The hinges creak as the door swings open. I stand there like a deer in headlights (sans headlights) and I'm pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, when Dean steps through the doorway. I'm to the right of the door, on the sidewalk that runs alongside the motel and edging the parking lot, but he immediately seems to know I'm there. His gaze snaps up to my face and who can do that at 3 a.m. in a dark parking lot?

"Uh. Hey," he says, cautiously. "Kelsey, right?" He tilts his head. "Do I want to know why you are standing outside our motel room at -" and glancing at his watch, he continues, "just after three in the morning?"

I laugh a little, my mind spinning through possible excuses, before I realize that he wouldn't know I've been there as long as I have, listening to their conversation like some kind of pervy stalker. "I was just walking home." He frowns and I feel compelled to add, "My car isn't working."

"Didn't the bar close at eleven?"

I roll my eyes, grimacing with a nod. "Yeah, the cops took a while and then I had to clean up." He cringes visibly and it's gratifying to see that he feels guilty. He doesn't apologize again, though. Not much of a talker, I guess. "Sorry to have surprised you," I say, with a vague kind of shrug like, 'yes, how weird that I happened to be walking by, just as you happened to be leaving a really strange and disturbing conversation and I didn't hear a thing, really, I swear.'

One more laugh, nervous, and I desperately need to get out of here before this gets any worse. "Funny coincidence, huh?" I say (oh my god, Kelsey, shut up). "Um. I'd better get going, I have yoga class in the morning." Mortified to the point where it's actually painful, I turn with a sigh. Just another few blocks and I'll be home.

"Wait." I take a few more steps and he says, "Kelsey, wait."

I stop, turning back, with no clue why he'd want to continue the conversation. Hoping I hadn't pissed him off.

"It's really late. I'll give you a ride."

"… What?"

He takes a breath, patient, and says, "A ride. I'll take you home."

"Oh," my face heats and I try to get away gracefully. I take a couple of steps back, gesturing, and begin to walk. "Um, that's nice of you, but my place isn't far." If what I'd seen and heard earlier was any indication of this guy, I shouldn't be getting into a car with him.

But he's shaking his head. "No." There's finality in the word and then he's turning back to the room. I consider just taking off, but he keeps one eye on me as he opens the door a crack and says, "Sammy, it'll be a little longer. I'm going to give Kelsey a ride."

There's no response and apparently in answer to something he sees, Dean whispers - sotto-voce and low enough that I almost miss it - "A ride home, Sam." He rolls his eyes, but they're crinkling at the corners and one side of his mouth turns up. "Be back soon." And just like earlier, when that frightening edge had dissolved from his gaze, I start to think it'll be okay.

He looks over at me. "Kelsey? You ready to go?" I get by the look on his face that he's picked up on how skittish I feel. But he doesn't seem threatening (now) and though a voice in the back of my head is saying that kind of thinking could get me in trouble, in the end I decide to hell with it. It's his fault I'm out this late anyway. The least he can do is get me home.

"Which car?"

He smirks and fans a hand across the lot. "Which one do you think?"

I scan over four sedans and a Geo, and finally point out the muscle car. "That one?"

"Damn straight, it's that one."

We're talking about a car. But the way his voice lowers, just a little, and the playful grin he's giving me, well, it's obvious ... he's the kind of guy my momma warned me about. But it's also 3 a.m. and between the stress of the fight, the cops and the unintentional eavesdropping, I'm just too tired now to care. "Of course it is." He hears the laugh in the last word and gives me a knowing smile. Thankfully, he dials down the charm a bit. Opening the passenger door with a flourish, he lets me find my seat. The large bench seat in the front makes it easy for me to find a place for my bag and cellphone, while he goes around to the driver's side.

The car rumbles to life, loud in the early morning quiet. He doesn't seem to care. He pops an old tape in the cassette deck and I'm a little stunned that it actually works. Some classic rock band starts up, in the middle of a song. I don't recognize it. "Okay." He pulls out onto the deserted street. The town's small – considering where the bar is and that I had to walk past the motel, it's pretty obvious which way he needs to go. "How far?"

"Not very. It's just past Maple."

He frowns. His eyes flick up and to the right, like he's remembering the layout of the town. I wonder how long they've been here. "That's pretty far, actually. At least on foot." He shakes his head. "It's dangerous, walking alone at this hour."

I bristle a bit, who's he to say? So much for not being a talker. But I guess, if I was totally okay with walking alone in the dark at 3 a.m. (didn't I hear somewhere that they call that the witching hour?), the forest wouldn't creep me out. "Can't be helped, sometimes."

"Don't you have family, or a friend you can call for a lift?"

That was laughable. "… No."

A crease appears between those remarkable eyes and he makes a sound of acknowledgement. We drive a bit more in silence, before he says, "Are you alone, then? Not married, no boyfriend?"

Missing girls and death, Kelsey.

I look over at him, but I don't feel spooked, or scared. Like maybe I should be, in a strange car with a strange man. Still, I don't answer his question. "What about you? And your friend … Sam. Just passing through?"

A small smile, like he knows what I'm about. But my careful lack of trust doesn't seem to bother him. "Yeah."

"You seem to know your way around pretty well, for just passing through," I comment.

"Oh, we've passed through before, a long time ago." He flashes a quick grin at me, and it's flirty and more than a little distracting. His eyes are restless, though, flicking back to the road. His mouth tightens and he's avoiding looking at me, strong hands tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

It's none of my business. The less I know about this guy and his friend, the better. "So, what brings you to town this time?" I'm starting to sound like the Spanish Inquisition, and Monty Python pops into my head as I hurry to say, "Just curious. Vacation?"

"Like I said," he hedges. "Just passing through." The tape ends and I smile at the little frown he gives the tape player before he pops it out.

"That was quick."

"Yeah, well, it was almost done when I put it in there," he mutters, distracted. We're at a stop light and the road is empty of cars. He turns, reaching over the seat to rummage in a box of tapes he has behind the bench. It lifts the back of his jacket and layered shirt as he leans over the leather back, and that's when I see the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

My heart just about stops.

I must make some noise, because he pauses and pulls back, one eyebrow raised in question. But he gets a good look at my face and he must see something of what I'm feeling there.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say, too quickly. He doesn't buy it and it might be because without realizing it, I'd backed up all the way against the door … and at that very moment, was wondering how far I could get if I jumped out of the car and ran. But he's turned back to the steering wheel and started the car moving again, so that's out, really.

When I don't relax, he's worried enough that he slows down. "Kelsey?"

And damn it, I've never been good at lying, even through omission. "Why do you have a gun?"

He looks surprised and he shifts, sighing. It seems unconscious, a way for him to check that the gun is still there, pressed against his lower back. Through it all, I get the feeling he's searching for something he can say that I'll believe. That freaks me out even more and I flash back to the glimpse I had of the look on his face, pulling Eddy off his friend to smash him against the wall. When we pull up to another stop light, I'm opening the door. "You know what," and omg my voice sounds shaky and it's a little hard to breathe, "I can walk from here. It's really …"

"Kelsey, don't." As fast as the latch starts to click open on the heavy door, he puts the car in neutral and he's moving over, leaning over me. Pulling the door shut sharply. And did I say omg before? Because omg, he's leaning across me – I feel his body heat, seeping through his shirt. I smell cologne and after-shave, and I gasp - his hair brushes against the front of my blouse, as he sits back. But I'm on automatic pilot now, reaching for the handle again. "Kelsey." He sounds frustrated, maybe a little freaked, himself. He reaches out, gripping my arm and my pulse goes through the roof. I open my mouth to scream, but he quickly lets go, hands up and pulling back and then I'm out of the car. He is, too. His hands are still up, placating. I can't believe I'm in this situation, but ta-da, I got in the car with him and now I know he has a gun … while I'm gun-less and car-less. It'd be stupid to run. We're not really near much of anything right now – a bare patch of asphalt in between the industrial warehouses that are more frequent in this area. If he wants to kill me, he could. He looks around and I think wildly that he's trying to find a good place to hide a body. But he's looking at the forest lining one side of the road, where leaves rustle in steady beats, weirdly, like someone's walking there, in the pitch black shadows of the trees. His eyes narrow and his gaze jumps back to me. "Hey," he says lowly, dipping his head lower and keeping eye contact with me. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"How do I know that?" I'm backing up, my heart rabbiting in my chest.

He shakes his head. "You don't, but" and he sounds worried. "I know you don't know me –"

"No, I don't. You were talking about missing girls earlier. And death. You have a gun … I-I can't -"

His eyes have widened and now he doesn't just sound it, he looks worried, too. "How much did you overhear?" I can see the gears turning. He's running over the conversation again. He must realize I'd been listening for a while. "It's not what you think."

I don't think I believe him.

He takes a step closer and I have to really wonder if he really meant to take me home at all. Why would he bring a gun on a trip to the grocery store?

He starts to say something else.

I turn my back on him and run.

The road is dark in front of me and the air between the warehouses seem to echo, it's so empty. All I hear is my own frantic breathing, his curse, "God damnit," and the scattered sound of gravel as he takes off after me.