone else not in such a short time. But Dean just kicks the safety in and slides into the driver's seat. "Sam, you coming?" he asks before slamming the door closed. Sam heads towards the car, pausing momentarily as the mind reading woman puts a hand on his shoulder.
"My name is Marie Ambrose," she says, and flicks a business card seemingly out of thin air. "Call me when you've checked my story with Ellen." She saunters off and away, through the gravel driveway to that house way in the corner, towards a red convertible he's sure he didn't see before. She gets in smoothly, the top down, and puts sunglasses on her face and a scarf over her hair to protect it from the dust. Then she waits for Sam to get in the car before starting up the Miata and pulling out behind their black Impala. It seems this woman is determined to follow them to their next destination. Dean stomps on the pedal. She's right there behind him. Sam pulls out his phone; it's time to call Ellen.
It's been three days since Marie gave Dean his news. Three days of mostly wasted gas, the black Impala that Sam calls home meandering along deserted roads with no apparent purpose, with the addition of a red Miata following. Marie's car of choice putt putt putters over the country, keeping enough distance behind that the haggard, erratic Dean feels more reassured than pressured. Sam and Marie make him stop in shabby motels, get rooms next to each other, and wait for Dean to recover.
The wait is long and tedious. Sam and Marie sit in the Miata outside the motel with the top down, watching the sun set and letting the wind gust their hair while Dean watches the television inside without seeing. She hears from Sam's lips about Cassie, and about Jess, and about Sarah, and then about their father and their mother. With a friendly, familiar hand, she pats him on the shoulder and snuggles under his arm like a sister.
Marie and Sam take turns sitting watch in the dark, each with one gun and one silver knife. They salt every opening of every room just in case. The weapons and salt make the nonfunctioning part of Dean's brain think they're watching for something out there, something worth hunting, but the truth is that each of them fear for the oldest, for the broken. Marie watches as he tosses in the night, caught in the guilt that consumes him every night in nightmares. Her gut clenches and nostrils flare as she resists touching his sweat-slicked brow. She can offer no comfort; nothing she gives him will be enough to remove the resentment he has for the messenger. She knows it. She knows she can do nothing for him.
Sam can touch him, but only when Dean is asleep. Every waking moment, Dean resists all effort made to calm him. He drinks coffee after cup of coffee, hot and black and strong, with none of that pansy sip-top bull like Sam will succumb to. Sam and Marie just wait. And all this time, she hides her secret.
When Dean pulls over for no reason, Marie's sharp sense of worry spikes. She eases the little red car onto the shoulder behind him and walks slowly, quietly towards the driver's side of the Impala to see Dean breaking against the steering wheel. With calm blue eyes, masking her empathetic pain and fear, she jerks her head at Sam, indicating he should get out of the car. She throws him the keys to the Miata.
"Don't crash him," she says, climbing into the Impala, shifting Dean out of the way so that he inadvertently folds into her, weeping roughly and silently into her shirt. She sighs, allowing the soft of her breast and the touch of her gun-roughened right hand on his temple to imitate the motherly touch he doesn't remember. 'This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong,' her mind screams, but she cares too much about him to stop.
She starts up the car and heads for the familiar mountains of Appalachia. The secret must be revealed.
"I'll never tell a soul," she whispers, and accelerates.