Author's Note:

Rebekah and Meredith

Recommended Playlist:

Goldfrapp – A&E

Florence and the Machine – The Blinding

Chapter Five:

Rock Port, Missouri. 6:55 a.m.

Monday 22nd September 2008.

She sits comfortably at her table in the corner, wearing a distinctly bored expression as she takes another sip of alcohol. She checks the clock on the wall, makes sure it's still moving. It's half past five in the afternoon, the date being the 3rd. She seems irritable. People move by like wraiths in the background, blurred blocks of colour and sound, surrounding her in an out of focus current of life and motion. She is alone, her legs crossed, one foot tapping impatiently against the bar of her stool. Another mouthful of alcohol follows.

Her eyes stare at nothing yet seem to see far more. It looks as though she is focusing on and listening into something beyond the room she is in. 'Danny's Bar' shines brightly on the wall above the door, curling loops of neon reflecting oddly in the bottles of liquor. Her eyes seems to roam whenever she moves them, her irises catching the light of different sources and shifting through a myriad of colours though it seems she favours blue. She takes a final sip of her cider and places the bottle on the table. The vision fades. Wings flutter.

"You're late."

It was still dark when she opened her eyes, the light of morning barely able to force its way through the slats of their blinds as the sun heaved itself lazily up off the horizon, raking her claws through what remained of night's influence in the sky. Vision and Sight were still heavy on her consciousness and Beck allowed herself to have a brief respite from the real world for a moment, her body and mind stuck floating somewhere not quite here or not quite there, somewhere stuck in a delightfully pleasant limbo that she didn't quite want to leave. But she had to. They had to go. But the pull of her Sight was too strong for her weakened state. She couldn't fight its pull as it dragged her back down, her body happy and more than willing to ease her into the semi-conscious state that seemed to be a place between Vision, Dream and Reality. Images and memories shifted into one another, faces morphing from those of her family to those of hunts past, carrion crows flying alongside running hunting dogs, the feeling of gentle hands against her skin.

( )

When she woke she felt as though the world was not hers. It was the room she remembered from the night before, every detail down to the cracked ceiling tile above her head, but it was not hers. She hadn't been out long, the sun barely managing to lift itself another heavy inch. But as she looked around from the sanctity of her bed she faced a growing unease, noting things that were not as they seemed - objects that had no place in amongst the pastel fabrics of Mer's cast-offs, jackets slung over the backs of seats that did not belong to her. A too-big pair of boots by the door, a gun without her brother's initials carved into the barrel, a pair of car keys on the dresser that sat nakedly in comparison to her own, deprived of the clutter of a million key rings.

The room smelt wrong; gone was the floral scent of her friend's perfume but in its place sat something entirely different, a musky, heavy scent that she was entirely too familiar with having grown up surrounded by boys her entire life. It was man-scent, the smells of aftershave and of spray that was in no way like the rose-scented soaps she used against her skin nor the lavender she dried her clothes with. It was a comforting, homely smell, one tainted thick with nostalgia, a childhood brought up surrounded by men and male scents. But it was entirely alien here in their feminine domain, and Rebekah could feel the panic rising in her chest. Something was wrong.

She shook the black feathers from her brain as she gently propped herself up onto her elbows, scanning the room with squinted eyes as she tried in vain to protect herself against the beams of light that cut across her vision. Mer shifted at her side, one warm hand coming to rest against her thigh as she rolled over in her sleep, morning's semi-consciousness playing havoc with the girl's sense of reality, her lips humming as she mumbled inaudibly to herself in her sleep. Beck tucked a stray strand of her friend's hair behind her ear, almost weeping with relief to see her alive again, frowning as her fingertips met with congealed blood and medical tape, muttering a million profanities under her own breath as she carefully peeled the cover's back from the Stalker's still form, the bruises that mottled her friend's fair skin screaming in contrast against the off-white sheets and dirty clothes, mud, grit and blood still clinging to the folds of her skirt. Bandaged feet and gashes stitched to perfection followed as the hunter explored, peeling back gauze to examine the work done, always moving on to the next wound impressed.

Her hands shifted to her own half-naked form, her fingers tugging gently at the swathes of bandages that snaked their way up her body, tongue running over the cuts in her cracked lips rekindling the metallic taste of blood on her pallet. She didn't ache yet but she knew she would later that day if not the next. Rebekah felt drugged, lethargic and far too sluggish for her liking, as though she was hopped up on meds or still had a bottle's worth of whiskey still pumping through her veins. Heavy headed, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, shaking off the nausea that followed. She awkwardly reached across to her bedside table for a shirt, swearing under her breath as her ribs strained against her bonds, a pain that nearly sent her back into unconsciousness.

The little hunter heaved herself up off the bed using the nightstand as support, wobbling like a deer on her feet as she tried to gain balance in a world that didn't seem to want to stop moving. She stumbled into the wall as she made her way towards the wardrobes, hastily grabbing a knapsack and stuffing it full of their half packed, half unpacked clothes, throwing a pair of jeans at Mer who she could hear steadily coming to terms with that morning's hangover, the Stalker groaning pitifully into a pillow as she wriggled and writhed against the sheets.

"Mer," she hissed, gracelessly pulling on a boot. "Mer – get the fuck up Mer. Now."

Rebekah stumbled over to the dresser, admiring the heinous sight of herself in the only mirror their room had to offer. She was all mattered hair and wild eyes, a dark bruise forming along her jawline, bottom lip cracked and blue from blood. She stood to her full height and stepped back somewhat shocked at the state of herself, embarrassment tinting her grimy cheeks pink. In her boots she stood a little taller than she would have normally been, long legs bruise blackened, her knees both discoloured masses of gashes and swelling from where she'd gone down lord knew how many hours ago (what seemed to her like days). And someone, someone she did not know, had stripped her down to her underwear, a little pair of baby blue briefs and her socks and treated every damaged inch of skin on her body. And that – that scared her more than anything.

She hissed again, "Mer – get up. We gotta' go."

( )

She watched him from across the room, eyes never leaving his sleeping form, shotgun on her knees, fingers poised delicately over the trigger. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Meredith hesitate at the bathroom door, lips dripping with white foam, toothbrush in hand, gun in the other (just as Rebekah had instructed). She'd discovered him whilst she was still in her underwear, one boot on, one boot off, battling with the laces in the middle of brushing her own teeth after her shower. At the sight of him she'd spat the foam in the plant pot on the counter and dived somewhat clumsily into the nearest corner, heart racing, cheeks flushing, wondering how on earth she'd managed to miss such a gargantuan creature that had so slung himself so blatantly across their sofa. So the gun had come out, she'd pulled on some shorts and buttoned up her shirt and sat watch ever since as Mer packed up the rest of their things by the door and got herself fairly presentable.

She rested her chin in her hand, fingertips caressing the cold metal of the gun's barrels. She found herself lulled by the rise and fall of his chest, the flickering of his eyes beneath his lids as he dreamed of things she could only imagine. She was suspicious of him – terribly frightened despite trying to shake off the feelings. He was familiar in an awfully unnerving way, the face of a person she'd more than likely bumped into at a gas station or on the street than someone she knew personally. A ghost of an identity, a face that flitted in and out of memory like a wraith. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she'd allowed him to sleep on instead of waking him with the cold butt of her gun and that, more than anything, showed she believed he meant her little harm (thought it was always better to be safe than sorry). She leant back in the chair and examined that face, a picture so serene and so tranquil even she found herself letting her guard down at least a little. He was a mass of messy brown hair and limbs, all of them sprawled this way and that across the cushions of the couch, one arm resting lightly by his head, the other brushing the floor. His lips were parted slightly as he sucked in and blew out deep breaths, the hairs that hung over his eyes shivering at every exhale.

"Beck – I'm done."

How long had she been there?

Meredith's arms were crossed, her whole body leaning lightly against the transition wall that marked the space between the bedroom and the living area. She looked drained, hair limply framing her face, heavy with shower water and floral shampoo that seemed to just about banish the scent of male presence from the immediate area. Now that she was clean and pristine the damage the little Stalker had suffered was all the more apparent, bruises mottling her skin in places Beck had overlooked due to previous dirt, grime or grazes that had now been washed away by warm water. She caught her eye and nodded, slinging her gun over one shoulder and a back pack and knapsack over the other and heaved herself up out of the chair, wincing as the springs whined in protest.

"Is everythin'-"

"Everythin's fine," the hunter retorted, a little too quickly. "Let's just get outta' here."

Mer opened the door and exited first, Beck being the last to leave as she checked the room for any belongings she knew the little Stalker may have left behind. She picked up one of her socks and pulled a bottle of perfume from the bottom of one of the drawers, her hands lingering on the worn leather of a man's jacket that sat slung over the dresser, the tell-tale fragrances of aftershave and car fuel clinging to the tattered fabric. She folded the jacket neatly and, almost missing the passing thought, pulled a business card from her pack and half tucked it into one of the pockets. She skirted around his sleeping form as silent as a mouse, taking one last look at the man she guessed had saved their lives, her eyes lingering on the hands she could still feel touching her body, piecing her back together. Then, after sucking in a breath, she stepped out into the light of the morning sun and closed the door behind her.

She was attacked almost immediately, virtually knocked off her feet as her bare, bandaged legs were treated to Axel's boundless morning kisses. She shielded her eyes against the glare of sunrise, hazy images of a deserted parking lot and her wheeled home spluttering into vision as her eyes became accustomed to the change in venues. All around her animal's swarmed, Sky's head butting her thigh, Axel's teeth taking to the tongue of her boots and her laces as his attentions moved elsewhere, the call of faux leather seeming to be far stronger than the taste of her rose-scented skin. She propped the gun and bags against the wall and entered the fray, her battered body somehow soothed by trampling paws and endless amounts of slobber, dog saliva seeming a far better painkiller than penicillin.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Rebekah reached for her gun instinctively, not the shotgun she'd rested against the wall but the pistol she'd found and stuffed down the back of her shorts. She was on her feet in a second, eyes narrowed, lip bitten, barrel aiming right over the heart of the stranger that had greeted her with so much familiarity, a man that was currently holding his hands in a position of surrender though his face spoke otherwise. Alistair, surprisingly, stood at his side.

"I'd put that down if I was you sweetheart," he grinned, pulling aside his open jacket, glint of a gun handle almost blinding her. "You don't wanna' start this."

"Beck – Beck no. He's that guy! Beck he helped me. For fuck's sake Beck put the gun down."

"I'd listen to her," he smiled, nodding his head in Meredith's direction as she came barrelling up the stairs.

She regarded him distrustfully, eyeing up the weapon at his waist, feeling her own shaking in her hands. She was so tired and so fucking high strung she could feel herself unravelling. She shivered in the cool light of the morning, goose bumps rising on her legs and arms, forcing her to pull her plaid even closer to her bandaged skin as she attempted to keep in what little warmth she could whilst still attempting to look as though she had a grip on things.

"Beck-"

"Mer – seriously. Just – stop talkin' for a sec. I need to think."

He frowned, lowering his arms to his sides, one hand never far away from the gun he too had stuffed down the back of his jeans. He was a damned bit smaller than the other one, hair shorter, eyes so bright she couldn't look at them directly for more than a minute or so before she had to force herself to look away. He just stood there, eyes on her, bare-chested in the morning light, smile long gone. And God damn it he had to be one of the most beautiful people she'd ever seen in her life.

"Who the hell are you?" she challenged.

"Dean. I'm a hunter. Just like you."

"How do you know-"

"You're a hunter? Quite simple really- what with the anti-possession tattoo you have inked by your hip or the blatant disregard you have for your own freakin' safety takin' on a demon like that by yourself, in the middle of the night, meanin' my brother and I had to come and save your sorry asses!"

"Excuse me? What demon? Where the hell – who the hell do you think you are anyway? We were attacked – I reacted. That's what people do. I didn't go lookin' for a fuckin' fight!"

"What demon? What. Demon. Are you serious? The demon my brother had to freakin' exorcise – we saved your lives!"

She could see he was angry, though the extent of his frustration surprised her. It was as though her dismissal of the demon had hit a nerve, as though he'd taken it personally. The more she thought about it the more her head hurt as the attempted to wade through the haze of the previous night's events, trying in vain to find a black eyed creature in amongst the mass of faces, feeling almost at a loss when she could not. He was so close to her now she could already feel the heat of his body against hers though, as he took another daring step towards her and she put a hand out to stop him, she was shocked at how cold his skin was beneath her feverish palm. It was as though he'd been out all night. She didn't know what to believe. In her mind she recalled very little, fleeting glimpses into the night's proceedings that made barely any sense yet still tried to persuade her that her recollection was correct – that there had been no demon, that she and her friend had been attacked by a gang, that she'd been saved by –

"Sam."

The name sat on her tongue, caressed her lips on exhale. It seemed foreign though, just like his face, all too familiar. A ghost of an identity.

"Right – Sam. My brother."

His anger seemed to have evaporated, his chest no longer heaving with tension beneath her touch though she could still feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. Around them the dogs and her friend shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed, though Rebekah made no attempt to move, Dean doing the same. Her eyes inspected the grain in the wooden decking as she forced her way through the barriers alcohol had created in her mind, as was the case whenever she'd drunken heavily, though she knew she would have swapped a hangover for memory-loss any day considering how sickly Mer looked in the unforgiving light of morning. Images of Sight mixed chaotically with slivers of fractured memory, the resulting concoction leaving her head aching. She shook away the thoughts, leaving her memory of Sam as he was on the couch and not the dark creature she'd seen the night before.

"There was no demon," she mumbled, hand moving beneath his jacket, fingertips brushing hesitantly across the black lines of the anti-possession tattoo that sat neatly below his collarbone, the symbol mirroring the one she wore on her hip almost exactly. "I would have remembered," she muttered again, more to herself this time. "I would have."

"Beck-"

"I'm sure."

Her mind was ragged and, like her body, needed desperately to be patched up again. She blinked back his memories, his feelings as they rushed through her fingertips, sizzled against her palm. They weren't hers - she'd discard them later. Only now did she realise how long they'd been standing together like that, so frighteningly intimate for two strangers that she immediately took an unsteady step backwards, wringing her hands together as though that would rid her of the feeling of him from her fingertips. Black feathers still cluttered her brain, a liquor-haze still suffocating her sense of reality and fantasy. When she finally returned to him all sense of aggression was gone from his body language leaving behind a sick sense of pity that made her feel vulnerable – even ill.

"Dean I – I'm sorry. I am – truly. We've got to go – I have to go. Thank you for savin' her I mean – I don't know what I would have done if-"

"It's alright," he offered, taking a tentative step towards her, "It's fine."

She shied back from him, reaching instead for her shotgun and bags. She wasn't herself, a shadow of the person she'd been in the truck the day before. Her nerves were shot, memories and thoughts all over the place. If it were any other situation she wouldn't have dared get behind the wheel, but she needed out, her mind seeking solace in the familiarity of the open road and the simplicity of the impending journey. Concern tainted his expression though he let her pass, allowing her to make her way shakily down the steps to the truck, watching her in silence, arms crossed across his chest as she slung the bags into the bed, sliding the shotgun into the foot well of passenger side. Her Pack swarmed around her feet, Alistair tearing himself away from the hunter's side to join his master's, the old dog hopping up into the middle seat of the truck as Sky and Axel made themselves at home in the back. She leant against the steadily heating metal of her home, feeling more supported than she had since she'd woken that morning, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun as she motioned for Mer to get in.

"I owe you a debt Dean – I really do. I'm just sorry I – well we just can't stay."

"Are you alright to dr-"

She waved away his concerns, "I'm fine – really," she smiled half-heartedly, nibbling at her lip. "There was no demon Dean – I'm sorry. Your brother – well he saved my life – that much I know but – well he must'a been mistaken."

He nodded.

"I'm sorry."

( )

The road out of Rock Port was desolate, the Route 29 just another twisted grey band of tarmac worming its way through ever bleaker countryside. Fields yawned lazily either side of the highway, the early morning fog nipping at the heels of the truck as they sped down the empty road, the mist forming ever more thickly as their wheels ate up the kilometres. There was water in the air, thick and heavy from rain just fallen. Rebekah wound down the window and placed her arm on the sill, feeling the dampness of what could only be called grey collecting in the rising hairs on her arms. Meredith was even quieter than usual, the girl slipping in and out of consciousness as though her body could no longer decide whether or not it needed sleep.

They had a long journey ahead of them if they wanted to get to Brookfield, a goal that hadn't seemed so far away a day or so back when she'd actually originally made the decision to go. A single lorry overtook them in the outside lane, the driver saluting her in a way only people of the road would, a gesture Rebekah quickly returned. Its great silver barrel trundled past on its little wheels, whipping the young hunter's hair into a frenzy as they found themselves caught in the after-draft, rain and groundwater spraying her skin as the last wheel passed them. She wiped her face on her sleeve, running her right hand through her still matted hair.

She was ravenous. She couldn't remember the last thing she'd eaten, but she knew she'd gone longer without in the past and not felt like that. It was a gut-wrenching feeling, as though her insides had begun to chew on themselves. She shook her head, bathed herself in the rain, dug her nails into the worn rubber of the steering wheel. They didn't have time to stop. She nibbled her lip, explored her immediate area for scraps of anything she could dig into until she could sat herself a little further down the line. Beck pulled half a roll of mints from beneath the dash, discovered a bags of chips beneath her seat which were still just about in date (give or take a few days). It wouldn't be enough, but it was better than nothing.

A call on the private mobile shattered their quiet solitude, the ringtone somehow managing to ground and tether both girls to the present as they dragged themselves back into reality from wherever it was their thoughts had taken them. Mer shifted awkwardly in her seat as Beck leant forward and pulled the phone from the drawer, the little thing vibrating in her lap as she tried to fix the headpiece to her ear with her free hand, the other resting on the wheel. Meredith watched her with tired eyes, knees tucked beneath her small form that looked even more bird-like beneath the soft pink of her cardigan, offering her friend a small smile of reassurance as Rebekah slid her finger across the touchscreen and answered the call.

"Aston private line – how may I help?"

"Beck?"

"Jake?"

"We need to talk – now."

Her stomach felt like a lump of rock in her body, something sitting far too heavy and not quite right in her gut. His voice sounded cold, not at all what she'd have expected from her brother, the emphasis on the 'now' implying she was in more trouble than she could shake a stick at. His voice echoed out just loud enough for Meredith to hear, her friend wrapping a fragile hand around hers, pale skin against tan, turning her gaze elsewhere as though that would make the situation more bearable. Beck sucked in as much air as she could into her lungs, exhaling long and deep down the mouthpiece.

"What's wrong Jake?"

"I think you know what's wrong. I've been worried fuckin' sick."

"I've only been gone a few days Jake I-"

"Where are you?"

She exchanged worried glances with Meredith, feeling the little Stalker's grip tighten on her hand.

"Route 29 outside Rock Port – we're heading through Saint Joseph to-"

"I know where you're fuckin' headin' Rebekah – I got a call from one of the hunters up at Brookfield askin' me if the Seer's big brother had any tips on how to kill the things you think you'll be huntin' in a few days," he spat. "If you think I'm gonna' let you-"

She bit her lip, "you don't have much of a choice Jake."

He hissed, "Don't tell me I don't have much choice Rebekah – I'm your brother – you listen to me."

"You're not Joe Jake – stop tryin' to be."

The truck was plunged into silence. Beck sucked in a breath of shock – Meredith even seeming surprised at the words that had come out of her mouth. She hadn't known she was capable of such hurt, such poison. Her words had tasted so bitter and sour on her tongue she'd spat them out, but now more than ever she wished she was able to take something back. He was worried about her; he was always worried about her. They'd hunted a hunt at Brookfield years and years ago, back when she'd been as tall as Mer and younger than Sky, not daring to rebel against her brothers when they told her that it was too dangerous for her to go along and watch, that Vampires were something to be feared. Jake had almost died on that hunt, coming back all bloody and bruised, so close to being bitten he'd made Joe swear to plant a bullet in his skull if it ever came to it. He was worried about her – he always fucking worried.

"Jake I-"

"Just – don't. Just come home. We'll talk there."

She closed her eyes for a moment, hardly believing what she was about to say.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," she sighed, reopening her eyes to the road, rebellion curdling her stomach. "I'm a big girl now – I can handle this."

There was an intake of breath on the receiving end, a long and awkward silence that seemed to stretch on beyond it's time. Axel shifted nervously in the back as silence descended, the loss of his master's voice opening up a void that could not be filled by the hum of the engine or the melodic ping of gravel against metal. When Jake spoke, his voice was dead.

"Remember what happened the last time you said that."

Jake lifts his jacket from the chair and shrugs it on, reaching for his gun. I follow each move, Joe setting Alistair in his hunting harness in the living room. The wooden floorboards beneath my feet shake violently, the walls inverting. It is memory, heavy with memory.

"No. I'm coming."

"No you are not."

Jake. Always Jake. This is ridiculous. I can do this – I'm certain.

"Why?"

"You're not ready Beck. I'm not havin' you-"

"But-"

"He's right Beck," Joe says as he pulls his jacket on. "You aren't ready. There's too many of them and you're too young."

"I'm not too young Joe!" I shout, dragging on my coat, shoving a pistol into the back of my jeans. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's the truth you idiot," he hisses, grabbing me by my shoulders and shaking me until my knees buckle. "Don't you think I've worked this job long enough to know?"

I look away from him but he grabs my face, forcing me to look at him. The walls begin to disintegrate. His eyes plead.

"Beck please-"

"I'm a big girl," I say defiantly, wriggling out of my brother's grasp. "I can handle this."

I shrug on a rucksack and step out, slamming the door behind me.

There's metal at my back, a cold and silver shaft digging into my spine. The winter wind bites at my skin, making my cheeks pink and my fingers sting as I fumble with a lock. My world begins to unfold like a piece of paper, distant hills and trees painting themselves in carefully, some areas far more detailed than others, some places a patchwork of different memories to fill in empty or blank spaces. The wood of the porch creaks above my head. There are voices echoing through time, some from behind the windows, others remnants of conversations linked through topic or purpose. The lock clicks.

When Rebekah woke it was chaos. Horns blared behind her, big and thunderous noises that seemed to echo in the emptiness of her chest, all air knocked from her body. She gasped, snatching a breath. All of the dogs were barking, their claws raking the fabric of the seats, their tails thumping against her back as she raised her head from the steering wheel. The world outside seemed drunk, the horizon turning vertical and the sky becoming the earth, the long straight road that was Route 29 wavering in places Beck knew it shouldn't. And there was pain, pain everywhere, in so many places she couldn't even tell what hurt more.

"What the hell-"

Meredith hung limply in her seatbelt bonds, head resting against the dashboard, a cut on her forehead bleeding openly into her lap, staining yet more clothes red. They'd have to go shopping. The girl groaned, dragged her body back into the seat, eyes roaming the roof of the car as Rebekah clicked her fingers in front of her eyes, trying to get her friend to focus – to bring her back to the world of the living.

"Mer – Mer," she muttered franticly, giving her shoulder a soft shake, careful not to jolt her too much. "Mer?"

"I'm – m'okay. I'm okay."

"Oh thank God."

There was a bang from somewhere in the distance, the sound of footsteps – three knocks on the window. She turned her head, resting her forehead back on the wheel of the truck as she flicked the switch to wind the window down on the passenger side, Alistair backing away even deeper into the foot-well as a man popped his head through the gap.

"You alright? You took a nasty bump there. Want me to call the police or somethin'?"

Rebekah groaned a little, pushing herself up using the dashboard as leverage, resting her head in the dip of the headrest. His face seemed to shimmer all different colours and shapes, so many she had to look away.

"Miss? Miss? Are you alright? Oh God – do I need to call 911?"

"No, no-" Rebekah muttered, shaking her head. She hissed as pain shot down her back , making the tips of her fingers tickle. "I don't need to go to the hospital. We're fine."

"Are you sure?" The poor fellow looked concerned, so much so she found herself softening her tone.

"We're fine – honestly. Just-"

"Somethin' ran out in the middle of the road and she must 'a slammed on the brakes to miss it. At least I think that's what happened," Mer offered, her hand still somehow managing to remain entangled with Rebekah's.

She threw him a lopsided smile – something that seemed to sate the poor gentleman. Rebekah could hear an incessant muttering from somewhere beneath her feet, though it took her a while before she figured out it was her brother on the headset.

"Now you know you shouldn't do that," he sighed, resting his arms on the door, "you should-"

"I know, I know," she mumbled, wiping the wetness away from her forehead with her sleeve, the fabric coming away red. "You should speed up but – we just didn't have the heart."

Another half-hearted smile, a sincere thank you and a sip of water and they were eating up the miles again, new Missouri territory flying by either side of them as the young hunter and even younger Stalker attempted to put as much distance between them and the crash site as they possibly could. Hospital was not a good place for a Hunter, 911 being a more frightening combination to their kind than 666. It seemed as though Alistair had a slight concussion, the poor thing probably having been the first to hit the dashboard when she'd slammed on the brakes. When she'd re-set her rear view mirror she'd caught his eyes and she'd begun muttering to herself. The old boy was chastising her for being so stupid – she knew that. All manner of hell had broken loose in the truck, stuff all over the place, a spilt drinks can marking the passenger seat upholstery, books and sheets of loose paper filling foot-wells and covering seats from where'd they'd fallen out the seat pockets. It'd take some reorganising, but now was not the time for that. That was a job for when they hit Saint Joseph.

"Jake?"

"What the hell happened?"

"Furry son of a bitch darted across the road so I hit the brakes," she muttered, Meredith squeezing her hand.

"Are you alright?"

She felt off – caught in a place halfway between reality and memory. She didn't feel snapped out of it, streaks of Sight flitting in and out of real life, shadows of Recall forcing her to question what was real. She shook her head as a younger Alistair appeared at the side of the road, massaging the back of her neck with the palm of her hand as she drove the truck with her knees.

"Yeah I'm fine, few cuts and bruises, Alistair's actin' like he's had a little too much whiskey but apart from that we're good."

"Oh thank God."

His concern was refreshing to her, her brother back as he should be. She shifted position in her seat and placed her hands back on the wheel, trying to ignore the blood that had spattered up the windscreen from where Mer's head had hit the dashboard.

"Beck I'm-"

"No Jake – don't. I'm sorry – I didn't mean what I said. You wouldn't be kin if you didn't worry about me. I understand that. I just – I need you to trust me. They can't do this without me."

"I know – I just can't-"

The rest of their conversation went somewhat unspoken, Rebekah filling her brother in on the details of the hunt and when she expected to be back, conveniently keeping out the events of the night previous so as not to rattle him more than he already was. She knew what he was going to say, it always went unsaid whenever she left for a job, leaving him leaning against the hood of his car, hand held to his eyes as he'd watch her go, hoping she'd turn her truck back into the drive and somehow regain some normality to her life. He couldn't lose her – not another one.

When Jake left her silence returned to the highway. She was in no mood to play music and added to that Alistair was most likely in the midst of the dog equivalent of a severe hangover and probably would not be in the mood for Muse or Paramore. They stopped at the nearest layby so that she could patch them up, checking her own injuries afterwards in the rear-view mirror. It could have been worse though – she'd sustained much worse in the past anyway. At the side of the road amongst the dust and the highway debris Rebekah treated the cut on Mer's forehead and did the best she could for bruised ribs and whiplash, apologising to her travelling family with a bowl of cool water from the trunk and a handful of biscuits and beef jerky, forgiveness coming as easy as a breath from the boxer with the bloody nose and watery eyes, all battle scars he'd sustained from careering head first into the back of the chair on the passenger side. Alistair never took his eyes off his master, and she knew he knew – he always knew.

Saint Joseph was a huge place, much bigger than she'd expected. Joe had taken his little sister there when she was very young – too young to remember though it had seemed bigger with her being smaller – that just seemed to be the way things worked. She'd called ahead to a few friends, those who'd always been close and loyal to the Aston Clan and what remained of them. She found it nice to have connections spaced so far apart, the whole 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' deal stretching not only across states and countries but across time. Friends of friends of friends, cousins of friends and friends of cousins – you name it and their number was written down if not in her phone contacts but in her brother's journals, people they could call on if they needed to lie low, if they needed money or care or a job that needed doing. That was the life of a hunter after all, a world of overlapping contacts and connections spanning countries, counties and continents.

Rebekah Aston and Meredith Parkes arrived at Eliza's in less time than they'd expected and all too soon the hunter and the Stalker found themselves off the road and set up in the guest bedroom, the dogs dotted here and there around the room and apartment. Salt lines had already been drawn beneath the windows and beneath the doors, and Rebekah found herself feeling safe and secure for the first time in what seemed like a very long time. She found it nice to stay somewhere – nice that she could make herself vulnerable in a place where the people knew what they were doing. Eliza had treated her for her whiplash, applying heat packs to almost every available stretch of skin after dunking her in the bath and washing the blood and dust out of her hair, something she hadn't had done in a long while. James (her husband) had cooked them their evening meal and they'd sat together, catching up and swapping hunting tales and generally having a decent time. They told her some stories about her mama that she never knew, told her how Shane was doing since they'd seen him last. And after a while, during the time Eliza had begun plaiting her and Mer's damp hair, it had started to feel like family.

Eliza and James were good people – good, innocent people. They'd been good friends of Bethany a long time ago, and when a ghost had begun murdering people in their apartment building the Aston brothers had saved them a whole lot of hassle. They believed they owed the Clan, and so whenever a being of Aston blood was in the area they'd always feel the urge to pop in and see how they were doing, though often Rebekah would end up being fed until she was fit to burst and unable to walk. Joe Aston has used them as a good and safe resting spot on his way through the state and, in return, had taught them how to protect themselves – something they seemed to have kept up all these years. And when her brother had died they'd been some of the first to arrive at the funeral, staying with them in the house long after the service had ended and their family home had become eerily empty. So, in some strange twist of fate, they'd become her family. But they were always too smart to stay for more than a few days – knowing very well how the dregs of hell could follow your scent no matter where you went. To lose the Johnsons would be like losing an Aunt and an Uncle – and for Rebekah that was just not acceptable.

But as she lay there, it was difficult not to feel comfortable and safe. The urge to stay longer was almost like an addiction, and Rebekah knew that the longer they stayed the less likely they'd be to leave. To have three meals a day with people instead of ghosts, to have the same bed to sleep in every night and someone to come home to that wasn't undead – to have all the things hunters didn't have. But all of the cushioned thoughts, no matter how powerful, cannot overcome the common sense that sits trained, obedient and instinctive at the back of the mind, the little voice that constantly reminds you that there is a job be done and the reasons why. For sadly, it is not thoughts of home and of morning toast and coffee or of warm baths and kind words that make you strong, it is the memories of murder and of blood. You don't fight for toast and warm baths – but you'd fight for life any day.

But as it was, that night, Rebekah and Meredith fell to sleep not with thoughts of murder and of blood, but with dreams of toast and of warm baths that just about managed to banish the nightmares away.