Author's Note:

Rebekah

Recommended Playlist:

Of Monsters and Men – Sloom

Oceanlab – On a Good Day

Deaf Havana – Friends Like These

Chapter Seven

Aston Lodge, Brookfield, Missouri. 11.58 a.m.

Tuesday 23rd September 2008.

The lodge contained more bathrooms and closets than her own semi-modest ranch had rooms. Once the floor plan of the labyrinth of wood and stone had been mapped all was well for the little hunter, though upon first arrival she had lost her way almost immediately, winding up in the 'East Wing', completely unaware of its existence until she'd stumbled upon it, room after room of shelves of books and of knick-knacks, glass cases containing ancient scriptures and even older mementos of hunts and travels past. But she hadn't been the first to discover the mysterious East Wing, and it hadn't taken Rebekah too long to uncover her companion curled up on one of the many window seats, head in a book, murmuring words of languages long forgotten as she bathed herself in fresh and yet unabsorbed knowledge. And she'd left her there, undisturbed, choosing instead to find her way back along the trail of breadcrumbs she'd left behind her.

Rebekah and Meredith were not social creatures, a widely known fact long ago learnt by her family and friends. They were therefore housed in the very rafters of the West Wing, an attic-like floor space that had only recently been divided into a small semi-apartment, a shared bathroom, three bedroom area only accessible by a tight spiral staircase, wooden slats and gaps the size of the hunter's fist giving her a heart attack when she'd first found herself up against them, the girl having to haul up her bags as best she could whilst trying her hardest not to trip over any of the dogs that continued to swarm around her feet. They'd been set away from the pack, the other cousins and hunters taking refuge and solace in the communal warmth of the main house, the 'new arrivals' picking both the short and the highly suitable straw in terms of accommodation.

And there'd been so many names to learn her head was already swimming, the complex mass of faces that had greeted them with a wall of warm welcome almost drowning her in a sea of bonds yet to be formed and identities yet to discover. For that was how she'd been raised, caught in the midst of two brothers who trusted no one but their own kin, flesh and blood not ending in that that ran in their veins but through the earning of trust. They had family in the farthest reaches of their world, both biological and non-blood, but such ties had taken years to form and did not just happen at the flick of a switch. Beck new she had a job on her hands, learning the names and matching them to the faces of the three strangers she knew were lurking beneath the same roof that sheltered her own head. She didn't mean to be suspicious – you just had to be.

Rebekah dumped her bags on her bed, stretching her arms out above her head, feeling her joints crack. Axel had already buried himself under her pillows, slightly dusty paws marking the silken sheets. They'd put their stamp on the place like they always did, Axel leaving paw prints here there and everywhere, Sky moulting in a particular corner somewhere (and only that corner – the warmest where the pipes would run under the floorboards to ease her bones), Alistair finding a very particular piece of furniture on which he'd sharpen his teeth. And it'd always been that way – how it would always be. And she was just as guilty, often wondering how many hairbrushes she'd left here or there, always seeming to need a new one whenever they moved on because she always left the bloody things next to the sink. And she knew they'd put a mark on her cousins' place too, maybe carve her initials into the bare rafters that cut up the white ceiling, a moment or two captured in a photo and hidden away in a family album to replace the ones of her with braces. That way – she'd have something to come back to next time.

"Are you settled in?"

Alistair growled, Beck almost jumping out of her skin. She turned quickly on her heels, wincing a little as all manner of old injuries groaned in futile protest, feeling a little foolish all flushed and panicked beneath the gaze of the not so-stranger standing at the door.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes," the hunter smiled, her body relaxing, a breath escaping her. "It's been-"

"A long time. Come here Princess," she laughed, arms outstretched, pulling her into a warm embrace.

Jo Harvelle always felt and smelt the same – always had. The Roadhouse had been her second home in the old days when Joe and Jake hadn't got the man hours between them to babysit, sending her down the road (or two) to Ellen, knowing full well nothing could harm her there without getting harmed first. And Jo was like the sister she'd never had but had always wished God for, someone who'd plaited her hair without pulling the roots from her scalp because her brothers were both useless at those sorts of things. She was the friend before Meredith, the only other female in her life that had understood her situation (save Ellen). And she did smell and feel the same, like sandalwood and honey and warmth, not floral and soft like Meredith, but still good all the same.

And, just like the good old days, as they pulled away from each other they found their hair tangled, gold strands wrapped around a chocolaty-auburn, the two young women spending a spare moment unravelling the knots, smiles still permanently painted in their eyes and on their lips, flushing their cheeks pink. There were two types of people in Rebekah's world, those like Meredith and those like Jo. And Beck loved and appreciated the both of them in their own way, Meredith her friend, her companion, her walking book; and Jo, the woman she didn't have to worry about, the one she could turn her back on and not have to fear for her safety, her sister. Brown eyes met blue, Beck punching her ever so softly in the shoulder, Jo nudging her backwards with the palm of her hand as they laughed, Axel dragging himself from beneath the copious amount of cushions on her bed to treat the angel-haired hunter to a complimentary kiss against her bare knees.

"He's new," she grinned, ruffling him between his ears.

"Yeah," Rebekah sighed, hooking the boxer round his stomach, tucking him beneath her arm, "he's young but you should see'im chase down a SkinWalker – I've never seen anythin' like it."

Alistair scoffed, the great thing disappearing beneath her bed in a mound of fur and scratching paws, the hunter frowning as she set the little creature down against the laminate, allowing him to follow his elder beneath the furniture and knowing full well she wouldn't be seeing him for a long while.

"How are you anyway – are you all set up?"

Jo shrugged, "I am. I got here yesterday, arrived with Tamara-"

"Who?"

"The woman – dark skin, short black hair, not much good at conversation-"

Rebekah recalled the frosty reception she'd received and nodded, "I remember."

"Anyway," she muttered, fingers gently prodding a bruise on the hunter's shoulder, "wanna' fill me in?"

They talked for quite some time, Meredith never making an appearance, Rebekah long ago sacrificing her to the East Wing, knowing she'd leave when she was good and ready. With no one to distract them the two hunters talked animatedly for more hours than they could count, the morning unfolding into afternoon, both blonde and brunette lying back against the bed, hair splayed out as they stared up at the ceiling, Rebekah's feet flat against the wall above her headboard, Jo's legs hanging off the end of the bed. Joanna revealed unto her sister the most recent past events of her life, her leaving the Roadhouse, leaving Ellen, following in her daddy's footsteps like the good little soldier she was. How she'd been practicing hard and how much she missed her mom, a tear being shed here and there though she'd quickly wipe them away, Beck pretending never to have seen them through a mutual courtesy they shared. In return she shared with her her current predicament, that her brother hadn't known where she was, that she'd left without telling him, how much she missed Jake – how much she missed Joe (how it hurt). She talked about her crash, held her arms up to the sky as she ran her fingers across her scars and fresh cuts, letting her fingers fall against her face where old injuries still fought to heal, explaining each one, showing her the bruising against her ribs, bones straining against mottled skin. It was only when she came to more recent events that her friend's face changed almost entirely, looks of awe and of concern falling to expressions of acknowledgment and wonder, even anger (though this was well hidden).

"-so when we woke up we packed immediately. And then he was there and my God Jo he had to be the tallest creature I have ever seen! All long limbed like a deer and I swear I could have – well I thought it'd all been my own mind ya'know? But it hadn't been and there he was, and there was another one outside and – it was just madness. I don't even believe it now if I'm honest," the hunter shrugged against the sheets, folding her arm under her head as she rolled on her side to face her, "Sam and Dean. I don't even know-"

"Winchester," Jo muttered, eyes trained on the dream catcher gently swaying above their heads.

Beck propped herself up on an elbow, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. "What?"

Jo's gaze flicked to her, "Was one like – did he look cut out of a men's magazine or something?" Beck nodded. "And the long one – mess o'hair and the face of a little angel?"

"How did you-"

"Their daddy got my daddy killed," she said matter-of-factly, train of sight returning to the fluttering feathers hanging from the rafters.

"They – they saved my life Jo."

"Yeah," she muttered, rolling onto her side, concentration now broken. "They do that."

When Jo had eventually been called away by one of her many cousins Rebekah was left alone against the white sheets of the bed, her head surrounded in a halo of paw shaped prints, Axel curled up beneath her arm, Sky's head against her right thigh and Alistair's against her left. She wrapped and unwrapped a single golden strand of Harvelle hair around her index finger, winding it and unwinding it so many times she lost count. Jo was filled with so much – stuff, Beck couldn't even begin to unravel it. It exhausted her to even think about the complex web of weight that dragged her down. Family issues seemed to come all part and parcel with the job, though she couldn't even comprehend something so bad she'd walk out on Jake or vice versa. Ellen was everything she'd ever wanted in a mother figure, knowing her own mother Bethany wouldn't have been much different if she was still with her, so the idea that Ellen had done something so wrong to force Jo away from her – well it confounded her quite simple and tired mind. And worst of all, Jo had changed. Something, something incredibly recent, had turned her that little bit colder – cold like her. It was always something that she'd hoped would never happen, though she had to admit from the sounds of things the fresh little hunter had gotten her roots into the business – it was bound to happen. But she'd always held out hope that Ellen could save her from herself, though it seemed that if the Winchester's had anything to do with anything things tended to go downhill. And now Jo was almost as cold and as blatant as she was, and that somehow managed to turn her stomach enough she had to nap it off.

Though, as Rebekah ventured downstairs, it seemed as though the Harvelle's mood had improved considerably. It appeared as though Jo had taken to Meredith like a house on fire (an irony Beck didn't like thinking about). The youngest Aston had had to halt at the door, battered body resting against the archway, almost unable to stop herself from beaming at such and unfamiliar sight. Meredith sat at the kitchen counter with Jo at her side, the hunter looking remarkably older and worldlier than the little sparrow that sat perched on her stool, pouring over the arsenal of weapons Jo had laid out for her on the black marble. Mer's fingers hesitantly brushed the cold metal of her knife engraved with Harvelle initials, her teeth softly nipping at her lower lip as her nails came into contact with the sentimental carving. All around her family life had splayed itself like an open and warm embrace, dogs and humans alike lounging in various and often unlikely places, Shane (for instance) taking refuge in the corner of the kitchen, back against the oven, right leg hanging off the counter, a mutilated apple in one hand and a knife in his right.

Beck took her secondary step into normality, only just having recovered from the sentimental attack she'd received that very morning upon arrival. Without a word to Shane she helped herself to the cupboard beside his head, pulling out a packet of chips and a jar of dip from off one of the shelves before setting it on the side, sliding in her socks across the tiles to the fridge to get a sip of water. She felt the heat of his body against her back before she sensed anything else; never having heard him set down his things or drop down to the floor. She dropped her gaze with a carefully concealed smile and spotted his toes mere centimetres away from the backs of her heels. All it'd take would be one shot, one direct connection of elbow to stomach and she could floor him in one-

He already had her mapped before she could even take a second breath. How she ended up looking at the ceiling was so far beyond her it made her head spin, though she was very much poleaxed as her vision became clouded by his grinning face, short blonde hair flopping over his eyes as he stood over her, hands on his knees, expression one of sheer pride at the feat he'd just performed and embarrassment on her behalf. How the hell had he even done that? She hadn't even felt him touch her.

"Watch yourself country-girl," he laughed, pulling her up into him, strong arms wrapping round her like a vice. "You smell like shitty truck fumes. What the hell's wrong with you-" he muttered releasing her, the older hunter returning to his apple. "We've got unlimited funds Beck, don't you think it's time-"

"Not a chance in hell," she gasped, leaning back against the counter when he finally let her go, hand burying itself inside the packet of crisps. "Don't go hatin' on the truck. You know Joe would never have her retired."

"She'll retire herself if you're not careful," he smiled, taking a sip from her drink. "I just want what's best for y-"

"Bullshit," she muttered with a grin, flicking a chip or two in his direction, "you're just gonna' be embarrassed to be seen with me is all – when we're out and about and you're in your totally conspicuous waste of money and I'm in my trusted – what do you call it?"

"Rusted shit-bucket."

"Yeah – that."

He raised a glass to her, "Well congrats Sherlock – you got me."

The Aston-Bradleys were almost doppelgangers of her side of the clan, though Shane had somehow managed to inherit some blonde from somewhere down the line. Siv and Shane had been in her life ever since she'd said her first word, hunting with her as soon as she'd been able to fire her first shot. The only differentiation Rebekah could make between the two sets of brothers (save appearance) was in terms of personality, the Aston-Bradleys being entirely forwards instead of the Aston's complete backwards sense of organisational responsibility, the eldest Siv being the mature and responsible one and not the reckless flake-out her eldest had been, Joe sharing more of Shane's womanising, free-roaming personality compared to Tom and Jake who were like two pees in a reliable pod.

"Have you met Mer yet?" she asked coolly, regarding him carefully out of the corner of her eye.

"I have…"

"And?"

"Not my type."

Rebekah let out the breath she'd been holding. "Thank fuck for that," she mumbled through a mouthful of damp potato.

"The blonde however-" he smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope. Nope!" She laughed, thrusting the half empty bag of crisps into his hands, "Don't you dare. Off limits! I'm puttin' my foot down."

"Oh Yeah? We'll see about that," he grinned.

She was upside down before she could even say another word, Meredith and Jo now laughing at her from the roof. Her hair hung loose over her face, dragging across the floor as she kicked and squealed in her cousin's arms, his grip around her thighs so strong her toes were starting to tingle. She battered his shins with her fists, screamed and cursed his name until she was both blue and red in the face. Her head felt unbelievably dizzy, so heavy in comparison to the rest of her body she doubted she'd ever be able to walk again if she was to be put upright. Her cousin didn't seem to have any of these immediate plans in mind however, and the young hunter was half carried, half dragged throughout the kitchen and living room, every single dog inhabiting the main floor of the house seeming to congregate on their ungainly procession to share in her misery, her face shimmering with saliva after a few minutes of 'kisses'. After a while she gave up smacking and swiping at him, her arms trailing limply along the tiles and the laminate as they passed from room to room, her original shouts of protest turning into mutterings and grumbles of long strings of swear words.

"How are you gonna' put your foot down when-"

"Oh shut up Shane!" she muttered, arms now crossed, her head feeling as though it was going to implode.

He dumped her in a groaning heap onto one of the sofas, her head landing awkwardly in the lap of a stranger though she was far too dizzy and near passing-out to care. He seemed uncomfortable beneath her though and the poor hunter had reason to be, her head lying against his crotch, her flushed face moaning and muttering in his lap. Shane dropped himself into one of the armchairs closest to the fire, arms crossed over his chest, nodding at anyone who dared give him a disapproving look.

"Are you quite done?"

"Quite."

"Good. Then shall we begin?"

It was the largest gathering of hunters (outside a bar) she'd seen in a long time. She had very little material to go on, but the moment she'd extricated herself from the poor gentleman's lap and got her head back together she quickly began to realise how big of a job it was actually going to be. Excluding Meredith there had to be ten of them, the two Aston-Bradleys, her cousins Lillian, Jennifer and Richard, the man she'd been dumped on, the one who seemed intent on discovering the bottom of the bottle of whiskey, Tamara, her and Jo. That, in hunting terms, was a serious job indeed. Her head was already swimming with pieces of information, memories recalled from hunts past, things she'd read in her brother's journals and diaries, things she'd picked up, things Jake had told her and so on and so on. She could barely hear her cousins speak over the incessant droning of memory, a sense enhanced by her intended dehydration, something that didn't know when to shut up at the worst of times but sometimes failed to kick in when needed.

"- what d'you think Beck?"

"Huh?"

"Leave her be Jen – she's havin' a hard time Seein' aren't you sweetie?"

"I just need – like one second. I haven't drunk anythin' in like-"

"Around thirty hours," Mer piped up from somewhere in the kitchen. "It's not long enough though – is it?"

"No it isn't," the hunter muttered, attention now drawn to her parched throat, "Thank you Meredith."

It was usually the case when she refused to drink, the purification process excellent for Recall but it thickened her up to the point where she thought she'd burst. Sight worked a little like custard; keep it wet and flowing and it works pretty well, leave it to stand and a skin begins to form. Recall, minus water, was the skin on the top of her custard, thickening with disuse, congealing into one mass of powerful memory until she'd barely be able to wade through it all. But that was what they needed, no matter how busy and crowded it got inside her head. The moment she began to drown in it all, that was when she'd be at her most useful.

The Astons and their guests talked well into the early hours of the morning, the great glass walls that boxed them in magnificent screens revealing the majesty of night as great swathes of stars stretched themselves out over the lake beyond their transparent confines. Every single minute detail was raked by a fine tooth comb, the more serious details being revised three or four times over until every last one of them could replay the plan backwards – even Meredith. The girl had begun the night insistent on tagging along and playing her part, but as hours passed and the darker details of the venture they were about to undertake came to light even she, as headstrong as she was, began to realise that she, more than any of them, wouldn't have a good chance of returning home in one piece (if at all). The bookworm resigned herself to map-work, head buried in faded papers and aged scrolls in a bid to get their movements exact as the big boys and girls talked of nastier things, things Rebekah didn't want her little sparrow to be a part of. She knew she was listening however, even as she tweaked charts and measured boundary lines. She was always listening – always learning.

It was only as morning's rays set alight their haggard faces that their meeting finally drew to some sense of conclusion. They'd long ago ran out of coffee and whisky, the vast underground pantries of the ranch barely able to support six hunter hours, their nourishment now coming from cups of watery tea and leftover chicken from the night before. The hunter who'd first cracked open the devil's drink, a man Rebekah now knew to be Sid, lay spread eagled against the rug in front of the guttering embers of the fire, a pen knife constantly flicking in and out of his fingers, his eyes neither here nor there as he muttered countless profanities in the general direction of the blood sucking bastards he so despised. Mer had long fallen asleep, head nestled in the crook of the young Harvelle's neck, Jo mindlessly plaiting strands of the girl's mousy hair as, for the final time, their bedraggled congregation walked through each individual step of the plan.

There was however, one thing missing. And that, as much as they all disliked it, would be left completely to chance. In showman's terms they all hoped it'd be alright on the night, and pray that the youngest Aston wouldn't give in to her demons and drink. For, without her Sight, they were blind fish in a barrel waiting to be shot. Gradually, as maps were rolled shut and scribbled notes locked away in their books their tired clan began to drift off to their allocated territories, the Aston-Bradley boys taking care of one girl each as they hoisted their sleeping forms on their backs, parting the girls for the first time that night as they returned them to their beds. In the end, Rebekah was left alone with Sid, his mumbling, drunken heap a mere shifting shadow in the dark. She sat perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped in her lap, her eyes closed against the deafening noise of her own thoughts as she tried to seek some sort of silent solace in a corner of her mind yet untouched by her rising madness. It'd be worth it in the end, she knew that. She'd done this a million times before and she'd do it a million times again in the future. All she had to do was grit her teeth through it. She had no choice.

Tomorrow was show time, and they'd all be screwed if she didn't make her curtain call.