Previously: A figure liberally bundled in snowy, wet attire walked in and pulled the door shut behind her with an audible, although muffled, sigh. Stomping her boots lightly against the ground, both boys watched with amusement as a shower of snow fell to the ground. Before Sam could get in a word edgewise, a soft but firm voice said, "You're awake. Good. I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer."

"…What's going on?"

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Chapter 3: We Should Talk.

The silence continued, no one quite willing to break it, unable to respond to the mutual question that had been posed, and all the while, Dean could see the snow beginning to melt, puddling on the floor and dampening everything it came into contact with.

Finally, it seemed as though the girl could take it no longer, and she reached up to pull off the dripping hat, revealing medium length black hair what was a mixture of limp strands and bed head. Pulling off thick gloves, she absently swiped at it before unwinding the thick scarf that had muffled her voice. Carelessly dropping the items on the floor in the corner behind the door, she turned back to them and adopted an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I do have questions, but they can wait. How're you two doing?"

Dean, wariness returning as a result of the abrupt turnaround, plastered on his own smile, the charismatic one designed to sweep anything feminine off its feet. "We're fine, sweetheart."

A bemused snort was the response as a sodden coat was removed and the closet door behind her opened so she could retrieve a hanger for it. "Bumps and bruises, short breath, and incoherency to the point of unconsciousness is your definition of fine? Remind me to dial 911 when you finally decide you've 'been better.'"

Durable winter boots came off next, joining their shoes and a pair of sneakers on the mat near the door. Crouching down, she checked the line of salt carefully where the door had brushed over it and reached into the closet below the line of jackets into a bag of rock salt, spreading it liberally across the space.

Exchanging a glance with Sam, Dean watched his brother's head tilt ever so slightly the way it always did when he was working over a problem. They knew absolutely nothing about this girl—she didn't seem to be older than 25 or 26—but she was taking precautions only someone in the business or else a paranoid, delusional person would take. While she didn't seem like the latter, they're learned the hard way that appearances could be deceiving. Silently, they decided to approach the situation cautiously, not revealing too much until they had a handle on the situation.

A moment later, Sam vocalized the query he'd been forming in his head. "What're you doing?"

Cringing slightly, she rose and absently tugged at the cuff of the oversized, black sweater she was wearing. Refusing to meet their eyes, she instead focused on the sink full of soapy water and the clean state of her kitchen, gray eyes widening slightly in surprise. "I'm checking to make sure the salt line is undisturbed," she said absently before switching into a borderline amazed/accusatory tone. "You cleaned my kitchen."

"Yeah," Dean replied. "It's a nasty habit he's got, trying to do something nice to repay someone who's helped him out."

Behind flushed cheeks, the girl blushed. "It was the least I could do after you saved me from that explosion. You didn't have to do this."

"What!?" Dean said, taking a step forward which caused her to shrink a step back almost into the closet. "There was an explosion?"

"Dean," Sam said slowly, putting a hand on his arm to pull him back slightly. Jerking his head at the girl, his eyes practically screamed, 'Look at her, you idiot,' and for once doing as he'd been told by his little brother, Dean turned and really looked at her.

Bags under her eyes from a lack of sleep, a cut on her cheek and another just visible above a turtleneck on her jaw line. Exhaustion radiated from her in waves, and the way she was furtively glancing at them, hand moving slowly behind her as if in search of something to a.) protect herself with or b.) provide an avenue of escape, Dean came to the conclusion that she was either an exceptional actress or someone who'd been to hell and back. More specifically, she looked like someone who had had the supernatural world revealed to them and was struggling to deal with the revelation.

"I think," Sam said slowly, drawing Dean further into the dining room to give her space, "that we should all probably sit down and talk." Grabbing his coffee from the now sparkling counter, he all but dragged Dean over to the table and pushed him into the far chair, taking his own and pulling it around so that he was next to Dean.

Having thus put the table between them and her, both giving her space and putting her out of immediate range in case she dropped the act—if it was an act—Dean watched as she moved forward into the kitchen, eyes fixed on them though still not meeting their eyes. She was still worrying at the cuff of her sleeve, but she obviously seemed to reach a decision as she relaxed minutely and reached into a cupboard to get a bowl. "I'm just going to…a…make myself some breakfast, if that's alright."

"It's your apartment," Sam reminded her gently. "We're just guests. You can do what you want."

The combination of what appeared to be a familiar routine and Sam's words seemed to work as she relaxed into her space even more, fingers reaching blindly into a draw and pulling out a measuring cup as she pulled down a carton of oatmeal with the other. "Sorry," she said softly as sugar and raisins were also unearthed, "it's just been a long day already, and it's only morning.

"Tell me about it," Dean said, keeping his voice level in an effort to avoid spooking her again. "The last thing I remember, I was enjoying my stack of Bunyan flapjacks and then I woke up in a strange bed I didn't remember being invited into." Which had happened before, he acknowledged to himself, but it usually didn't happen after hooking up in a diner while he was sober.

She gave them a sidelong glance, briefly meeting his eyes before turning to focus on the faucet as she added water to her bowl. "You don't remember anything? Either of you?"

"Ah, no, we don't," Sam told her, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. "We were hoping you could tell us."

"And my day just got worse," she muttered to herself as she all but slammed the microwave door shut, jabbing her finger at a button before heading to the coffee maker and pouring herself a glass. "You'll probably think I'm nuts, or crazy," she said so they could hear, finally turning to face them, although she still left the length of the kitchen between her and the table.

"I can promise you that we won't," Dean assured her, "no matter how crazy it sounds. We've seen a lot of weird stuff in our time." Leaning back slightly, he managed to smirk and look serious at the same time. "Although nothing quite as out there as you looking nervous in your own kitchen. I'm sorry if I scared you, okay?"

At that, she looked almost defiant, a hint of the earlier attitude they'd seen poking through. "Well, I'm not used to anything abnormal happening, which includes me bringing home strange men and letting them spend the night."

"So why did you?" Sam asked. "What happened…yesterday?"

"Yesterday morning," she said as she nodded in confirmation. "Today's Friday." Letting out another sigh, she sipped her coffee before continuing. "The two of you came into Mac's, early; we don't usually get any out-of-towners in that early unless they're diehard hikers, and you don't exactly look the type."

"Obviously," Dean said with a look. "Hiking's for wussies."

Sam frowned. "I don't remember you being there; I thought only the cook was there."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "it took forever for him to notice us."

"That's because Caroline didn't show up when she was supposed to; she has a hard time working mornings, yet she swears each time she'll make it the next day. Anyway, I haven't waited for the House for a while, but Mac asked if I'd mind doing a few tables until she arrived after he'd taken care of you two. Morning rush was going to start in twenty minutes."

Suddenly, Dean focused on her intently, studying her face before recognition light up his eyes. "Now I remember you. You were that chick in the corner with her face buried in the…" He trailed off as he realized how that sounded, watching as her face reflected her disapproval. Her stance had relaxed to the point of openness now and begun to swing toward annoyance. Definitely more at ease now, he thought, all thoughts of her being a threat almost dissipated except for the lingering doubt that was always present any time he was someplace with relative strangers and Sammy. "You were in the corner reading a book."

She nodded. "I had class at 8:00, and I like to reread some things beforehand to keep it fresh in my memory, but when Mac asks, you can't say no."

Dimly recalling the large, bulky man—even by their standards—Dean couldn't help but agree. He'd been a tank on legs, but the pancakes had been amazing. The man could cook.

The microwave beeped, and the girl came forward toward the table and popped it open to pull out the bowl only to jerk her hand back with a hiss as she burned it on the hot surface. Reaching behind her blindly into a drawer, she pulled out a hot pad and used it to remove her breakfast. Stirring it slowly with a spoon to cool it, she hesitated, appearing reluctant to sit at the table, which would put her within easy reach of Sam's long arms. Finally, though, she tightened her jaw, grabbed her coffee, and slid into a seat she pulled out with one socked foot.

Sam gave her a reassuring, encouraging smile which she returned slightly as she began eating. They let her eat for a few moments until the almost frantic-shoveling had slowed to a more reasonable pace before prompting her to go on. "What happened after that?"

She frowned and gazed of into the middle ground, eyes losing focus as she concentrated. "A group of people came in, some of them together and a few loners. The group was really loud, a bunch of students who'd been out all night and hadn't sobered up yet. They sat down near one of the regulars, Pete, and started messing around with the stuff on the table. Messing around with the sugar, pulling out all the napkins, that kind of stuff.

"Pete and Mike, another regular, got up and left before they'd finished. They can barely stand the kids on the best of days; it's why they show up so early, before most of them are awake."

Dean sighed in impatient frustration, the wait finally taking its toll on his limited supply of patience. "Look, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but none of it tells us what happened."

It seems that she'd had enough because she snapped back at him, sharply enough to cause him to sit back. "The world exploded, okay? It went to pieces and I don't understand any of it. Any of it."