a/n: thank you to everyone who is following this story and has reviewed! sorry the update took a while, it fought with me a bit, but I hope you enjoy the result.

"Hey."

"Kelsey, hey … wake up."

I hear the words from a distance, through a heavy fog of godmyheadhurts. Images flash by, snarling monsters, teeth. And my scrambled brain is not helping me sort anything out - a piercing throb emanating from the back, just behind my right ear. Pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

"Come on, Kelsey. Come back to me - rise and shine."

The voice is quiet, like whoever's speaking is trying not to attract attention. I recognize it – him. But my mind flutters around the 'who' part of the equation for a while, because my skull hurts so badly that I am actually afraid to open my eyes. I do, though, to a green, green gaze. It's half-worried and half-tense, and it all comes rushing back.

Dean. I meet his eyes and some of the worry in his expression fades. I can't help glancing over him. He seems okay, if you can call it that. After what just happened, I think I can call it okay, mostly. The plaid over shirt he's wearing is torn at one shoulder. He'd been bleeding, the rips in his t-shirt still damp from it, wet-looking along the ragged cloth. Clawed, that thing clawed him. "Dean, where are –" we, my mind supplies, but then I'm asking a different question, "Those things, why –" and I can't finish that thought either. Some small part of my mind recognizes that my voice is rising. I close my mouth before I get the kind of attention he's obviously trying to avoid.

It was enough to get the message across, though. He understands panic-speak. He says, "Don't freak out. We're okay," and finishes in a not-quite-mutter, "At least, for now." I don't pay attention to that though, 'cause I'm still just breathlessly thankful that he's here. A few feet away, facing me and alive. That relief dims pretty quickly, because I'm tied up, tight. Hands behind my back, cinched painfully together by rough, heavy rope. Tied to something that won't let me budge, even a little. My legs are bound, too, but at least I can see how, so okay (except that it is so not, but weirdly, seeing how makes it marginally less horrible).

The room around us is large and squarish, and if I had to guess, maybe twenty by twenty, with clutter along the walls to either side of us. A mud-brown hallway-type wooden table is against the left wall, maybe three feet across and a foot deep, with a lantern and a pile of stuff. My cell phone and purse. Another cell that must be Dean's. His watch, the gun and a wallet. To my right, a door (the only entrance), next to a ragged, torn up couch and piles of … garbage. Bags, old clothes, rags and other things that blur to indistinct in the darkest corners of the room. So yeah. The room is deep with shadows, but I can see Dean well enough. A mixed blessing, because I can also see how much trouble we're in.

I keep my lips clamped over hysterical laughter. My chest is tight and each breath comes a little faster than the last. This happens in the movies, not real life.

I yank at the rope again. Some tendon or muscle in my shoulder burn, bright and hot enough that I know not to do it again. The ropes aren't moving at all. It's clear that I can't get free and I tell myself to quit, before I cause some real damage. But the horror of what is happening turns into a vice on my chest, that some bastard is gleefully tightening. I yank, twisting, pulling at the ropes again.

Dean watches me, disapproval clear in the flat line of his mouth. I'm not exactly ignoring him, it's more that I don't think about it, until it finally seeps through - the rough scrape of the ropes chafing, harsh against my wrists. I wince, he's sees it and then he's had enough, saying sharply, "Stop that, you're gonna hurt yourself." Dean is tied up just like I am. Roped up with his back pressed against a post that runs from floor to ceiling. There must be a matching post behind me and it's why I can barely move.

"I don't understand," I say, but at least it's not sheer panic in my voice anymore. Just regular, taken-by-'not'-werewolves panic. Dean looks up again and I close my eyes, hard. Shake my head (which is a mistake), and when the pain calms down, I look at him - hoping that maybe he'll shed some light on this. But he doesn't say anything, he's looking me over with a frown.

"Your head?"

"Yeah."

"Can you tell if you're bleeding? I can't see from here."

I blink, easing my head one way, than the other, slowly. "It, uh, it's okay, as long as I don't make any sudden movements."

"Alright," his mouth twists, not quite a smile, something like guilt hiding in his eyes. "Don't make sudden movements, then. And no sleeping, okay?" I smile at him and it's got to be a little frayed, but he's kidding, right? He's talking like we'll be here a while, but we can't be stuck here. I don't think I can handle sitting here, tied up, for who knows how long. I look at Dean, who's been in two fights already tonight. He has to be faring worse than me. He's got a split lip that I don't remember seeing him get. The shadow of a bruise is darkening along his jaw on the right side, where the lamp is shining on it. I'm not sure if it's from just now, or from earlier, at the bar.

I take a deep breath, hoping for more answers. When the silence stretches out, I say again, "I don't understand any of this."

He nods, not seeming inclined to say anything more. Instead, he says, distractedly, "I know."

He's shifting (or trying to). He's got his legs bent at the knee, heels down and he's pushing back into the post he's tied up against. My wrists are throbbing enough now that I have no interest in pulling at the rope again. It's pretty obvious what he's trying to do. Stop it, he says, you're gonna hurt yourself, he says.

He's one to talk.

I wait for a few minutes, flexing my fingers - it would be nice if the pins-and-needles feeling would stop. And, "That wasn't real. Costumes. They were wearing costumes. Cosplayers, or whatever."

He spares a glance up to say, "You were there, too, right?" The charm from the bar is gone and okay, I'd be irritable, too, after the night he's had. Still. It's starting to dawn on me that between the two, Sam's probably the one that normally does the talking.

We're silent again. The only sound is our breathing and the creak and scrape of him moving. His eyes have dropped closed, his eyebrows are creased in concentration. Lamplight is dusting across the freckles on his cheeks, and I frown. Was he that pale before? Maybe it was the blood loss. I have no idea, I've never been in this situation before. What if it is? My heart stutters at the thought, but he seems pretty much unhurt except for being roughed up. And how messed up is it that, in the couple of hours since seeing him for the first time, I see being 'roughed up' as 'pretty much unhurt'.

So what was it, then? Not the whole monster thing (and how could it not be). I'm pretty sure he'd been more upset about the $200 he'd given me for the broken furniture and pool cue, than seeing those things in the forest. Now, though, his jaw is clenched and tension is singing in the air between us - his breathing is kicking up, faster than it had at any point up to this moment. This-this whatever it is, is something else, and it shatters the little calm I have left. I must make some kind of sound, because he responds to it almost as if he doesn't have a choice. His eyes snap open, eyebrows drawn tight and instantly checking on me. Like taking care of others is so ingrained he can't help it.

And that's when I see it.

It's only a flash, fading already in that moment of unguarded attention, in the shadowed green of his eyes. A deep, hollow ache, still raw, still sore. It tugs something tight in me, an automatic response to the echo of a pain I've never known. And it's so terrible, it's like. Like it left a permanent mark on him.

It hurts, enough that my breath catches, stolen away before I can take in another. I don't know how to deal with it. But like someone who's used to hiding, he catches that hitch in my breath and knows. He frowns with the realization, clearing his throat and looking down.

My voice is breathless even in my own ears. "What is it…?" I didn't really mean to ask. And I feel guilty for the question, because under the twist of my stomach, I know I'd seen something he hadn't meant to show.

He looks away, teeth gnawing at his lower lip, taking a slow deep breath. When he looks back at me again, his gaze is shuttered and all I see is what everyone else must see, too. "Kelsey. It's gonna be okay."

It takes a moment before I can respond. I'm not even sure what I'm responding to. "No, it isn't. You're freaking out too."

His mouth twists, wry, and it's as fake as the smile he gives me. But when I hold his gaze and wait, he looks away again. Maybe I shouldn't push, maybe I wouldn't normally. It's his business and I don't know if I want in on the kind of hurt I think I saw.

But this? This is so far out of normal, I think I get a pass. He must think so, too, because after a moment, he huffs a bitter laugh. "Yeah, maybe I am freaking out," he says, voice raspy and low. It sounds like it's actually painful to say. His chin's tipped down and his eyes are in shadow. He continues, "But it's not this, Kelsey. It's me." A deep breath. "This is just. Me. My own hang up. A recent one." I don't say anything to that, because, what the hell does that mean? The whole being-attacked-by-fictional-creatures doesn't seem to bother him. His breathing is slowing, but now that I know it's there, I can see it, still (no matter how much I might not want to), fear and anger and other emotions all tangled up with something wrenchingly aching, simmering under the surface. My eyes search his face, stark and pale under the clear color of his eyes. The glimpse is enough to disarm me, and I look away. I want to ask, what happened to you? Dean, was it as bad as I'm guessing? Was it worse?

But, he's a stranger to me - I have my own hurts. I know better than to stab at someone else's. So, I take a few seconds to just breathe. Then, "They're going to kill us, aren't they."

"No. They aren't," and "We're getting out of here." He sounds so certain, I almost believe him.

Blinking quickly, I nod. It may be a little shaky, but I don't think anyone can fault me for that. Anyway, they're nice words, but I don't see how we're going to find our way free of this. It sure seems like he's as stuck as I am. "This isn't real. This is a nightmare, and I'm going to wake up in my apartment."

Some of his earlier charm appears and one side of his mouth quirks. He winks, "Honey," he says, "If this were a nightmare, you'd have different company," he pauses, and drawls, "I'm less stuff-of-nightmares and more sweet-dreams-are-made-of-this."

It's a distraction-tactic, but I laugh anyway, because it's just so over-the-top (and ok, true). He's trying, so I do, too, pushing back my terror enough to roll my eyes at him. He flashes a quick grin at that, but it's a momentary thing. Before I even blink, it's gone and he's gotten back to whatever he's doing with his hands. With his attention focused elsewhere, soon enough my stomach is back to roiling and turning over.

My brain is pretty gone at this point. It's been a long day – with the added bonus of a world reorienting monster encounter and getting slammed in the head. I'm not sure how much time passes, but I listen to the occasional muttered curse from the man in front of me, dividing my attention and trying to listen for anything going on outside the room. From the pile of stuff on the table, I hear a cell phone ring. Dean's eyes flick in that direction, before he goes back to cursing and contemplating the floor. It takes a bit, but I realize there's a name peppered in among the half-swallowed words. Sam. I wonder where his friend is now. Is he starting to worry that Dean hasn't gotten back with the beer?

How long are we going to be stuck here?

How long before they come in and eat us?

That's what monsters do, right?

Thankfully, I don't have long to play with those questions, before Dean huffs a breath, relieved, and his hands come around the front, trailing remnants of rope. I'm too surprised to say anything. He starts working on the ties on his ankles, when there's the sound of chaos breaking loose in the next room. A crash, yelling. The sounds of a body (maybe more) falling.

Dean smiles, then. A quick grin, full of teeth. He says, "That's our cue." Then he's up and over to me, kneeling to get my ropes undone. He gets one hand loose and his fingers are tugging at the rope around my other wrist. I hear more shouts, getting closer and something big slams against the door. The old wood lets loose a painful screech, before whatever it is slams into it again, frighteningly loud. A startled shout is ripped out of me when it breaks inward, chunks of debris and people crashing through it. Another shout, cut short and Dean is more than leaning towards me – he throws an arm up over my face, tucking my head into his shoulder. He gets hit by one of those flying somethings, because I feel it shudder through his body, hear the sound of it in his voice, when he makes an unconscious noise. I have to wonder if throwing himself over me is instinct or if he does this kind of thing all the time, because he didn't hesitate. That thought comes a minute later, though, because at the moment all I register is the smell of blood from the claw marks on his chest, forest leaves and sweat, and the rush of other scents I'd caught in the car. The sound of his breath and God, the heat of him. Then he's up, pulling back, asking, "Are you okay?"

I barely get my head to nod and I'm trying not to shake. He pivots, briefly taking in the two men still struggling, where they'd landed after falling through the door. I almost giggle hysterically, thinking 'literally, falling through the door.' A quick stride to the wall, and Dean knocks a chair over, plants his foot on one of the legs and pulls. The muscles under his shirt bunch. Screws give with a screech. Pulling the leg free, he spins, flipping the wooden leg as he does, so he's got a solid grip on it. He takes aim over the two struggling forms and whips it one-armed into the back of the head of the one on top – the wolfy-man-thing - with bruising force. It's the bad-guy, obviously, but I still cringe at the solid thunk of it, before the creature goes limp and heavy over the person underneath it.

"Ugh," comments the newest member in the room, in a voice I recognize. The unmoving wolf is shoved to one side and Dean smiles and reaches down to offer a hand to the man on the ground. Sam takes it, he's fine, obviously, and though I don't know how he found us, relief rushes through me like a splash of cold water. Before I have a chance to say anything about it, there's a sense of movement that draws my eye to the unconscious wolf. I feel myself frown. A few scant heartbeats go by and the form shimmers and changes, leaving a scruffy looking young-man with brown hair and a stubble-covered chin in its place. My heart skips, my gaze darting to the other two men, both of whom are watching the change with narrowed eyes. Dean doesn't comment and neither does Sam, but he nods like it confirms something for him.

Another beat of silence and then Dean says, "Took you long enough."

"You're welcome."

"What'dya mean, you're welcome? I was already free. I'd a died of old age, waitin' on your slow-ass."

Sam shakes his head. "And how were you planning to get past the ones out front and patrolling outside? I don't see any weapons in here."

"My gun's right on that table."

Sam's expression turns wry, one side of his mouth turning up. "Like that would've helped with these guys."

Undeterred by whatever the hell that meant (because what, is the gun not loaded or something?), Dean shrugs. "Meh. I'd have figured something out."

"Sure you would have." And Sam rolls his eyes, but the quirk of his lips says he's used to similar responses. "Hey, Kelsey," and his voice is softer now. He walks over to me, taking the initiative when he sees Dean mid-grimace, reaching awkwardly overhand to feel behind his shoulder (where the door-bits must have hit). It really registers how tall he is, when his shadow falls over me and I'm craning my neck to see his face. When he pulls out a wicked looking knife with an etched blade, my heart gives a little lurch, but he's not threatening. He crouches down to finish what Dean started, huge hands sure and careful, cutting me free. "How about we get you home?" He looks sideways at Dean, mock whispering, "You'd think he could've done something so simple."

I laugh, a little helplessly. Dean scowls. "Hey!" But after a quick glance at Sam, he's already moving to collect his things from the pile on the table with his cell phone. He picks up my bag and cell, hands it over to me and returns to the table. Conversationally, he says, "How'd you find us? Cellphone?"

"Cellphone."

Dean nods. "Yeah." He pulls the gun out of what's left on the table, checking it quickly. He waves it in Sam's general direction. "See. Weapon."

"Uh-huh."

Dean looks at me and winks. I can't help the smile I give him in response. Then he looks over at the Sam, eyes sharp and message so clear I almost hear it. "Time to go." Sam nods, and as simply as that, their joking air is gone. They step up to the door, silent and watchful, one taking either side. Dean holds a hand up to me, signaling me to get behind him. I scramble to comply, my heart kicking up, but not nearly as gut-clenchingly frightened as before.

The two men move into the outer room and it's like a dance they've done a million times. Sam's got that frightening looking blade and Dean holds the gun, and it's so natural it's like they grew up like this – with weapons in their hands. They check every inch of space and somehow, I know they're aware of every creak and whisper of sound, as they ease from one room to the next. Every little bit, they catch each other's gaze. Dean nods, Sam jerks his chin, and they move on.

Who are these guys?

The house is small. It doesn't take long to make it through the few rooms to the front door. We pass a few … make it five … unconscious man-wolves. At one point the two men pause, rifling through the contents of an odd table with symbols carved into it and a large wooden bowl in the center. They don't say anything, just pass a significant look between them before we're moving again. More quickly than before. We're almost out of there and my heart's lifting – I've taken the first rustling step back into the forest surrounding the house when the sound of a car engine and an outraged shout from the direction of the house we'd been "guesting" in, reaches us.

"Dean," Sam says.

"Well, we knew it couldn't last," Dean responds, as my heart ratchets up to rabbit speed for the fourth(?) time tonight. "Kelsey, pick up the pace."

Sam's hand is on the small of my back, as he effortlessly finds his way in the near-pitch black, the glow from the flashlight he produces (from somewhere in that oversized brown jacket he's wearing), bobbing madly in front of us. It saves me the embarrassment of stumbling when my feet can't keep up and something to focus on instead of what might be in the dark we're leaving behind. The clamor back the way we came is gaining volume and proximity (I'd guess, since there was no way I was looking back), but it's not until Sam yells and the heat of his hand is gone, when I realize just how close they are.

.

a/n: so, if you've looked at this chapter before, I should probably mention that I've added a bit. Yeah, I mentioned it fought with me, and well, it just wasn't where I wanted it. This is finally it, I promise.