Part Three

Bela awoke to sunlight glinting through cheap drapes, reflecting off the fingerprinted screen of the television directly into her eyes. She grumbled to herself and attempted to bury her face deeper into her pillow; snuggled backwards into the warm and comforting form behind her. This form grumbled too and tightened its grip on her waist, sleepily shoving its face into her hair and letting out a massive, entirely impressive snore.

Bela Talbot had four realizations all at once, if a little belatedly. Firstly, her drapes were not cheap. Secondly, the pillow that she was nestled into was scratchy and lump ridden and she surely did not own anything like that either. Thirdly, she had fallen asleep in her bra; could feel the under wire digging somewhat painfully into the side of her chest. Fourthly, Bela did not generally sleep next to things that were warm and comforting, cat aside, or things that emitted such dreadful noises. This was the most important fact of all: Bela generally did not sleep next to things that were most decidedly male (hardy-har-har, quiet in the peanut gallery).

She sat up—woke up—at lightning speed, tangling herself in her trousers and his limbs and the horrible awful faded red comforter that she had forgotten about. Stared down her nose in surprise at Dean Winchester, whose arm fell listlessly from her waist with her movement to land with a soft thump against the mattress.

Oh God. Dean bloody Winchester.

Mind agog, Bela gawked at the man sleeping by her side. He was still snoring, quite unabashedly, and his face had scrunched up in protest over the sudden lack of contact. His hair was rumpled, and he had pillow creases on his right cheek. His mouth was open, and she felt a sudden urge to giggle before—

Her heart plummeted to her stomach and flip-flopped abruptly. Bela swallowed hard, wondered what time it was, and seriously considered fucking everything in order to cuddle in for a few seconds more. Or… something. Feeling extremely confused, she raised her hand, hovering her fingers over Dean's cheek.

First time, last time, no time…

"Wouldn't touch him if I were you," a voice intoned dryly from the next bed. "Dean wakes up fighting. He'll kill you before you even know he's awake. Trust me, I know."

Bela jumped to high heaven, or would have anyway if she was anyone else. The blush she couldn't manage to control in time, and God, she had forgotten all about Dean's stupid cursed—or apparently recently uncursed—brother.

Came up fighting herself.

"Well well well, Sam, don't you look refreshed this morning!" she singsonged, smiling widely at the younger Winchester. Hoped she didn't have pillow creases too. Oh, the lack of dignity! "And yet, you couldn't have slept more than… oh, four days?"

It wasn't even a lie, she reflected. Sam did indeed look well rested. He was dressed and showered, and had even managed to find himself some breakfast—or was it lunch—which he was currently consuming with glorious abandon. Well, not really. He was currently peering at her over top of his fork, all suspicion and confusion.

"Dean and I got married while you were out," she informed him, forcing her smile. He still looked baffled, and she couldn't blame him. Not exactly. "I ran into him here, and we got a little drunk. Quickie Vegas wedding, you know how it goes." In bloody Montana. "Sorry you couldn't make it. We tried to wake you."

Sam blinked at her like she was speaking in tongues, which… okay, fine. He started to say something about a list of life goals, before cutting himself off with a shake of his head. Took another bite of whatever he was eating, and regarded her, expression drier than the desert.

"More like you're here trying to score a deal for the sandman's sand, and Dean was ready to climb the walls here by himself. You went to a local haunt for information, and Dean went to a local haunt to get drunk. Neither one of you can control how much you irritate the other, which led to a somewhat predictable round of banter, followed by an inexplicable urge not to part. It's so cute, I could just vomit." Sam paused to examine his cuticle. "Maybe you even knew he was here. Maybe he suspected you'd come. Either way… highly doubt you're my brand new sister-in-law."

And Bela blinked at him. Took a moment to regain her composure, which she blamed on sleepiness. Rather coldly, she replied, "I do see why they sent you to Stanford, brainiac that you are."

Sam grunted at her around his mouthful of food, which Bela thought was distinctly Dean-like, and they regarded each other for a moment in wary silence. Sam, she supposed, looked a bit bombarded by her presence, and she found herself wondering what his first thought upon waking had been. The whole situation was making her strangely giddy, and she got out of bed to cover it up. In his sleep, Dean frowned at the movement. Promptly rolled onto her half of the bed, sprawled and utterly relaxed.

Bela had to get away. Panic rising, she sent Sam a parting glare for good measure and made her way—great distance that it was—to the bathroom.

She found her nylons where she had left them, balled in a towel underneath the sink. Took off her trousers and put them back on, frowning at the discomfort caused by the control top. A glance in the mirror confirmed that she was hopelessly wrinkled, irreversibly bedraggled, and she would have sold her soul—oh, Lord, she hadn't meant to think that—in a second for a shower. And that was just the kind of girl she was, wasn't it? Who needed to sell their soul for important things, and… just ugh.

Splashing water on her face helped Bela feel a little bit more like herself. She had eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes and she scrubbed at it hard with her knuckle. Tried to fix her hair with her fingers, and, after a brief search through Sam and Dean's things for a brush, gave up all hope of looking presentable. Steeled herself, and returned to the main room.

Sam had finished eating, and was crouched on the other side of his bed, rifling through his duffle bag. He looked up at the sound of her approach and straightened, some kind of notebook tightly grasped in his hands.

"I can take you back to your car," he offered. "Dean might be out for a while."

Like she cared. The urge to giggle was back, but she covered it by pushing her hand through her hair. Glanced back at Dean, asleep on his bed, and then at Sam, who was watching her watch Dean with an astuteness she did not like. God, Sam made her nervous.

She stood still as Sam found Dean's car keys, murmuring to himself about his own possible murder, and stared at him with wide eyes when he opened the door. Over his shoulder, she could see the Impala, gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight. Behind her shoulder, she could still hear Dean snoring. Nerves turned her stomach, and she found herself unexpectedly frozen to the spot, but then Sam was looking at her funny and—

One last quick look at Dean was all she took. All she had time to take.

Sam held the door of the car open for her, and she hauled her wrinkled self inside with as much dignity as she could muster. Dean's bloody cock rock music nearly blew their ears off when Sam turned the key in the ignition; Sam cranked down the dial with a wry grimace.

After that, they drove in silence. Bela wished the scenery outside of her window was at all interesting, but all they passed was run down and ugly. She thought of the car ride back to Queens with dread. Should have flown, she thought grumpily.

"You know, I don't blame you for anything," began Sam conversationally, like he thought that that was what was forcing her silence… which, admittedly, was partly true. She noticed irritably that he was wearing his most comforting expression. All confide in me, Bela. She felt a rather uncharitable urge to give him nothing but bullshit.

Instead, Bela tipped her chin up, and defensively told the passing scenery, "I didn't sleep with your brother, Sam."

Sam snorted, and Bela feared she had misstepped. "I didn't really think you did. Thought Dean might have a little more consideration than…" A vague hand motion, which she took as a reminder that Sam had been in the other bed. Right bloody there. And then continued with, "You know. Even he isn't that big of a pig."

"He does seem more like a sock on the door kind of guy," she admitted. And, cautiously, "What do you not blame me for then?"

A shrug and a pause, like Sam was considering how to word it. "Wanting to get to know him. I mean, don't get me wrong, not exactly your biggest fan here. But I don't blame you. Dean's kind of a pretty awesome guy."

"Well." Oo-kay then… "Good to know."

But Sam wasn't finished. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His face was hard, set and determined.

"I've done some research on you, Bela," he told her, tone low.

Shivers raced down Bela's spine, and she grimaced to herself before angling to face Sam dead on. She smiled at him, and let him see the threat there. "Good for you. Planning on using it against me? I thought you needed my help."

"Easy," he replied, laughing testily. "I do… hell, I'd take just about anybody's help at this point. I just thought I'd check and see how legit you were and--"

"And what? What exactly is the point of this pleasant little chit chat?"

"I don't care." His jaw was set again, and she thought it funny how little he resembled his brother. "That's all: I don't care. I can even understand it, to a point. We have to make decisions every day that other people can't even imagine and--"

"I know about Ruby."

That shut him right up. He almost swerved into the other lane, he looked at her so quickly. "Did you tell Dean?"

Smiled innocently. "Tell Dean what?"

"That I've… I promised I wouldn't see her anymore." A rare moment of complete honesty.

She made her smile slightly mocking in response. "Did you tell Dean?"

Sam didn't have to ask what about. "Hell no. I don't think you're genuinely harmful, Bela. If I thought you were an actual danger to my brother, it would be another thing entirely. You're selfish, sure, and you're completely driven by financial gain, but for whatever reason, Dean doesn't seem to hate spending time with you. Who am I to begrudge him anything now?"

Bela pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned back against the seat of the Impala, relaxing minutely. "I didn't tell Dean anything about anything. I figured he might try to stop it, so I thought not to give him the chance."

Sam nodded at her, like it was a truce, and reached into the back of the car, steering with his knee. He tossed her the notebook from the motel.

"That's all the research I've got so far. Take it with you and give it a read through, will you please? I'll come by for it soon. I've mentioned some specific items in there, nothing I think will be a real help, but if you think they will be…"

Bela nodded back, succinctly. "I'll look into it, Sam." Placed the notebook neatly onto her lap.

"This it?" Sam motioned out the window.

The Crown was even more depressing by daylight. She nodded, happy to see that her car was still in the parking lot.

"Thanks for the ride," she said, slamming the door behind her. The Impala's tires squealed as it rolled out of the parking lot.

For a moment, Bela hugged the notebook to her chest and closed her eyes. Remembered the feel of Dean's hand when it touched her, the look on his face when he slept. Thought hard about the contents of the notebook, like she could will one thing in there to be correct, and easy to access. Let Sam do it, she thought. Let there be time.

When she opened her eyes, the parking lot was unchanged before her. The sun was warm on the top of her head, and was glinting brightly off of her windshield. A small breeze stirred her hair, and reminded her of the fact that she didn't have a brush. Groaning, she made her way over to the car.

All that was left of Dean's time was two months. No time at all, now. Not really.

Bela had one picture of her parents, and one picture only. After reading through Sam's notebook, she went to her bedroom and hunted it out from behind the odds and ends on her counter. Sank to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and simply stared at their faces through the glass.

Walter and Sarah Talbot, thirty three and thirty two respectively. A rare evening alone, a rare evening with Walter home, and they were both beaming at the camera for all they were worth. Sarah, who Bela always remembered as being absolutely world weary, looked almost carefree, for the wife of a hunter.

Beside her, Sam's notebook was an utter waste of time. She had been bewildered and then so very disappointed to find that all he had managed to come up with were increasingly desperate attempts at an answer that just didn't exist. Half of the items he mentioned she was fairly certain weren't even technically real; the others were vague mentions, with half leads. A whole bloody notebook full of bloody nothing, save for the fact that Sam wasn't giving up. It was a thought that counts kind of book, and Bela was so frustrated—

Gently, she uncurled herself enough to trace the outlines of her parents. Wished for the hundredth time that she was in the picture, but the only ones she had of herself were solo pictures, or pictures from After, when she had gone to live with her grandmother. Things lost and things destroyed…

She could feel the corner of Sam's notebook pressing into her thigh.

"Walter and Sarah Talbot. Thirty three and thirty two. Seven months to live," she murmured, and there was a lump in her throat that felt unfamiliar and strange. Bela Talbot was not exactly a crier. Then, "Dean Winchester. Twenty nine. Two months to live."

Bela knew hunters, and in her experience, they always died young. And horridly.

Her throat constricted painfully, and began to burn. Bela pulled her knees closer to her chest and stared hard at her parents, trying to hold it all together. Managed, almost, until her cat curiously made his way in her direction and bumped against her ankle expectantly with his head. It was too much affection—too much like comfort—and she wrenched her eyes shut, as though that could stop the horrible reality that was Bela Talbot crying.

Dean Winchester sent her a postcard that Bela could only assume he'd bought in a porn shop somewhere. It certainly wasn't appropriate tourist material.

Little known fact, but Bela didn't really get mail of the interesting variety—unless she was expecting a package, a purchase, but she wasn't and this was different anyway. She left it on the counter, naked woman side up, when she made herself some tea; pretended to be offended by it for show when she went to feed her cat. She let it sit for almost half an hour before curiosity got to her.

Shooing her cat off of her spot on the couch, Bela peered at the front side, still giddy enough at the prospect of real live personal mail to attempt to absorb every detail. Then, biting her lip, she flipped it over.

Dean had neat no nonsense writing, and the words weren't big enough to be spelt wrong, therefore giving her absolutely no easy ammo for later on. A quick simple message, nothing more. It read:

Leaving before I wake up… real classy there, Bela. Your loss, of course. I have since replaced you with this blonde beauty. Would talk more but hot sex awaits.

He had signed it simply with his initials.

"Lovely, Dean," she said to herself, bouncing the postcard on her knee.

She placed it on her coffee table and went for a shower. Came back and was unhappy with its location, but couldn't think of what to do with it that was any better. Got ready for bed, and dreamed up the fridge.

Bela stuck it on with a magnet shaped like a cat, naked woman side down so that she could avoid seeing Miss My-Fake-Boobs-Rival-Pamela-Anderson's every single bloody time she opened the door. Shook her head on her way to bed, and fell asleep smiling.

Sam Winchester came five days after his brother's postcard.

He tried to be nice, Bela got that. He even knocked, after ringing the buzzer, which was more than Bela could ever say about Dean. He seemed to be operating under the idea that Bela meant something, which she wasn't sure about and quite honestly didn't like to think about, and at the very least deserved his more proper manners. Didn't even mention the gunshot of days gone by either… finally.

"Where's Dean?" she asked as he settled himself on one of her kitchen chairs.

She had left the notebook in her bedroom, and went to retrieve it, listening for Sam's answer.

"We're on a hunt," he called after her retreating back. "Dean's… busy."

Dean had been manipulated away, she thought, before thinking it was mighty convenient that they were on a hunt in her area period. Planned. But that was Sam, she supposed, always thinking.

Remembered abruptly about the postcard on her fridge and scurried back, distracting Sam with his notebook before he could notice anything else.

Sam's face fell when he observed the expression on hers. He fiddled with the worn edges of the pages, and heaved a mighty sigh. Dean would have mocked him for his angst—well, Dean more likely would have been kicking his arse for the visit—and Bela considered it herself, to ease the tension. To mock or to offer coffee? She felt useless in the face of his disappointment, and shifty.

"I knew it was all crap when I gave it to you," he told her, flinging it out of his reach.

"I know." And she had… sort of.

"Just…" A grunt of frustration, and he hid his face in his hands. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Bela? I can't just let him go to Hell. He's counting on me."

The topic made her antsy. The muscles along her spine tightened and she folded and then unfolded her hands. Separated herself from the situation, because she still couldn't do it. Not Dean. Made no sense, when he was so real and alive and vibrant… was going to be fighting mad if he found out about any of this. Couldn't reconcile that with someone bound for Hell, because… because she just couldn't. She felt like someone was squeezing her lungs.

"You might have to." She had to force it out, one big whoosh of breath straight from her diaphragm. She thought at first that Sam missed it entirely, and she hadn't said it to be cruel... just honest. The idea of having to repeat it chilled her, but Sam looked up; met her gaze with weary eyes.

"No." Just no. "There's something. There has to be something. There's always something."

She thought of Dean's hand on her stomach; of the soft way he spoke when he was exhausted and too tired to keep his guard up. Dead. The lump in her throat was back, but she swallowed resolutely. Did not want Sam to see it.

"The demon wants him bad, Sam." Her voice was soft, and she had the strangest urge to pat his hand.

Sam scowled at her, a look that said yeah well, I want him more. He grabbed his notebook up again and flipped through it, all determination.

"No one really mentions Hell anywhere," he told her offhandedly, talking to himself more than to Bela. Sighing, she sat down across from him. "That's the problem. Escaping from there isn't really a Christian belief. It's all about Hades, and the underworld. But that's not necessarily a bad thing." Drummed his fingers on the paper. "Same idea, sort of. Just older. The answer's out there, it's just a matter of finding it."

And he believed it, Bela saw with some amount of surprise. Sam was weary, sure, and worried, but she knew for no real reason in that moment that Sam had coped with the situation thus far because he absolutely did not believe he was going to lose his brother. For a little while maybe; nothing more than a brief separation. It struck Bela as arrogance, this; then, she could respect that. Wondered offhandedly what Dean believed.

And so she asked, like she and Sam were all buddy buddy. Like she had a right to know anything about Dean, at all. "How's he doing?"

Sam shrugged, clearly brooding to himself. "How is Dean doing? Really well actually." His lip twisted into something resembling a sneer, and Bela guessed at a great deal of suppressed anger. "He went house hunting yesterday. Been at it all week online apparently. He printed me off a nice long list of appropriate properties that I should really look into once this whole mess is over. He was going to job hunt for me, if you can believe it. Like any of that shit is important."

Life goes on, Sammy. Practical, Dean was, if completely fatalistic. Material goods, Bela got. Propping her chin on her hand, she gazed around her flat, wondering what she would do if she was preparing for her own death. Will it to her cat, perhaps. Sell it and go home. But it was an unbidden thought, somewhat of a surprise.

"I need to get rid of him," Sam was saying, or ranting really. The Winchesters, a chatty bunch. So sick of one another's company that Bela thought that either one of them would rant to anyone. "I could really work at this if he wasn't hovering. Wanna know something horrible? I wish he had gone comatose over that damned sandman. I could have used the four days."

The urge to rebuke Sam for his sentiment was another unbidden thought but Bela let it go. Further proof of how much Sam believed he could stop it, if he tried hard enough. And what were four days out of a lifetime, if that lifetime wasn't expiring in a month and a half? Abruptly, Bela didn't want to talk about any of it anymore.

"I'm not a therapist, Sam," she told him, leaning back in her chair. "At least not for free."

A look flittered across Sam's face too quickly for Bela to interpret, but she guessed that it might have been disgust. Or perhaps surprise. Maybe he had forgotten who he was dealing with; thought that seeing her all cozied up with Dean implied some sort of… what? Some sort of immunity? Bela wrinkled her nose primly. She had not come as far as she had by giving out immunity.

He wanted to say something else--Would you rather I go to Ruby?--but he shook his head and scowled at her again. "What can you do for me, Bela?"

Bela shrugged; examined a fingernail. "From where I'm standing, I've done a fair bit for you and your brother without charge."

"From where I'm standing, looks like you're benefiting too. I've never seen anyone here, Bela," Sam told her, harshly. "Your phone never rings. Seems to me that Dean and I are all you've got for companionship." A shrug, while Bela fought not to wince. "And I know your past isn't much to brag about. Been lonely, hasn't it, Bela? Either way, you can help me with that."

He gestured rather abruptly at the board on her wall, with which she contacted spirits.

Bela raised an eyebrow in chagrined surprise. "I did already try that, you know." And she was strangely offended by the implication that she hadn't, almost more so than by his words.

Sam nodded, and then shrugged himself, seeming to ease up a bit. "I know. But maybe together…?"

And what did Bela have to lose? Sighing, she stood up and unhooked the board from the wall. Walked to the table, and laid it flat. Sam joined her after a moment, looking rather put out, and waited for Bela to set it up. She suspected this wasn't his usual forte.

Well, it was Bela's. Placing the planchette flat on the board, she lined up her fingers and gestured for Sam to come closer. She thought perhaps it was in her head, but she felt the familiar churning of energy run up her arms, and closed her eyes against it. Contacting spirits was not something she liked, but she steeled herself mentally to block out any unnecessary intrusions and waited. Sam was hesitating beside her.

"Dean would just die," he grumbled.

Through her teeth, she hissed, "Dean is going to die regardless."

"Not on my watch." And the determination.

She heard the shuffling of clothing as Sam moved closer. He released a harsh exhalation near her head, and then his fingers were on the planchette too. At first, nothing felt different to Bela—-as it never had, when she'd used the board with anyone else. The thrumming of energy continued to run up and down her arms, tingling her fingers--It's getting ready to talk to you, was what her grandmother had said—but there wasn't anything at all remarkable about using the board with Sam.

And then, just like that, there was. The pleasant spirit readying tingles magnified until they felt more like electrical shocks, and the thrumming of energy changed to an all out clamor. Voices too, cacophony in her head and all around her, before they'd even asked the damn thing anything. Screaming for Sam, screaming for Dean; Bela wanted to pull her hands away.

She had heard about Sam; of course she had. Chosen one, and so forth, but she had never really thought about it. The idea of Sam as the anti-Christ seemed utterly ridiculous, and did still. Undeniably though, there was something—some sort of power. She clenched her eyes shut tighter, trying to ignore the energy—an impossible task, really.

"Ask it something," she growled, annoyed and a bit shocked by the whole thing.

Sam cleared his throat. "Is there anyone there who has any relevant information to help my brother Dean?"

Bela felt a jolt, and had to fight the urge to open her eyes. It was taking all of her concentration to block her mind to probing spiritual fingers, to keep herself separate. She didn't have to watch to see the planchette move, and the voices screaming through Sam's energy and hers all started to chant the same thing in eerie tandem—Dean, Dean, Dean…

Sometimes at night Bela thought about Dean. Curled underneath the warmth of her covers with her cat purring lazily at her feet mostly. She knew there were countless reasons not to think of him: he was a hunter, he had some sort of co-dependent relationship happening with his brother, he was rather crass, he was dying. But there were countless reasons to think about him too.

Bela Talbot had been an imaginative child. Sam had hit the nail right on the head, as it were: she had always been lonely. The idea of making friends with her peers had always struck her as completely ridiculous. They didn't know a thing about anything she had ever gone through—daughter of a hunter, orphan of a hunter. Her imagination had amused her grandmother when she was little and had first gone to live with her; over time, Bela had learned to ignore flights of fancy in favour of being overly analytical, and extremely coldly practical.

At night though. Alone. She was well aware she didn't really know Dean Winchester—she had met him what? Ten times?—but he was damned better to fantasize about than the college student who had delivered her pizza a few weeks ago. And they were stupid fantasies too, the kind that made her cringe in the dark with guilt, like she was scrawling Bela Winchester on a napkin or something (Isabela Winchester? Isabela Talbot-Winchester, and—wait! No!).

Better fantasies, of him riding up in his Impala, with promises of broken deals whispered on his lips. Stolen kisses, if that was what she was in the mood for. Companionship really, because Bela had never once met anyone more isolated than Dean Winchester. Dean and, admittedly, herself.

She didn't think much beyond that. If—and it was a big if--anything was possible, there was much about Dean that Bela was not sure she could handle. Waiting for him to overcome his disgust of her occupation was a pretty big one; then, she had her reasons for being disgusted by his as well. They were not exactly well suited, and she knew it, but then there was nothing wrong with a passing thought here and there.

Nothing wrong with thinking secrets in the dark.

When it came to cheer up music, Bela was pretty sure Cher topped the list. The general doom and gloom nature of her thoughts lately was getting to be a bit much—giving Bela grey hairs, even!—but she knew she could always count on really loud music to make her smile.

The song of the day was If I Could Turn Back Time, a remix she'd picked up somewhere or another over the years. Bela had the curtains drawn, and was more or less really giving the song her best as she waltzed through her flat, clad in a towel and her fluffiest, most comfortable slippers. Her cat had abandoned her long ago, tail puffed out over the sheer volume of her music. She was completely alone and completely satisfied, mouth watering at the thought of the wine she had chilling for herself in the kitchen. Quick run to the laundry room for her housecoat (beautiful, she knew!), blow dry of her hair, and Bela Talbot was relaxing… baby. No buyers, no sellers, no demons, no boys bound for Hell, no nothing, except:

"Too strong to tell you I was sorry!" she sang, flinging her arms open wide and dancing down the hall. "Too strong to tell you I was wrong! I knew that I was blind and--"

And there was someone in her kitchen.

Skidding to a halt was hard in her slippers, but she managed it. She froze for a half of a second, watching the shadow jump along her wall as the person in her kitchen did whatever it was doing, and then she began to back up as soundlessly as possible. Bela Talbot was nothing if not armed, and she had a gun taped in the linen closet, five steps back at most.

Making her voice loud, clear, and utterly unaffected, Bela continued with, "If I could turn back time…" Inside the closet door and—aha! There on the wall. Her fingers closed around cold steel, and she was back down the hall, edging towards her kitchen. "I'd take back those words that would hurt you, and you'd stay!"

Almost there now. She cocked the gun, singing loudly to cover the click, and rushed around the corner, weapon raised. "What do you think you're doing—oh, you."

Dean Winchester sat at her island, casually picking through the bowl of candy she had placed there. He dropped the one he'd been about to eat, laughed when he saw her, and mock held up his hands.

"Charming rendition," he told her, grinning. And, under his breath, "Of absolute crap."

Bela glowered at him over her gun, even as her heart thudded oddly in her chest. The last time hadn't been the last time then. Making sure to hold her glare, she put her gun down and made a move to run a hand through her hair. Her wet hair. Eyes popping wide, she glanced down to belatedly remember her towel clad self.

By then, Dean had noticed too. Popping a caramel in his mouth, he looked her over from head to toe, appraising and intent. Colour flushed her cheeks, and Bela would have been brassed off—really fucking brassed off, honestly—at being thusly objectified, if there wasn't something different in the way Dean was looking at her. Something new. She held her ground then, toes curling in her slippers out of instinctive embarrassment, and thought that perhaps he looked a little too appreciative. A little too aware, truthfully; when he looked up, the familiar smirk was back in place.

Around his caramel, he said, "That's charming too. The outfit, or lack of one. Should stop by more unannounced, I'm starting to see."

Thank God she'd shaved her legs. "Should stop by announced for once, more like it," she snapped, turning on her heel to continue to her laundry room. "What's the reason this time? What else could you possibly need?!"

"Need? Baby, we're talking want." And he chuckled like he was the funniest thing ever born.

She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away.

Changing into her housecoat only made her feel frumpy, but she returned to the kitchen with her head held high. Her cat had reappeared, and was currently enjoying some Dean loving of his own. She watched him getting his ears stroked, quiet and contemplative.

Some minute noise must have given her away because Dean glanced up, ready as it were to explain exactly what he was doing there.

"Fucker took off," he told her with a shrug. "Fed me a bunch of crap about goodbyes I should be saying in private—about him getting in my way, if you can friggin' believe it. Told him he was full of shit, and he did that quiet broody thing he's so damned good at. Thought it was the end of it, but he's made himself scarce this morning. Even wrote me a very sweet little note."

Anger, Bela heard, and resignation too. It struck her as odd that Dean was not out looking for Sam, but then perhaps…

No, Dean couldn't have known, sitting in front of her without trying to stop it. Sam should have been careful enough—wouldn't want Dean getting in his way, not the other way around. Time was running out and well… Dean looked hurt, didn't he. Time was running out and baby brother was heading for the hills.

"Tried tracking him," Dean was saying, speech garbled around his candy.

Not very hard, thought Bela, puzzled.

"I can't imagine why someone would want to get away from you," she said, but lightly so that he'd get that she was teasing.

Dean made a face at her. "He's been going on for a while now about private crap he wants me to deal with. I guess I wasn't getting the hint. Told me it was what he wanted more than anything…"

His frequent delays were getting on Bela's nerves. "What? He wanted what?"

"Me to settle things right. On my own." Like the words tasted strange in his mouth: on my own. Like there was no Dean without Sam. He looked uncomfortable in her kitchen, edgy. "Don't know how I'm going to bear it, personally. My fan club is going to be beside themselves."

Bela snorted, and watched Dean help himself to another candy, a jam filled one this time. It was a good idea, this ploy of Sam's. Bought him some time like he needed, gave Dean a chance to settle old scores without his influence just… in case. Manipulative wording, that was for sure--My last wish, Dean, good Lord—but then Sam knew what would work and what wouldn't. Not much that could make Dean leave his side and stay gone.

Although Bela still thought Dean was taking it too easily. Instinctively, she felt suspicious, and she had been too much on her own not to rely on basic feelings. Crossing her arms, she regarded Dean warily.

"What does this have to do with me?"

Dean wasn't meeting her gaze anymore, staring steadfastly instead into the yellow eyes of her cat. He swallowed visibly—how he wasn't choking on the wad of candy in his cheek was beyond her—and ran his tongue along his teeth. Twisted his ring, before clearing his throat loudly.

"Do you always have to make things about you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Looked like he was reconsidering a thing or two, although she couldn't guess what.

Something wasn't right, she thought. There was a desperation about Dean that she hadn't noticed before, like he'd gotten up that morning and seen the ONE MONTH AND TWO WEEKS bulletin flashing outside of whatever cheap motel he was currently gracing with his presence. An odd energy to him, vibrating under the surface.

He quirked his mouth up. "You look like you want to say Cristo."

But it wasn't that. It was a very human panic that she was sensing, something very Dean normally kept hidden. Biting her lip, she swept his candy wrappers into her hand and made a fist around them. The foil crinkled; her cat's ear twitched.

If there was something wrong, Bela had time. A bit of time only, a tiny little sliver of it, but time all the same.

"If you're going to continue to randomly let yourself into my place, do try not be such a pig," she said, but then Dean was talking too.

He met her gaze abruptly and, through a too fast candy-ridden garble, "Wanna go to Kansas?"

And Bela knew one thing: on my own counted for shit, ten and a half months in.