Charlotte took her time tying together her shoes, the feel of the chords through her fingers felt close to real, but still no dice. When she pulled back to lean in to the backseat of the Impala driving down to visit Shaw Rhodes, who had been a young boy in 1953 and was the only survivor of a so called grizzly bear massacre, Charlotte noticed how tired she was since she had started tying her laces up. It's not like she hadn't tied her shoes before, but since the accident, the simplest tasks drained her enough that she took enough notice to take a nap from it. But she couldn't fall asleep; at the moment Sam and Dean depended on her to help interrogate this guy, whoever he was. Without knowing, she had thrown her head back against the leather seats and started breathing deeply, her chest heaving up and down and yet she didn't feel the air pass through her lungs, which pointed for her to continue trying to breathe more, hyperventilating.

"Hey, woah, Dean pull over!" Charlotte could hear Sam say just barely as she began internally yelling at herself to feel something, damn it. Sam had looked over his shoulder at her and told Dean "I think she's going through an asthma attack!"

"Charlie isn't asthmatic. We'd know by now." Dean called back but still pulled over, both boys running, basically tripping, to open the door on their side closest and reach Charlotte, laying her down. Sam was at her head and crouched down beside her,

"Charlotte, hey there Charlie, it's okay. You don't need to panic. Dean's here. I-Sam's here- everything is gonna be okay." He spoke close to her right ear.

Charlotte began choking out a sob, "S-Sam, I can't feel a thing. So tired." She gasped out, clenching her fists and digging her nails in to her palm and waiting to feel pain. She broke skin but no blood or pain accompanied the puncture. "Fuck!" She yelled out, frustrated as tears trailed down across her temples. Nothing was working. She couldn't even feel the salty tears now wetting the tips of her ears.

The landscape began to brighten, washing over anything any of the three could see in bright white light and a high-pitched sound that resembled that of a microphone spazzing. When the light faded, the brothers were sitting back on the concrete off the side of the back-road they had been driving on and Charlotte was passed out, actually reaching some form of rest for the first time in two years.

Dean sighed, catching his breath as he stood up and looked at Sam, asking to Sam though he knew there was no way Sam would know "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know." Sam murmured, leaning against the car's door frame, catching his breath and squeezing his eyes closed before very slowly opening them and looking down at Charlotte "Is she really asleep?" He asked curiously.

Dean looked back "Doesn't look dead, does she?"

Sam didn't reply but instead crouched back down and placed two fingers together on her neck, taking an absent pulse "Dean." He called out cautiously.

"What?"

"I don't have a pulse." He said quietly as he looked up at his big brother, waiting for the magic problem he knew Dean could have, like always. Dean was Sam's Super-Man after all.

"What?" He snapped with wide eyes, clearly surprised. Dean had seen what a person sleeping looks like and what a person that's dead looks like. Charlotte was definitely sleeping.

Sam leaned over to put his ear over her slightly open mouth "No breath." He spoke softly to Dean, slight watering along his bottom eyelids.

Dean shook his head and said "Not again. That can't be it. I have seen you die once too many to know you're not really dead." He spoke quietly to Charlotte whose silver eyes fluttered open and she began sitting up straight. Sam still had two fingers to her pulse (or rather where it should be) when she began sitting up. He looked to Dean and shook his head.

Dean rose his gun at Charlotte's forehead "Who the hell are you and where the fuck is Charlotte?" The older Winchester barked.

"Dean? What the hell do you mean?" She murmured. This was weird enough…did Charlotte actually just wake up from…dreaming? Was this still part of the dream? How long had she been in this dream? And the worse question, worse because she couldn't answer it, was: What if this wasn't a dream?

Charlotte's dream had been anything but what her dreams usually were when she did dream. Stress had taken away her ability to dream when she was able to sleep when she had the time to sleep in the R.E.M cycle. Her dream was narrated by her own voice, a mist around her own view as the words she thought showed what happened in that very instant if not sooner than the action had happened:

"I was laying on a bed, a bed consisting of a mattress nice and firm, almost like rock that molded to my form, leaving no space for escape. My head to the side, I can only feel on my left cheek, a breath rolling off my cheek. I was cold, vulnerable, bare under whatever force pressed me against the encasing mattress. Whatever it was, whoever it was, passed a hand through my hair. I waited for the hand to catch in a knot, but was put on great edge when the hand easily passed through my blonde curls which were by far too messy for me to even brush them on good days.

With my eyes clenched closed, my senses in hyper-drive, my head shook to face head on who or what was above me, their body boiling as I suddenly felt filled, oh-so deliciously filled, and moaned out, the feeling of a single thrust racking through my body. Out of the loss of control of my body, my eyes fluttered open.

His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, strands of brown hair came in to brush against his impeccable jawline and cheekbones, a stubble growing in. He looked hopelessly handsome and yet depressed and stressed, which aged him. There was something so familiar about that face, such a welcoming feeling, a warm and safe feeling passed through me though a single detail chilled my core.

When my eyes met his, they weren't the eyes I was seemingly expecting, warm and doe-eyed, but those eyes of a ferocious killer: one that plagued my nightmares. They were completely black eyes. Devoid of emotion or empathy, dominant, in the most terrifying of ways. He thrust again and I arched my back out, his eyes clenched closed. When they opened again, they looked like crystals; yellow crystals embedded in the iris, the pupil the size of a dot on a page. That's when I cried out. These were yellow eyes.

I know my dreams sometimes mean something but why would they show the yellow-eyed monster that killed Jessica and the Winchester's mother in a body I hold close and love dearly? More importantly, why was I in bed with the demon?"

It had passed as a minute or two to Charlotte but was at least a good half hour. When she came to, Charlotte saw the barrel of a gun pointed at her and Dean's voice bark at her questions that made no sense. She heard Sam begin unsheathing a knife and she turned around, seeing him, meeting his eyes, and not meeting the color she expected which was bizarre because they had always been hazel and soft. His youthful face was surprised when she turned around to find him with a silver knife. "Sam, what's going on?" She whispered quietly.

Sam's eyes went to Dean's. Dean shook his head and said, "Sorry Charlie." Shooting her in the arm, pretending he missed her heart. He would have fired again had he not realized he missed that shot entirely, so uncharacteristic of him, and shot Sam's hand that rested behind Charlotte's arm he non-attempted to shoot.

"Dean stop shooting what the hell?" Charlotte yelled, in a panic, she got her nursing kit and quickly took Sam's hand, getting her sterilized tweezers but dropping them with a hiss. She looked up at Sam after a sudden pang of realization hit the younger brother. "Dean, please, help me out here." She said, to which Dean decided, monster or not, she clearly wasn't hurting anyone now so he should make the right judgment call and help his brother.

"What do you need me to do?" He asked, ready to be Nurse Dean, kinky boots and all if it meant saving his brother from the slightest of pain.

"I need you to take those tweezers and carefully go in the bullet hole and take out the bullet." She spoke quietly.

"What you can't do it?" He asked with his eyebrows raised. She'd done it hundreds of times on them, the exact same procedure every time.

"I can't right now just do what I told you to." She growled. Sam's head was bowed and lips pursed outward. He couldn't tell Dean his suspicions or, knowing the type of impulsive guy Dean is, Charlotte wouldn't stand a chance.

"Yes ma'am." He said and took the tweezers, doing as he was told. Charlotte scrambled through her bag as she saw the look of pain Sam's face grew in to. She passed him a flask of Southern Comfort and let him chug half of it down, knowing how light-weight he is that was all he'd need to stop feeling pain.

Charlotte took a quarter of the rest of the bottle to apply on a rag, soaking it with the alcohol, she wrung the towel out over his wounded hand and Sam hissed slightly, biting into his lip. Charlotte got plastic silverware from the side compartment of a door in the back and, after putting the rag away, placed her free hand to gently pinch down on the corners of his jaw, making him open his jaw with minimal force so she slid in the plastic spoon between left and right side of the jaw. Noticing there were no exit wounds was a relief. All she did after was get a water bottle to clean out the alcohol in the wound and began using sewing needle and thread to give him three stitches, the third as a safety precaution. She put her stainless steel needle and cotton spun thread that was left back in her first aid kit and gave the last quarter of the bottle of Southern Comfort to herself for a job well and quickly executed, leaning against the back of the leather seats.

Yet still, she felt nothing.