Bela woke the next morning cold, clammy and gasping, her fingers darting up at her throat in a vain attempt to try and pull an invisible pair of hands away from her neck. Then, suddenly, a pair of arms snaked around her biceps, their hands clasping below her bosom, and she was about to struggle when she realized, abruptly, that these hands weren't going to hurt her.

These hands belonged to Dean.

He rocked her into him, pressed the flat of her back into his chest and brushed his lips against the curve of her ear. "It's alright, Bela," he was saying to her, "You're safe. I'm right here."

She brought a pair of shaky hands to her face and when she pulled them back, there was no red. No blood. She looked down at her arms and stomach and legs. She was covered in a soft white robe, not the tank top and pajama pants that she remembered being in last. She had ripped her trousers, right? That's why—

And then she remembered Dean hovering over her in the woods, the moon illuminating the deeply concerned expression etched on to his face. Remembered him tentatively peeling off her clothes, his fingertips brushing against her bare skin every now and then and contrasting heavily with the iciness she felt coursing through her body. Remembered him bathing her, calloused hands scraping the blood away—the hit man's blood, not hers, she shakily recalled. Remembered him smoothing a thumb along her ankle as he used his other hand to clean and wrap her foot up; remembered him gently coercing her to lie down, propping her head against the thigh of his jeans as he cupped her elbow and stroked her hair until she fell asleep.

She stared blankly out the window. The woods. The slim man. Did Dean just leave him there? She couldn't remember. Then she realized that she was actually voicing her thoughts out loud, and that Dean was answering them.

"He's taken care of, don't worry," he told her, rubbing a circle on the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. His hands were incredibly warm, not clammy or sweaty or hot, just warm. She could feel his heat spreading through her body, fighting off the icy invisible hands at her neck, melting them away. "He's gone, never coming back."

"Never coming back," she echoed. "Gone."

"That's right," Dean said, "Now go back to sleep. We have some time before we should leave."

But instead, Bela sat up and turned to gaze at his face. He had dark smudges under his eyes, which were also bloodshot, and deep creases along his forehead, which probably came from a lack of sleep and too much stress. She absently brought up a finger and traced the lines before drawing an invisible one between his eyebrows and down to the tip of his nose.

"When's the last time you slept?" she asked him, frowning.

He didn't answer her for a long time. "A couple of days, I don't know. It's you I'm worried about, though, Bela. You didn't sleep well last night."

"And you didn't sleep at all," she countered.

He let out a frustrated sigh before softening his expression. "Fine. How about we both sleep, deal?"

"Deal," she answered, returning to her original position curled up against his chest.

Bela went right back to sleep. Dean, however, didn't at all.

A few hours later and Bela was standing in front of the shower in her bra and underwear, staring blankly at the drain.

From the couch, Dean frowned. She'd been in there for fifteen minutes already.

He rose up on stiff legs and walked over to the bathroom door, where he knocked once. Despite it being barely a tap, Bela jumped.

"Hey. You okay?" She didn't answer. He waited. "Bela?"

When she didn't answer again, he edged the door open. The seat was down on the toilet and she was sitting on it, her eyes fixed on the floor of the shower. When she noticed his presence she turned her head and looked up at him, her eyes swimming in terror.

"It's not there anymore, is it?"

He knelt down beside her. "What's not there anymore?"

"The blood."

He watched her grim expression before covering her hand with his own on her knee. "No, it's not. You'll never see it again, okay?"

"Okay."

"Do you need help?" she shook her head. "Okay. Take your time, alright? I'll clean and pack everything up while you shower."

He did just that. He started to clean up the kitchenette before going into the bedroom and putting all of her stuff back in her suitcase and thoughtlessly eyeing the duffel holding the drum. When he came back into the living room ten minutes later, he found Bela sitting on the couch with nothing but a towel wrapped around her, her wet hair dripping on to the back of the chair and rolling on to the carpet.

He bent down and cracked her suitcase open. He shuffled past anything that even remotely resembled a skirt before finding a single pair of designer-looking jeans and a cashmere V-neck sweater the color of wine near the bottom, pulling those two out before deciding that she'd probably need a new bra and pair of panties as well. After fishing those out with a slight blush in his cheeks, he walked over to Bela and gently placed them in her arms, telling her that he'd go back and finish cleaning the kitchen to give her some privacy and time to change.

He wasn't checking her out. At least, not in the vulgar, unashamed way he usually checked out women. He tried his best to focus on clearing the kitchen counter of all the food they didn't eat, but he kept getting distracted every time she caught the corner of his eye, absently tugging on her jeans before clasping the fresh bra behind her nude back. He swallowed and pried his eyes away, brows creased in determination.

"Are you okay?" Bela asked him, almost starting to sound like her normal sassy self. Still, her face showed genuine concern for him.

"What?"

"You seem mad," she observed, gesturing at his strained expression. If only she knew, he thought. When he looked at her again, she was just covering the last of her bare stomach with the sweater, and his breath hitched as he caught glimpse of her navel.

"I…no, I'm fine," he replied, clearing his throat. "Are you okay?"

She let out a deep breath and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. "I'm…better," she smiled weakly. "Thanks."

Dean smiled back, then stepped aside and gestured for her to walk first out the door. They checked out of their cabin and returned their keys and again, as they walked out, Mrs. McKenzie called, "And thanks for staying with us, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney!" but this time Bela didn't comment on the name, didn't comment on anything.

She simply smiled to herself and wondered what it'd be like to actually be something similar to a Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney with Dean Winchester, and couldn't help but think that it didn't seem like it'd be such a bad life.