When Bela woke the next morning, Dean was not beside her.

No, he was sitting in a rickety old chair, his eyes fixed on the bottle. He had shaved, showered and dressed, the bags under his eyes were almost completely gone, and his body seemed totally relaxed. Instead of looking apprehensive or scared, he appeared rather confident and somewhat optimistic, especially as he had an actual—yes, actual—conversation with Sam's bottle.

"Boy, you'd never guess what just happened, Sammy," Dean was saying in a light whisper, trying to hold back an ironic chuckle. Based on the way he was speaking, Bela guessed that he wasn't aware that she was awake. "Let's just say that there is currently a beautiful woman lying in my bed—well, sort of my bed—and her name also happens to be Bela Talbot." He nodded and scoffed to himself, like Sam had said something in response, and then added, "Yeah, I know, right?"

Bela smirked to herself. Dean Winchester was definitely something else.

"Anyways, that's not what's important right now, sadly," he was saying now, his voice suddenly more sober. "I don't really know how, but today's the day that I'm going to get you out of there, you hear? No more Christina Aguilera, genie-in-the-bottle thing for you. It doesn't really suit you, man," through a space in the covers, Bela could just barely make out a sad smile on Dean's face. "I'm gonna find a way to free you, because someone very smart just recently told me that I always do, and I trust her word."

Bela's cheeks suddenly became very warm as she realized that Dean was again talking about her, and she couldn't resist poking her head up from under the blankets to send a sleepy smirk his way. He did a double-take in her direction, his face immediately turning pink with embarrassment, and she smiled wider.

"Do you have a fetish for inanimate objects or something, Dean?" she joked, her smile droopy as she was still trying to completely wake up. If he hadn't thought of how damn beautiful she looked then, he would have thought of some quick one-liner to shoot back at her.

"Oh, shut up," he said instead, smiling as he got out of the chair to sit on the bed beside her horizontal form. He poked her gently in the stomach as he added, "At least I don't talk in my sleep, unlike you."

Bela playfully swatted his hand away and frowned. "I do not."

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and nodded. "Yeah, you do, sweetheart."

"What did I say?"

He pretended to think for a second. "Well, you said something about me being the best guy you've ever had in bed…." Bela made a move to smack him on the arm but he chuckled and ducked out of the way at the last minute before clasping his hands lightly around her wrists to keep her from trying to hit him again.

"You do talk in your sleep, though," he said to her afterwards, playing with her fingers. "Just a few words here and there, bits and pieces, you know. You talked about your cat—oh, and something about some guy named Luke." He frowned, pretending to be jealous. "Should I be worried?"

Bela smiled. "No, he's no one special," she said, entwining her fingers with his. "Just a former client."

Dean noticed how her smile faltered after a while, and realization hit him. He drew his eyebrows together. "You mean the guy who you were supposed to sell the rabbit's foot to?"

"Yes, but"—she quickly smoothed her fingers along the side of his jaw as he actually became worried—"I'll be fine. You have enough to worry about as is."

"Just…be careful," he said quietly, resting his hand on the arm that was outstretched towards his face. He brushed his thumb over the bone in her wrist as he turned his head to the side and kissed her palm. "I don't want to get Sam back just to lose you after."

It was probably the sweetest thing that he had ever said to her and she smiled as she saw how genuinely concerned he was for her. She blinked once and sat up, pressing her lips to his and not caring one bit whether she had morning breath or not. Dean's mouth, on the other hand, still tasted like the spearmint of his toothpaste, and she relished the flavor on her own tongue as they kissed.

"Don't worry about me, Dean Winchester, because I always find a way, too."

He smirked as they pressed their foreheads together. "I know."

"Good," she said, pulling back to look at him. "So, did Bobby call you yet? What time is it, anyway?" she looked around the room in search of a clock, but couldn't find one.

After checking his watch, he answered, "It's eleven o'clock and, yeah, Bobby called," he said. "He's supposed to meet us at Aliyev's in an hour. In the meantime, you should eat breakfast. There's coffee and a bagel and cream cheese over there." He thumbed over his shoulder at a small, round table that was pushed against the window.

Bela edged out of the bed, finding the robe that had been thrown aside last night and tying it around her waist once again. She walked over to the table and began putting her bagel together, completely aware that Dean's eyes watched her the entire time. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she stirred her coffee.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, lying down and kicking his feet up, his hands folded behind his head. He was smiling, almost to himself. "I just really, really like you."

And she knew that in the vocabulary of Dean Winchester, those words meant a hell of a lot.

An hour later, Bela had since polished off her breakfast and dressed and showered, her hair blow-dried and her makeup done. Dean watched her get ready in silence, smiling the whole time as he watched her steadily apply her eyeliner and cover her lips in strawberry gloss, and every now and then she would glimpse at him in the mirror and he'd make a face at her, and she'd roll her eyes, but smile nonetheless.

It seemed like it was a normal routine for them, despite the fact that it was the longest time that either of them had spent with a lover after a night of sex. Normally, Dean tip-toed out in the morning before his partner could wake up, while Bela would usually kick hers out of her apartment before they could even so much as say "good morning". Despite all this they were enjoying each other, and both secretly wished that they could go on like this forever.

Sadly, however, they both realized as they checked out of the motel and climbed back into the Impala, that sooner or later their little fling was going to have to come to an end. The both of them separately decided to shelve this thought until it was absolutely necessary to think about, and instead focused on the present, where they were content as is.

As they settled in the car, Dean pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and stared at some words that he had scribbled there, which Bela presumed to be Aliyev's address. Around half an hour later they were pulling up in front of an average-looking one-story house, painted a beige color with a half-broken picket fence and fronted by a square of dead grass. Across the street sat Bobby's empty car and Bela gave Dean an encouraging smile, squeezing his hand once before they fetched the duffel and the bottle and climbed out the car, walking up to the front door.

Vadim Aliyev was a small, old man, definitely older than Bobby, with short, snow white hair that was thicker on the sides than it was on the top, which only consisted of about seven or eight strands. He had a sleek pair of rectangle glasses perched on his nose, the lenses dark, and he was outfitted in a knit cardigan and yellow polo shirt, coupled with a pair of slacks and casual shoes. He stood with a significant hunch and leaned on a cane, while he slowly brought his other hand to press against Dean's face.

Bela thought he was cute, while she could tell that Dean was barely managing to hold on to his patience as the old shaman gently poked and prodded his face.

"Hello," Bela said, looking past Aliyev and into his house. "Is Bobby Singer here?"

Aliyev dropped his hand from Dean's face but didn't look at Bela as he spoke. "He's here. We've been expecting you." He turned around and started walking back inside, swinging the cane from side to side in front of him. "Please, come in and follow me."

Dean and Bela exchanged a look as they stepped inside. He was blind?

"Your friend has filled me in on your predicament," Aliyev said as they walked down a narrow hallway and into a makeshift living area in the back of the home, where Bobby was currently waiting for them, standing next to a sleeping form on the couch beside him.

Sam Winchester looked peaceful, kind of like how dead people look when you view them in their caskets, although he didn't look gray and he didn't smell like those god-awful flowers that just reminded you of death every time you got a whiff of them. No, he looked relaxed and well, if not lying in a slightly awkward position as his incredibly long legs hung over the edge of the couch, and Bela couldn't help but notice how Dean visibly brightened when he saw how healthy his brother's body looked.

"Hey, kid," Bobby said, bringing Dean into a one-armed hug and clapping him gently on the back. He then stepped aside and nodded in her direction. "Bela."

"Hello, Bobby. Always a pleasure," She replied, and Bobby gave Dean a quizzical look when he noticed that her words lacked any trace of sarcasm.

"Take a seat," Aliyev instructed after they were done exchanging greetings, waving a hand over the numerous empty seats before them. Dean and Bela sat down next to one another on the small loveseat across from Sam. "I assume you have the drum with you?"

It was an obvious question but they both avoided giving him some sarcastic remark in return, with Dean instead answering in the positive and subsequently taking the sleek drum out of the duffel and handing it over to the shaman.

"Very well. Now, if you'd just place the bottle in your brother's hands, we can proceed."

Dean got up and slipped the bottle out of his pocket, placing it in the center of Sam's torso and gently covering it with his hands. He smiled softly down at his brother, winking for good measure, and then took his place at Bela's side again, clasping her hand in his.

What they saw next was hard to describe. Aliyev had sat down in a chair between the two parallel couches; the drum balanced upright on his knee and his hand reaching behind his back and pulling out some sort of hammer-looking object, which Bela presumed to be the drumstick. The old man hummed something to himself, and none of the others knew whether it was part of the ceremony or not, but he was soon beating on the drum with the face of the hammer, some sort of odd beat that didn't sound like it had any rhythm to it whatsoever ringing in each of their ears. His wrist flicked back and forth at a rapid speed, the beat getting faster and faster and more and more intense as it progressed, and he was still humming a simple tune to himself, like how normal people did when they washed dishes or dusted furniture.

Dean's eyes were fixed on the bottle the entire time, and he began to grow a little nervous as he saw Sam's hands gradually tighten around the old clay flask, the veins on the backs of his hands beginning to pop out and the tips of his fingers turning white with the pressure. It seemed like the quicker the beat got, the tighter Sam's grip on the bottle became, and soon he was squeezing it so hard that his arms and hands were shaking, and Dean realized that he was sort of shaking, too.

And then, suddenly, the ugly bottle shattered in Sam's hands, the shards falling on his stomach and the white smoke—Sam's soul, Bela realized—extending over his body like an opaque fog, slowly settling lower and lower until it was completely gone.

For a while it was quiet, and Dean was clenching his jaw so hard that Bela thought he might crack a tooth, but then Sam's eyes popped open and he immediately sat up straight, panting.

"Sammy!" Dean made a move to get up, but Bobby stood at the same time and placed a hand on his shoulder to still him as Aliyev said, "Give your brother some time to readjust. He will be alright, I can assure you."

Sam looked around the room, his eyes skimming over everyone before landing on his brother. "Dean?"

Dean shrugged Bobby's hand off of his shoulder and walked over to his brother, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. Sam looked at the other people in the room with them, his eyes scanning over Bobby and the old man in the stereotypical old man clothing before settling on the pretty girl with the cat-like, sea green eyes and brown hair.

It was Bela. He was looking at Bela. "What the hell is going on?"

Dean held his brother at arm's length, smiling broadly. "It's good to have you back, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he frowned, forcing his eyes away from Bela—sometimes the scar in his shoulder still hurt—and bringing the heel of his hand up and pressing it against his forehead. "God, what is going on? And why the hell does my head feel like it's being drilled into by a jackhammer?"

"That'll be the side effects of being soulless," Aliyev stated matter-of-factly. "It'll go away in a couple of hours."

Sam gaped at the old guy with the faint—was it Russian?—accent. "Soulless?"

Dean frowned. "You mean you really don't remember?"

"No, I don't, and the confusion isn't making my head feel any better," Sam grumbled.

Dean sat back beside Bela and Sam couldn't help but notice how close their knees were to touching. Nevertheless, he didn't comment on this as his brother began to explain to him everything that had happened to him in Indiana, and he suddenly realized that there were multiple shards of the bottle still hanging about in his lap. He picked them out, listened to how Dean and Bela embarked on a road trip from New York to North Dakota to save his "sorry ass", as Dean put it, and soon, they were leaving Aliyev's house and promising him that they wouldn't get their souls trapped any time soon.

Not long after that, Dean, Bela, and Sam were saying their goodbyes to Bobby, who pointed them in the direction of an empty house that he had squatted in overnight, telling them that Sam should get some rest—with Dean arguing that he had had plenty of rest—before they got back on the road. Nevertheless, they obeyed the man's wishes, and soon found themselves sitting around a table in the otherwise vacant house's living room, drinking beers.

"Wouldn't have pegged you as a beer-drinker, Bela," Sam said, rolling a bottle cap beneath his fingers.

Bela shrugged as she tipped her bottle to her lips. "I'm full of surprises."

Dean smirked and said under his breath, "Don't I know it."

Sam looked between the both of them, then decided that there wouldn't have been a better time to ask than then. "Alright, what the hell is going on here?"

"Dude, we already told you. Soul-trapping? Ugly bottle? Did you even listen to anything we told you back at the shaman's house?" Dean frowned, reaching over to lightly knock on the side of his brother's skull.

Sam pushed his hand away. "No, man, I'm talking about here; between you two."

Bela and Dean exchanged glances, with the former's cheeks slightly turning pink. Dean playfully nudged her in the arm. "To be honest? I don't really know, but something happened, and it's not that bad."

"She shot me!"

Bela rolled her eyes. "This again? Can we not let bygones be bygones?"

Sam glared at her but Dean raised his hands at his sides in peace. "C'mon, if it weren't for Bela you wouldn't be here, man. I understand she shot you, which"—he gave Bela a look—"wasn't very cool, but no one's getting shot now, and no one's getting shot any time soon. Right?"

Who knew that Dean Winchester would ever be playing the role of peacemaker? Nevertheless, Bela and Sam complied. "Right," they said in unison.

"Okay, cool, because for the first time in almost a week I am stress-free, and I don't want either of you ruining that for me." He polished off the rest of his beer before stretching, almost every joint in his body cracking with a satisfying pop.

After a while, Sam spoke again. "I guess I should thank you two for saving me," he said, smiling ironically at his brother. "After all, it would have kind of been useless for you to make your deal only for me to end up pretty-much dead a few months later, huh?"

He had expected a laugh, but all he got was a deeply tense look from Dean, and a largely confused look from Bela.

"What? What deal?" Her eyebrows drew together and she leaned forward to look at Dean in the eyes. "What's he talking about?"

Dean began to answer, but before he could make up some excuse, Sam said, "You mean you haven't told her?"

"Told me what, Dean?"

A thick silence fell over them, with Bela glaring at Dean and Dean staring at the floor and Sam wishing like hell that he hadn't opened his mouth, but also cursing his brother for not telling Bela the whole truth. Of course, he wouldn't have had a reason to tell her about his deal with the crossroads demon had he not became involved with her in the first place, but there was no going back now, especially since Dean didn't want to.

"A few months ago, Sammy died," he began, his voice quiet and his eyes slowly meeting hers. "I was desperate, I was…I was about to lose the only person I had left." As he went on, Bela's eyes slowly clouded with realization and her lips flattened into a thin white line. "So, I did the only thing that I could think of to bring him back. I sold my soul."

By this time, Bela was staring at him with her fists clenched on top of the table, and all she wanted to do was cry and yell at him for being such a bloody idiot, for feeling like he was so goddamned obligated to protect his brother, but she did none of that and instead, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, asked,

"How much time do you have left?"

His jaw was set and he couldn't look at her in the eye as he spoke. "Around three months."

Without another word, Bela pushed her chair back and got up from the table, heading straight for the front door.

"Bela," Dean followed her, finally reaching her at the end of the sidewalk, where he managed to curl his fingers around her upper arm. "Bela, wait. I'm sorry—"

She whirled on him, stubbornly refusing to let the tears stinging her eyes finally fall. "No," she said in a trembling voice, shoving a finger in his face. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare, because you could have saved us a hell of a lot of confusion by telling me before we slept together—before I began to fall for you, you goddamned arse."

He blinked at her words, his voice quiet. "Bela, I'm sorry."

She leaned back, almost like if she stood any closer to him his words would stab a hole through her heart, and shook her head. She turned around without uttering another word and walked away, tears stinging her eyes and her arms wrapped around her body. Dean watched her, but didn't follow.

It wasn't until she was sitting in the driver's seat of some car that she had stolen and hot-wired, speeding down some freeway that would lead her to the nearest airport, that she let out a strangled choke and finally let her tears fall from her eyes. She beat the steering wheel with her fist until it was red and raw and sore; gripped it until the skin over her knuckles threatened to split, and cursed Dean Winchester.

She cursed him all to heaven, because no matter how much she hated him in that moment, she also loved him, and he did not deserve to go to hell.