Chapter Two.

Dean frowned. He pressed the redial button and strained to listen, but all he heard was the crunching of twigs and leaves under his boots, and birds. He wondered, yet again, why he had dropped everything to drive to Montana. All because of one phone call? Or rather, seventeen? It could have been a persistent prank-caller, for all he knew, and if that theory proved correct, he just wasted money, gasoline, and time that he could have spent either spying on his brother, or gambling.

Well, too late now, Dean thought. If the girl was in trouble, he'd find her and save her – swoop in like a hunter in biker boots. But if she was indeed a prankster, well, she'd never see what was coming to her.

He had tracked her cell phone signal to the edge of a patch of forest several miles from Hamilton. Not that it narrowed it down much. He'd been in the Bitterroot Valley area quite a few years back, with Sam and their dad. They were called in by an old acquaintance of John's, something about a haunted house. John did the hunting, while Dean was forced to stay back and babysit Sam. Well, all the babysitting that he did sure did its job. Somehow, Dean had portrayed himself as the model of what-not-to-be, and off Sammy went to college.

And, apparently, self-analysis didn't stop when he was off the road.

"Come on, damnit," Dean swore, walking into a small clearing, cell phone still out. Then, sniffing, he headed to his right. He felt like a dog sniffing for bombs, but hey, whatever worked – and, at least no one was around to witness this scene.

Smoke. The acrid smell of flare guns. A smell he'd be hard pressed to forget, considering the first time he used one of those things, he'd almost burned his fingers off.

He redialed again, just as the robotic voice told him to leave a message after the beep, and almost grinned when he heard some music coming from the trees.

"Hey, you there?" he asked, his voice hovering below a yell, so as to not disturb anything that was residing in the forest. Never yell unless you have to. That's what his father had said. Repeatedly. You never know what you might be waking up. He and his brother would have taken more heed to it, had John not repeated that bit of wisdom every time the two of them fought – in their rooms, in diners, the back of the Impala, everywhere. Dean had soon learned that with this particular piece of advice, there was tremendous leeway - except when he was in an unfamiliar forest, searching for a possibly wounded woman who just happened to have his phone number.

The toe of his right boot caught on a maze of exposed roots, but he righted himself just in time to avoid falling in a pool of mud. As he brushed bits of bark and soil off his palms, he spotted the person he was most likely looking for.

And her ringtone. God, the ringtone.

"Hey," Dean said, bending on one knee to check her vitals. "You all right?"

Figures,he thought. They never are. He did a quick inventory of her apparent wounds – several parallel gashes on her abdomen, more on her legs, some bruising, and a cut on her forehead. Deciding to get her to the Impala – and to a motel – before doing a more thorough check, he scooped her into his arms – thankfully, she weighed almost nothing – and booked it for his car.

She had lost a lot of blood, that much was for sure. Nothing too life-threatening though, from the looks of it. He had attempted to clean the wounds before stitching up the bigger, deeper slashes. Looking at her now, sprawled on her back on the puce bedsheet, pale skin and dark circles under her eyes, he guessed she couldn't be much older than fourteen. Fifteen, tops.

Where were her parents? And what were they thinking, letting her go around hunting evil things? He hadn't missed the flare gun on the ground, or the small assortment of weapons on her body – the dagger in her boot, the gun on her belt, as well as a pocket knife and a Swiss Army knife. What was it with hunters? So obsessed with the job that they forgot their kids were still just kids? He didn't resent his own childhood much – he was simply indignant that his brother had no choice in the matter, until he was eighteen, at least, and even then, it was an ultimatum. No real choice, if you thought about it.

Dean settled into the loveseat after he was sure the only thing left to do was wait for her to wake up. The man at the front desk of the Motel 8 – a clear rip-off of Motel 6 – had responded to Dean's request for a double room by claiming that Motel 8s "don't do doubles." Whatever that meant, Dean didn't even want to know. But at least they were generous enough to adorn their rooms with overstuffed loveseats and tiny televisions.

Certain that whatever channels the little thing picked up would be full of static, he reached for her phone instead, curious to find out just who she was. You're not snooping,he told himself as he wiped off some dried mud, she dropped it, you picked it up, and now you're simply looking in it to see who you can call to pick her up. Yeah.

He clicked through the menus, and ended up staring at his own number – the only number stored in the phone – listed under "EMERGENCIES ONLY." Strange. Maybe he'd worked with her folks? But even if that was the case, why would they give her his number instead of John's? After all, John Winchester was the master hunter. And why was his number the only one in there?

Well, that was helpful, he thought, setting the useless phone on the nightstand. He studied her face - perhaps he'd met her before? Nah, he would have remembered…maybe. It was no secret that he had a soft spot for what Sam called his BABs – John always figured Dean had a weird obsession with Barbra Streisand – but this girl, from what he could tell, didn't seem to be fully Asian. Or busty, for that matter. God, she'sfifteen, Winchester. Get it the fuck together. Shame.

As if right on cue, the girl coughed.

She was thirsty and hot. Or cold. Hell, she couldn't make up her mind.

"Hey," said an unfamiliar voice, "Drink some water."

Opening her eyes a crack, she peered at the man sitting beside her. "You did this, didn't you?" she croaked, poking herself in the stomach.

He glanced at the white gauze he'd used to wrap her up, and nodded. "It's a little rough, but –"

"More like a little tight," she responded, leaning back on the bed as she took the bottle of water from him.

"Well, I'm sorry," he replied, "it's not like you were awake to –"

"Who are you, anyway?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. He didn't look like a serial killer, though he was slightly scruffy. But then again, from all the late night television she'd watched, serial killers often sport soft-as-babies'-bottoms faces. And they probably wouldn't waste their time to stitch their victims back up. "Christo?"

"You sure like to interrupt people, don't you? And no, I'm not a demon, sorry."

She shrugged, pulling at the gauze. "If you woke up in a strange room, with a strange person, wouldn't you want to know who he was?"

Dean smirked. "Sometimes a little secrecy is a good thing."

"Who are you?" she repeated, ignoring his comment. "And why is it so hot in here?"

"You called me," Dean said, frowning as he reached over to place a hand on her forehead. "Your wounds shouldn't be infected. Are you sick?"

"Not that I'm aware of. So you're the 'in case of emergencies' person, huh?" She kicked the blanket off her body, winced, and stopped moving her legs mid-motion. "I'm Annabel. Thanks for coming to get me in there. I'm guessing you're a hunter?"

He nodded. "Dean. I tried to call your parents, but your phone seems to be lacking some numbers. Is there anyone –"

"Nope, it's just me," she replied, slowly bringing her legs to the edge of the bed.

"I wouldn't move around if I were you," Dean warned, holding an arm out, just in case.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not one to wet to lay around in a puddle of my own –"

"Fine. Your legs are pretty scratched up," he said, getting up to help. He wasn't really sure how to go about doing it – after all, he was a hunter, not a personal caretaker – but he steadied her by placing one hand beneath her left elbow, and the other around her right.

She sighed. "Well damn, I guess I can't wear skirts for a while."

"Do you have any skirts?" he asked critically, definitely not pegging her for a girly girl. After all, her current outfit didn't really scream pink flowers and frilly lace. "That reminds me. Just how old are you? Because you certainly don't look a day over fifteen, tops, and you definitely shouldn't be –"

"Fifteen?!" she screeched – as well she could have screeched at least, given her current condition. It came out more like a pained, horrified gasp. The numerous cuts – and bandages – on her legs were making it very difficult to move about as freely as she would have like, and, well, they fucking hurt.

Dean paused, stopping halfway to the bathroom. She twisted her head to glare at him, temporarily forgetting the reason she was up in the first place.

"Well?" he asked expectantly, still holding onto her elbows like an idiot.

"I'm eighteen," she replied, throwing him a dirty look as she turned her attention back to the door beside the kitchenette.

Dean felt like he was walking an old woman across the street. A very cranky old woman with a very young face. "Sorry. You just look…young."

"It's all right, I guess," she replied, pushing the door open. "At least you didn't say I look like a twelve-year old." She grinned, much to his surprise, and closed it in his face.

What was it with women and their mood swings? Dean thought, perplexed. He waited beside the door, making sure that she didn't slip and fall and pull out all her stitches.

Inside the bathroom, she gripped the sides of the ceramic sink and smirked. Men. She glanced up at her reflection, and recoiled. Goodness gracious. Though Dean had done a fairly decent job of wiping the mud off her face, she was still grimy and streaked with brown. And her hair. God, her hair. The elastic band had fallen off somewhere, and now her somewhat greasy hair was matted to her head, also caked with mud. No wonder he thought you were a kid.

She wasn't one to spend time on men and all that relationship crap, but god, that man out there was…beautiful, what with his chiseled features and that voice of his… She wasn't even sure if he was more "ruggedly good-looking," or just plain angelic. Maybe a hybrid of the two.

"Hey, you all right in there?" Dean called through the door, rapping twice on the door.

"Yep, just doing my business," she replied, turning on the faucet. The water ran out slightly beige, but she didn't care. Minutes later, her face was clean and her hair was in better condition. There wasn't much else she could do but rinse it through with a little bit of water, which in itself was a difficult task, her wounds and bandages kept her from bending forward.

She emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, cleaner, but her face was twisted in pain. "You got any Tylenol or something?"

He nodded, and after he made sure she wasn't going to fall over the ruin his gauzy masterpiece, he rummaged through his half-open first aid kit. After a few seconds, he produced several pills and handed them to her. "Pain killers, and these are for the blood loss."

She took them, but glanced up and said, "Can I get another bottle of water? Pill swallowing definitely isn't my strong point."

Dean raised an eyebrow, but headed towards the dingy green refrigerator. "You should probably work on that. It'll come in handy."

"I know. But my…father always cut them down into little pieces to make it easier," she replied. "I'd have done it myself, but he didn't want me handling knives when I was sick. Really oddly protective, when it came down to it."

He placed the second water bottle on the table beside the bed, and returned to his seat, figuring there wasn't much else to do. "Where's he now?" Oh, good job, Winchester. He's probably dead.

She shrugged. "Just took off one day. Left me with some necessities. And your number, actually."

"What's his name?" Dean asked curiously. He couldn't think of anyone besides Bobby Singer, but he sincerely doubted that Bobby would let his kid run around the world by herself. Plus, he'd never 'take off' like that.

She finished chewing on her pill and gulped down half the bottle before replying. "John Winchester."

She watched him shoot out of the loveseat like it had turned into a throne of burning coal from hell itself. "What's –"

"Christo," Dean hissed immediately, face hardening.

"What? Yeah, I know I don't look much like a Winchester, whatever the hell they look like. He wasn't around when I was born, so I got my mom's name. It's pretty sad, because she named me after her favorite poem. Anyway, I'm stuck with Annabel Lee," she rambled, hoping to dispel the strange look on his face.

"You're lying," he growled, keeping a firm grip on the gun in his jacket. He didn't know who this girl thought she was – or even what she was, but one thing was clear. She was lying. John Winchester didn't even have the time to look after him and Sam, and yet he had time to father another kid and not only that, but he took the time to crush pills? Hell, it used to take Sammy longer than usual to swallow basic vitamins, and all John did was order him to just do it.

But she wasn't a demon, and true, the holy water he'd used to wipe off her wounds did nothing. Maybe a shapeshifter? But why would a shapeshifter carry an assortment of silver knives and daggers on its body? His mind was racing with a bunch of questions, and he mentally kicked himself for even considering that the girl was speaking the truth. True, his dad was a man after all, and men have needs. Clearly. But the idealistic part of Dean – which should have died long ago – refused to believe that his father would even look at anyone that wasn't Mary Winchester.

She looked at him, suddenly alert. The remaining pills were forgotten in her hand. "You know him." When he didn't answer, she frowned. "Hey, you look…" Her sentence trailed off as she focused her attention on retrieving something from her back pocket.

Dean felt like his head was going to explode. You don't just get a random call from someone pleading for help, only to find out that that someone is your fucking half-sister. Though part of him knew it wasn't a coincidence, it was too damn surprising, to say the fucking least. And he didn't like the unexpected. Something had to be wrong.

He was too busy thinking. God,he seethed, what's happened to me? What happened to shoot-first-ask-questions-later?He'd gotten much more trigger-happy since the most recent stage of the continual demise of his family, and now what? He was too busy thinking to act. Why don't you just fucking go to school and become a psychologist instead? Follow in Sammy's footsteps now, get practically disowned by Dad.

He didn't even register that he was staring straight at a photograph of his father. "Where the fuck did you get this?" Too late to play it cool, man. You've already lost it.

She glanced up at him uneasily. "My mom gave it to me. When I was six." Something about the man scared her, and though she wasn't thinking it at the moment, she knew that even with her strategically placed weapons, she was no match for him. And hell, they were so strategically placed she couldn't even reach them if she wanted to, not with her mummified body. So, she let him grab the yellowing photo out of her hand without a peep.

It sure was him, all right. John Winchester, in all his plaid glory. He wasn't smiling and his face was bruised, but it didn't lessen the blow any. Dean remembered that particular shirt – how could he not? They had to burn it after a bad hunt – too bloodied to salvage, and too bloodied for little Sammy to see.

So focused he was on his father that he didn't even notice the other subject in the photograph. A pretty Asian woman, all dark hair and pale skin. She looked happy. Dean closed his eyes for a split second as he turned it over. April & John, Oct 1984.1984. He was five. Sammy, not even one and a half.

"Yeah," Annabel murmured, as if to herself. "You definitely look like him. Who are you?"

God, he needed Sammy. He would know what to do.

"Dean," he said slowly, his mouth dry. "Dean Winchester."

"Oh," she replied, relieved that he was looking less murderous by the second. "So you're related to my dad?"

"Am I," Dean snorted humorlessly. "Well, nice to meet you, Annabel, you've apparently got two brothers in the world." He didn't even want to think about how many others there could have been.

She blanched, still clutching the pills in her left hand. "You're…you're my brother?"

He laughed grimly. "Looks like it."

"But…he never said anything –"

"Yeah, well, that's John for you," he said, flinging the photo onto her lap. He knew he was acting like a bitter little bitch, but what else could be expected? What, was he supposed to hug her and tell her that he'd always wanted a little sister?

She picked it up by the corner, gingerly. Dean Winchester. She had relatives. Abrother, for christsakes. And she had been thinking some very un-sisterly thoughts about him. God.

"Wait. You said two brothers."

"Sam," he replied shortly, turning his back towards her to stare out the window.

"Where is he now?" she asked timidly, unsure if she was hitting another sore spot.

"Stanford," came the answer.

Holy crap. It was too much to take. A minute ago, she only had a dead mother and a vanished father. Now, apparently, she had one brother that could give Mr. America a run for his money, and another that probably scored a perfect sixteen-hundred on the SATs.

"So um," she started, trying to relieve the room of the uncomfortable silence, "where's Dad?"

Where's Dad? Dean almost rolled his eyes at the innocence exuding from her voice. He turned his attention back towards her, and realized – unwillingly – that she was still only a kid. "When did you start?"

Her brows furrowed. "Hunting, you mean? A few months after my mother died. Early 2001."

That was the year Sammy left for college. John had disappeared for months at a time that year. Dean always thought it was because he just didn't want to see Sam preparing to go to college against his wishes. After all, if you're not there to see it, it's not really happening, right? But now he knew better.

"So he stayed with you, huh?"

She nodded. "Rented out a place near my school. We stayed till about a year ago."

"How did your mom die?"

"Burned up. They said it was an electrical shortage, but I think Dad had other ideas."

It was all too much of a coincidence