Previously: "What…?" her voice trailed off as she found herself unable to think. "What are we going to do?"

Looking down at her briefly before swinging his eyes to the two men—boys, from his perspective—on the ground, Mac was silent for a moment before he tightened his hand in an affectionate, reassuring manner, the warmth of his rough palm soaking into her chilled skin through the thin fabric of her blouse. "What we have to," was the gravely reply, the confident tones acting like a kind of balm on her mind as it brought her further back to reality.

Chapter 8: Mac Hasn't Come Back.

A harsh wind struck the side of the building, howling across the surface as it was denied entrance, the sound drawing the attention of the three people sitting at the table. Snow swirled across the glass in a furious dance, specks of white against an ominous background of impenetrable gray. Over nine inches had accumulated against the glass now, the drift falling sharply away as it approached the edge of the hidden deck. Dean suppressed a shudder—one, because there was no way he was going to let a little bit of snow worry him, and two, because he knew that it would hurt like hell, the ever-present ache in his chest just waiting for a chance to explode.

Glass of milk now resting empty in front of him, his eyes drifted longingly to the mug directly across from him. Although the coffee had long since gone cold, Dean still felt sluggish, a combination of lingering exhaustion and pain, and the caffeine seemed to call out to him, promising to fix everything, at least for a while.

Apparently, though, he was either becoming too predictable or Sam knew him far too well because a long arm extended itself and moved Mel's mug and his own out of reach, the accompanying knowing look prompting Dean to roll his eyes. "Seriously, Sam," he said under his breath as Mel continued to gaze at the window, "what could it hurt?"

"I have two words for you," Mel said without looking away from the window, a hint of smugness entering her voice. "Calcium tablets."

"Oh, come on," Dean whined, eyes widening in imitation of Sam's almost-always-effective puppy dog look. "Please." The smile he threw in was pure Dean Winchester; the resulting combination, he was sure, would lead to success and caffeine.

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye as she reached back for her cup and made a slow, deliberate show of taking a sip, causing Sam to chuckle beside him. "Give it up, Dean. I don't think she's caving."

Face dropping into a scowl, Dean sank back into his chair, mind focusing back on the situation at hand and everything they'd just been told. "Fine," he all but snapped, mood darkening from the momentarily light reprieve. "What happened after that?"

Mel's face sobered as she turned back to face the table, eyes dropping to focus on the flat surface. "Not much," she said quietly. "Mac lives…lived in an apartment above the diner, and his cabin's too far out, especially since the weather started getting pretty bad after that. So, we loaded you guys into your car and drove here. The two of you were still pretty out of, but every once in a while you'd wake up enough to mumble a few words, sounded like nonsense. Sometimes it was about demons, other times it was holy water or salt lines."

For a moment, her face flushed red as she snuck a quick glance at Dean before returning her eyes to the table. "You were, uh, pretty adamant about your car—when you were coherent—so I had Mac put her in my garage while he took my SUV out for supplies." The hand holding the mug began to roll it around in a circle, following the edge of the base. "Something about her hating the cold and never forgiving you?" From the tone of her voice, Dean knew that he'd been more descriptive than she was letting on, the smirk she was valiantly fighting to suppress causing him to settle more firmly in his seat.

Sam put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry; Dean's already planned how to make it up to her."

The smirk won, causing her eyes to light up with amusement. "No need to worry, then," she said lightly. "She's tucked away, safe and sound. I even put a salt line across the inside of the garage door, just in case."

That one had Dean trying hard not to break out into laughter, something Sam had no such compunctions about hiding as he could feel Sam's subtle vibrations next to him, long years of proximity with each other telling him that his little brother wore a broad, silly grin. Dean was sorely tempted to give in, especially as Mel's eyes were twinkling with more merriment than she'd yet to display, but considering the concern she'd shown for his baby—and the vague sense he had that she might just be telling the truth—he didn't feel right making light of any of her actions. Considering what little she'd had to work with as far as supernatural knowledge was concerned, Mel had done better than alright so far.

"That's great," he said, infusing as much positive enthusiasm into the statement as possible.

She grinned wryly over at him, eyes losing focus as she drifted into memory again. "Like I said, it's the least I can do." As if on autopilot, her hand raised the nearly empty coffee mug for another sip, face barely registering the motion, and when she set it down again, it was back within range of Dean's longing fingers.

Sam tensed slightly next to him and leaned forward, eyes curious as he brought the focus back to the last 24 hours, subtly moving the mug away before Dean even had a chance to think about swiping it. "So you got us here. What next?"

"I couldn't get you to make much sense, but before you both dropped off, you were pretty adamant about salt lines to stop entry. Seeing as how it worked so well at the diner, I put it across every entrance in the apartment." She looked at her patio door, the ledge of which was all but buried underneath a mound of salt. "I might have gone overboard, but I…I didn't want to take any chances."

"You did great," Sam told her reassuringly, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he thought of something. "But that's an awful lot of salt; where'd you get it all?"

"Mac had me grab what was still intact from the diner, and the apartment complex keeps a bag in each entryway for the sidewalks. It's mostly elderly here, so there's a greater risk for slipping and injuries."

That explained the bag she'd used to fix the line near the front door when she'd first come in, but now it was Dean's turn to frown, the statement not having meshed with the profile of her he'd been compiling in his head. "You mean you stole from Mr. Rogers and his neighbors?"

She lifted her chin slightly in defiance, hand stilling on the mug. "It was the best I could do, and I've been keeping an eye on the sidewalk out front, shoveling it off every few hours. Not that anyone's actually going to go out in this weather." Another gust of wind buffeted the building, straining for entrance and emphasizing her words. "They'd have to be crazy."

"Yeah, well, I think the normal curve doesn't really apply right now," Dean said.

"Good point." Mel rose from her chair suddenly and went back into the kitchen, absently placing her now-empty mug into the cold dishwater as she opened the freezer and began peering through it, looking for something. Her movements were stiff, almost stilted, and Dean could tell that something else was going on. There was something left to be said that was coming up, something she didn't want to talk about.

"So you improvised and salted the doors and windows and set us up while Mac went for supplies," Sam said in recap, eyes watching her carefully as she pulled a package of something out and tore at a corner to open it without success, the movements escalating with tension after each failed attempt. "Anything else happen, anything out of the ordinary?"

"Someone try to get in?" Dean added. "Any neighbors suddenly change eye color?"

"No," she said quietly, face hidden by a curtain of dark hair that had fallen from its haphazard poised behind her ear. "Except for the snow, it's been quiet. Almost too quiet, you know? Like I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Then what has you so nervous?" Sam asked.

Her hands stilled on the package, still unopened, and she took a deep, fortifying breath before tilting her head to look at them, worry radiating out of her eyes as she silently, unconsciously begged them to fix everything.

"Mac hasn't come back yet."

She turned back to what she was doing, finally succeeding in opening the package of chicken and went about defrosting it in her tiny microwave while Sam and Dean exchanged meaningful, concerned looks.

That definitely wasn't good news, Dean knew, especially since, from what he could tell, Mac had been gone over 24 hours. The odds of him being alright weren't particularly good, and the pragmatic portion of his mind—the one that hated to be right but almost always was—said that he was already dead. Not having known the man very well, Mel's account of his actions as well as everything he'd likely done that she hadn't noticed to keep her calm and focused was probably the reason he and Sam were still alive right now. That alone was enough to garner his respect and as much sympathy as he allowed himself to feel these days.

"Did he tell you exactly where he was going?"

"Not really, but the only store near here for groceries, supplies, is Gustafson's on the other side of town. It's only a couple of minutes drive, and the snow wasn't that bad when he left. Didn't really even get bad until early this morning."

"So somewhere between there and here, something happened," Dean said, thinking out loud as he considered the situation from all angles, mind already flashing forward to think about which of their mysterious attackers had gotten to Mac and what they might have learned from him.

Sam leaned forward, chair creaking under his weight as he shifted. "Are you sure he wouldn't have gone somewhere else? Maybe to the police or a friend to get help?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He was adamant that we keep out of sight as much as possible. But…" Mel broke off, teeth worrying at her lower lip as her face drew into a frightened expression.

"But what?" Sam prompted.

"He might have gone back to the diner, tried to get some of his things. Mac's ex-military of some kind, and an outdoorsman, so he had a lot of survival gear around. Maybe he tried to get it, thought it was worth the risk, or that they wouldn't come back."

Dean closed his eyes even as he shook his head. As rational as the guy had come across, the idea of him returning to familiar territory—whether it be for supplies or to scan the area looking for clues as to what was going on, where the enemy had gone, etc.—made a lot of sense. Most civilians, non-hunters, even those trained to handle more stressful situations like soldiers, could not grasp the necessary steps to take when faced with a supernatural encounter.

Mel was wandering around the kitchen now, pulling things out left and right, as she prepared whatever she'd decided to focus on, and while she was distracted, Sam leaned in close and whispered softly, "You think he's still alive?"

"Not likely," Dean replied, voice flat. "Probably went back to the diner and got taken by whatever's keeping an eye on it, just in case we do go back."

"Maybe not," Sam said doubtfully."

Dean shook his head slightly, eyes still tracking Mel as she moved back and forth. "Right now, that's the preferred option 'cause if he didn't get taken there, it means whatever's after us managed to track him down and could be on its way to finding us…if they haven't already convinced him to talk."

"It's only a matter of time," Sam agreed. "Mac was driving her SUV, meaning anything with a computer could figure out who owns it and where she lives."

"So either way, we're screwed. We need to leave."

Sam sighed, "Looks that way."

"Great, just great. We've got two potential fuglies after us—one of which we have no idea what it is—snow piling up fast and making getting out of here looking less and less likely by the minute, and a chick we need to babysit until we get this thing figured out. Anything else I'm missing?"

"You're not exactly on the top of your game," Sam said with a pointed look.

"I'm f-i-n-e, Sam," Dean said, grasping at his ribs a moment later as Sam jabbed him in the side lightly, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"Right."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Silence filled the apartment as the brothers lapsed into thought, both watching the girl in the kitchen as she chopped away on a cutting board, eyes completely focused on her task. In the span of a few minutes, she'd managed to wreck all of Sam's hard work from earlier, and it looked like chaos, but on a closer look, Dean felt his eyes widen in surprise as he realized that she'd been methodically working on separate meals: sandwiches of all kinds, combinations of vegetables and fruit, crackers, what looked like leftovers. It was enough to feed a small army for days, based on what she still had left scattered in front of her.

"Mac's dead, isn't he?" she asked quietly.

Dean exchanged another significant look with Sam before replying. "Probably, yeah."

"And we have to leave?"

"It's the safest option we have right now," Sam said carefully. "Whatever's out there is going to figure out where we are eventually."

"And we really don't want to be here when it does," Dean said. "No offense to your salt lines."

She shook her head to dismiss the critique. "I can't stay here either, can I? They…it…will just do to me whatever was done to Mac."

Sam's mouth tightened. "Yeah. You'll have to come with us until we sort this situation out, figure out what's going on?

Mel laughed shakily even as she bagged another sandwich, hands trembling slightly. "You know, I was kind of hoping you'd be able to explain all of this now. Make it make sense or make it go away."

"I'd like to," Dean said, voice rough as he began what felt like it was becoming a regular spiel. "But the truth is that life doesn't fit into the nice, neat, logical boxes we create. There are things out there, things that go bump in the night, things that spark every horror story you've ever heard." Pausing, Dean cast her a grim smile as he amended himself. "Well, most of them. The point is, once you know, you can never go back, not really. Monsters are real, and they're coming."

"But," Sam said, shooting Dean a look, "we've handled situations like this before, and we're going to do everything we can to keep you safe. I promise."

Dean was about to protest the false optimism his little brother was presenting—no use giving her hope when they still knew so little about the situation—when Mel let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. "Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered.