How the Light Gets In

by Becks Rylynn

History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story.

6. No Love Without Teeth

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Graphic depictions of a panic attack. Mentions of suicide. Mentions of past child death.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Six:

No Love Without Teeth

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November, 2016

''Witchcraft?''

Dean looks up from the case file Iris handed him just in time to see Joe West burst into laughter. Not an entirely unwarranted reaction to this, if he's being honest. Can't blame the guy, really.

''So you were resurrected,'' Barry says slowly from his spot next to Joe, ''by witches?'' He's still in his Flash suit with his hands on his hips, nose wrinkled, eyebrows furrowed in both confusion and curiosity. He kind of looks a little bit like a puppy dog. He reminds Dean of Sammy when he was younger. ''As in...witches?''

Dean swallows down the chuckle that rises in his throat and looks back down at the file in his hands, lifting up a post it note to get at the photograph beneath it. ''That's generally how it works,'' he says, off handedly.

''Witches are real?'' Wally sounds less curious and more flabbergasted. ''Like, witches witches? Are we talking, like, their vulnerabilities are falling houses and buckets of water or are we talking pink taffeta? Rosenberg or Halliwell? Practical Magic or The Craft?''

''I'm not sure any of those are accurate,'' Laurel says, voice gentle.

''I don't know.'' Dean doesn't look up but he does shrug his shoulders. ''The Craft isn't what I'd call inaccurate.'' He turns one of the photographs over, squinting at the scribbled numbers on the back for at least a minute before he realizes it's a height and weight estimate. For an unofficial case file, this is incredibly detailed. Everything the Central City Crew has dug up about Onomatopoeia is in here. Every theory, every witness statement, details about every encounter, newspaper clippings, even crime scene photos from Virago's murder. This is impressive. Iris really is an intrepid reporter. Dean flips through the brutally gory photos of not only the body but the surrounding area, the dumpster, the word Onomatopoeia written in blood, and Virago's mask, lying bloodied and forgotten on the cement.

Her real name was Michelle Summers. She was from Portland, Oregon. She had a mother, a father, two sisters, a brother, and a miniature dachshund named Stevie. Came to Central City for school. She had no powers, no backup, very little training aside from a weekly kickboxing class, and she had no business going out on the streets but she was determined to do some good and she felt empowered by people like The Flash and Black Canary. She was mugged and assaulted late last year. Virago popped up on the scene less than six months later. All she wanted to do was help the people in her neighborhood.

At least these are the things he's learned from the extensive notes Iris took when she was interviewing Michelle's friends, family, and neighbors. Her notes even theorize that Michelle's assault was most likely the thing that set her on the path to being Virago. Helplessness often breeds power, says the notes written in Iris' quick, loopy writing. Surviving an attack like the one she faced might have given her a desperate need to control her environment. The adrenaline might have even made her feel invincible.

Michelle Summers was not invincible. She was twenty-one years old. She hadn't even graduated college yet. Now she won't be going home to Portland to see her family for Christmas, poor Stevie's left waiting by the door for an owner who isn't going to come home, and the crime scene clean up team is probably still hosing her blood off the dumpster in the alley behind some pawn shop less than a block away from where she lived.

This is the price. This is the price that comes attached to vigilantism. Costumed superheroes and caped crusaders are bedtime stories. At least they're meant to be. A nice thought and all, but not part of the real world. This isn't a Marvel movie. This is real life, and in real life there are consequences that come with leather clad righteousness. This is the consequence.

When vigilantes fight their battles in the middle of Main Street and somehow manage to win every time, people start believing that the world is fair. When they only ever see the bad guys lose, they start believing that the bad guys will always lose. And then things like this happen. The world is not fair. The world is cruel, harsh, violent, and people are scared. They feel helpless and unsafe, victimized and powerless in the face of an uncertain future, so when you give them an inch, they will take a mile.

That's why he preferred operating in the shadows. Sure, when he was a teenager he used to fantasize about being lauded as a hero and finally getting the praise he could never get from his father. Then he grew up. He killed monsters, he saved the world, and no one ever knew. It was better that way. People never had the chance to put on those rose-colored glasses. Things are different now. There are all these crime fighters running around on the streets and he can't blame them for wanting to help the innocent citizens of their dangerous and/or corrupt cities but man have they ever interrupted the status quo. People are so caught up in the whimsy of it that they don't quite grasp the fact that heroes aren't invincible or that with heroes come more villains and more danger.

And all these young kids like Michelle putting on these comic book shop masks so they don't have to feel powerless anymore, leaping into the fray without any training because they feel inspired by Vixen or Green Arrow - they don't really get it either. They have no idea what they're getting themselves into. The life of a vigilante is not glamorous. There is no glory here. This isn't a comic book. When you make the choice to go out onto those streets and look for your own brand of justice or vengeance then you have written your own story whether you know it or not. There is only one way this ends when you live your life like this.

Righteousness always ends in violence.

Dean looks over at Laurel, standing in front of the West family, arms crossed, calmly explaining the details of her complicated homecoming. She looks okay right now, despite the subject matter. She doesn't look lost or tired or sick. She's smiling kindly, handling their questions with ease and patience. She looks more comfortable here than she does at home.

He is not going to tell her any of this. His issues with vigilantism are his and his alone. He's not going to put them on her. Especially not when Black Canary has become such an integral part of her, woven into the very fabric of her being. You couldn't strip the Canary from her if you tried. She accepted the risks, is the thing. She knew the risks, she knew the danger, she thought long and hard about putting on that mask, and she made a well-informed decision because she believed it was the right thing to do. Yet she still died in the end, didn't she? Murdered in a violent, bloody senseless way. Stolen from her family just because she wanted to help people.

He looks back down at the file on Onomatopoeia, shuffling through the few blurry surveillance photos. You know what else? What a stupid fucking name. Obnoxious, pretentious, and just straight up overdramatic. Not only is the guy a serial killer but he's a giant tool.

''So, okay,'' Barry shakes his head, still looking confused. ''There are witches now?''

''There's always been witches,'' Dean says, but still doesn't bother to look up.

''I know it's hard to believe,'' Laurel adds, ''but I'd just like to point out...that you are really, really fast.''

''Right, but that's science,'' says Barry, earning a snort from Joe.

Laurel doesn't miss a beat. ''Which used to be considered witchcraft, didn't it? Maybe witchcraft is just science that most people don't understand yet.''

Barry doesn't have a rebuttal to that.

''It's as real as you and me,'' Laurel says.

''To be honest,'' Wally props his chin up in his hands, both elbows on the table as he takes a long look at her. ''Jury's still out on you. No offense.''

''None taken.''

''All right, let me get this straight.'' Iris, still wearing Dean's jacket but seemingly feeling a lot better now that Wally's brought her food, stops rifling around in the bag of takeout. ''Witches are real. They brought Laurel back to life because they want her Canary Cry. And you,'' she looks over at Dean, ''hunt them? As in Malleus Maleficarum hunting?''

He blinks at her, and then arches an eyebrow. ''Are you asking me if I use ancient torture methods to punish women for having irregular moles, red hair, or robust sex lives? Because no, I do not.''

She puts a hand on her hip, tilts her head to the side, and gives him a look like she can't decide whether she's exasperated or amused.

He leans back in his chair, smiling tightly. ''I used to hunt a lot of things.''

''A lot of things.'' Joe does not find that part as funny. ''Just how many things are there?''

Dean hesitates. He looks over at Laurel, but she just shrugs. ''Witches,'' he starts. ''Ghosts, vampires, ghouls, shapeshifters, hellhounds, demons, angels. It's all real. Name an urban legend and I'll tell you if it's real.''

Wally says, instantly, ''Zombies.''

''Yep. Real.''

Wally's eyes get big and he says in a small, half awed, half terrified voice, ''Holy shit.''

''I'm sorry,'' Barry says, ''but did you just say angels? Angels are real?''

''Yeah, they're dicks.''

''They're - oh.'' Barry frowns. ''I - I...was not expecting that.''

''Dean and I actually met when he was on a werewolf hunt,'' Laurel adds.

''Wait,'' Joe holds up a hand, turning to look at her incredulously. ''You hunt these things too? I thought you were a lawyer.''

''Oh, I am,'' Laurel nods, but then flinches and corrects herself, ''I...was. Um, anyway, no, I don't hunt the supernatural. I was a waitress back when we first met. It's - The werewolf was - '' She blows out a breath. ''It's a long story.''

''But you're not a Ghostbuster anymore?'' Iris asks, blowing right past Laurel's increasingly nervous babble. ''You said you used to hunt. You don't anymore?''

Dean tosses the file back on the table. ''No. I retired.''

''Why?''

''Figured thirty years of ghostbusting was enough.''

''Also,'' Laurel says, ''He knocked me up.''

Dean nods. ''Also that.''

''He's a stay at home dad now,'' she chirps.

''Mechanic, technically.''

She waves a hand dismissively. ''That's just temporary. You hate it.''

''We need the income, Laurel.''

''Well, we've still got to get you out of there. We'll figure something out.''

He sighs. ''How are we supposed to - ''

''What if we took out a second mortgage on the house?''

''You do realize,'' Wally drawls, ''that we're all still here, right?''

''Please don't take out a second mortgage if you don't need to,'' says Joe.

''Hey,'' Iris frowns. ''Wally, did you forget the - ''

Wally spins around, sticks his hand into one of the bags of takeout, produces a smaller, greasy looking white paper bag, and hands it over to his sister with a flourish. ''I learned after last time.''

Iris smiles widely, trading the bag for a kiss on the cheek. She seems better now. She's not shaking anymore. She spent the entire ride over to Star Labs on the phone with her father, calming him down, and then was immediately swept up into Barry's arms the second she stepped out of the car. Now she just seems hungry. Which Dean can understand. He leans over to peer at her food curiously but mostly uses it as an excuse to look at her, inconspicuously checking her over for any visible injuries he might have missed. ''Chinese?''

She looks up from her bag of goodies. ''Vietnamese, actually.'' She holds the bag out to him. ''Spring roll?''

''As a rule I never say no to a spring roll.''

''A rule I can get behind.''

He plucks one of the crispy rolls from the bag and immediately looks over at Laurel. She's shaking her head at him but she's smiling. He catches her eye, sending her a grin, and she blushes. It's nice to know that even after six and a half years together, he can still make her blush.

When Iris holds the bag of spring rolls out to her, however, her smile slips. Just enough for him to notice. She politely declines the food, even though she's barely eaten all day. That's a thing now. Her appetite comes and goes. Some days she's her normal self; avocado toast with a poached egg for breakfast like she's had every weekday morning for the past seven years, suggesting Mario's for dinner because she's craving mushroom and olive pizza, or slipping Mary a cookie before dinner with a wink even though Dean's just told her no.

Other days, she's repulsed by the mere mention of food, she can barely stomach the smell of cooking food, and it's a chore just to get her to choke down some toast or scrambled eggs. The other day, all she had to eat for the entire day was half a piece of the peanut butter and honey toast that Mary left behind at breakfast, a handful of pretzels, and a banana. He doesn't even know what she's eaten today. He knows she had yogurt at breakfast and managed to get down half a protein bar on the drive here. He thinks that might be it. It's a lot like when she was pregnant. Except she's definitely not pregnant. They've checked. Several times.

She blames it on stress now. She keeps saying ''it's just taking her a little longer to readjust than anticipated.'' If what Samandriel told Cas yesterday is true, it's not a matter of readjustment. She's in trouble. That's becoming clearer with every day that goes by.

''We're here!''

The sudden sound of Caitlin Snow's voice startles him away from the file he's just opened to flip through for the third time. He turns his head, catching sight of Caitlin and Cisco, and then instantly turns away from them.

''We're here,'' Caitlin says again, breathlessly. ''What's the emergency?''

''Yeah, we left a Brazilian steakhouse for this,'' Cisco jokes. ''Do you know what a Brazi...'' He trails off, and Dean can feel the thick blanket of tension fall over the room. ''What's he doing here?'' Cisco asks, ire clear as day in the tone of his voice.

Dean doesn't dare to look over at Laurel. If he does, he'll only see that questioning, concerned look on her face. He can't face that. All he told her on the way here was that Team Flash might not be all that receptive to his presence. He didn't tell her why. He didn't want to have to tell her that his father's anger is a hard thing to unlearn. He'll have to tell her eventually, especially now, but he's dreading the look on her face when he has to admit that there were a few times over the past seven months where he'd go days without sleeping and he'd wind up wearing his father's anger around like an ill-fitting suit. One of those bad nights happened here, alone, with Caitlin. He doesn't want to tell Laurel this. He doesn't want her to be disappointed.

He takes a breath, rises to his feet, and turns to face Caitlin and Cisco. He doesn't greet them right away because he's not sure how. He makes sure to keep his distance, staying as far away from Caitlin as possible. The West-Allen family haven't shown any signs of holding a grudge against him but the way Cisco is glaring at him and the way Caitlin is avoiding even looking at him tells him that they sure as hell don't feel the same way.

''He came with me,'' Laurel jumps in, before Dean can come up with something to say to them. She steps out of her spot tucked away to the side and moves to stand next to Dean. At the sight of her, both Caitlin and Cisco tense up. Instinctively, Dean latches onto his wife's wrist, ready to pull her behind him if they attack her thinking she's Dinah.

Cisco is the first one to relax, recognition gleaming brightly in his wide, stunned eyes. ''Wait. …Wait.'' He tears his eyes away from her reluctantly to look over at Barry. ''This isn't Siren.''

''No,'' Barry agrees. ''It's Laurel. Our Laurel.''

''Oh my god,'' Caitlin breathes out.

Cisco's reaction is far less subdued. He starts laughing, an ear splitting grin breaking out on his face and he jolts away from Caitlin to go in for a hug. ''It's good to see you, BC.''

Laurel hugs him back happily, grinning broadly. ''It's good to be seen.''

''How is this...?'' Caitlin pauses to go in for a hug of her own when Cisco pulls away. When she draws away, she keeps both of her hands clutching Laurel's. ''How are you here right now?''

''Witchcraft, apparently,'' Wally says dryly. ''Because witches are real. Zombies too. Oh, and vampires. And werewolves. Pretty much everything's real. Including angels and demons. Because why not, right? This guy,'' he jerks a thumb in Dean's direction, ''used to be some sort of monster hunter but retired from being Guy Buffy because the condom broke.''

Behind him, Joe rolls his eyes and sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face in something caught between amusement and exasperation.

Wally pays no attention to that, leaning in to ask his dad, ''Did that about sum it up?''

''I think you got it, yeah.''

''Oh.'' Caitlin blinks a few times, processing, and then shakes her head and says, ''Okay, wait. What?''

Cisco, meanwhile, just looks between Dean and Laurel a few times and then declares, ''Yeah, I can see that.''

''Oh, hey, unicorns!'' Barry exclaims. ''Real or fake?''

''Fake,'' Dean says quickly.

''Actually,'' Laurel throws him one of those Looks of hers. ''There's conflicting information on the existence of unicorns. If they did exist, they're extinct now, but I've been told there is compelling evidence that they might have existed hundreds of years ago.''

Dean says, again, ''Fake.''

Barry sighs, disappointed. ''That's not a satisfying answer.''

Iris rubs his back. ''Shake it off, honey.'' She flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns to Caitlin and Cisco. ''This is the part where I point out that the emergency is that I was attacked by Onomatopoeia.''

''What?'' Caitlin's eyes widen. ''Why didn't you tell us that in the text? Are you okay?''

''I'm fine,'' Iris assures her.

''And Onomatopoeia?''

''He's in the wind,'' Barry says.

''Ugh,'' Cisco rolls his eyes. ''Dramatic bastard.''

''Lucky for me, Laurel showed up and blew him out of the house with a sonic scream. A legit sonic scream. She destroyed that dude. He went through the door. Through the closed and locked door.''

''I seem to remember being there too,'' Dean says. ''Just throwing that out there.''

''You sure were, sweetie,'' Iris pats him on the shoulder. ''Here,'' she holds the bag of spring rolls out to him. ''Have another spring roll.''

He accepts a spring roll and then turns his head to look at Joe. ''We can't pay to replace that door, just so you know.''

''I figured,'' Joe says. ''Don't worry about it. Don't go taking out any second mortgages.''

''Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait, hold up.'' Cisco stares at Laurel like he's trying to physically restrain himself from flailing and asking a million questions about her scream. ''You have an actual sonic scream? You're a meta?''

''I'm fine,'' Iris says. ''Thank you so much for asking, Cisco.''

''Sorry.''

''Nah, I'm kidding. Fanboy away.''

''It looks that way,'' Laurel answers.

''Did you know that you were a meta?'' Caitlin asks.

''No idea.''

''That's why we're here,'' Dean says. ''There's a lot we don't know about what's going on with her and we need to talk to someone who's been where she is. Someone who has the same powers as her,'' he says pointedly. There is a decidedly awkward silence following that. He folds his arms over his chest and examines the expressions on their faces with growing irritation.

Just for the record, he is not in love with Dinah. Not in love, not in lust, he doesn't even know if they can be considered friends. Nobody believes him when he says that, but it's the truth. She is not Laurel. But he does feel some kind of loyalty towards her. It's not something he can easily explain. She is not Laurel, but... Dee allowed him to keep his wife's face. That's the only way he can think to put it. Whenever he would start to forget Laurel's face - from little details like the way she moved her mouth when she said certain words to things like her eyes or her smile - he would go to her, and he would remember.

He doesn't know what it is exactly that he owes her, what he can offer her that she would want, but he owes her something. For half a year, he used her as a living photograph and for half a year, despite her surliness, her snark, and her secrecy, she let him. Even when looking at him only conjured up memories of what his earth two counterpart did to her. Even after August. He owes it to her to keep her alive and to keep her as healthy as she can be while being illegally incarcerated.

This is exactly why the shamed looks her captors are exchanging worries him. ''Dinah is still here,'' he says, ''isn't she?'' He can feel his jaw tick in annoyance when he gets no answer to that question. ''You would have called me if she escaped, right?''

''She's still here,'' Iris rushes to assure him. ''And yes, we would have called you if she escaped. It's just, um...'' She looks over at Barry for help.

''She might not be all that helpful right now,'' he says.

''Dinah's having a bad week,'' Cisco says, beckoning Dean and Laurel over to the computer monitors. He's already pulled up the images from the camera in Dinah's cell and as soon as Dean's close enough, he spots it. The bandages on her wrists. She's sitting on her pathetic little cot, knees up, braiding her hair, and he can see them plain as day.

''It's not what you think,'' Caitlin tells him before he even has a chance to ask. ''It was an escape attempt.''

''An escape attempt,'' he echoes dubiously. ''By slitting her wrists.''

''Sure,'' Cisco shrugs. ''Think about it. She fakes a suicide attempt, gets us to rush down there, and as soon as we open the doors to go in and help her, she pounces.''

''Did it work?''

Cisco narrows his eyes, offended. ''She's still in there, isn't she?''

''She locked Cisco and Barry in the cell,'' Wally blurts out, completely ignoring Cisco's loud sigh. ''Knocked me and Cait on our asses. It 100% would've worked if she hadn't stopped to look for her suit.''

Dean lifts his eyes from the screen. ''She went after her suit?''

''Mmmhmm, and then Iris knocked her out with a fire extinguisher.''

''How badly was she hurt?''

''Mild concussion,'' Caitlin says. ''Some...not insignificant blood loss. She'll be fine. She's weak right now but she'll heal.''

''How long ago did this happen?''

''Day before yesterday,'' Barry says.

Dean shakes his head, tightening his lips into a thin line. ''You should have called me.''

''We don't have to call you for every little thing,'' Cisco snaps. ''She wasn't in any immediate - ''

''Laurel?''

Cisco snaps his jaw shut and Dean looks up at the sound of Iris' concerned voice. He glances at her for half a second, catching sight of the concerned look in her eyes and then he turns his attention to his wife, where it should have been all along. Laurel hasn't said a word during this entire exchange. Not since Cisco brought up the security footage of Dinah. He should have noticed that. Her eyes are glued to the monitor, fixated on her doppelganger, and she looks shaken. Somehow both fascinated and horrified at the same time. She doesn't answer when Iris says her name. He doesn't even think she heard it. ''Laurel?'' She doesn't answer him either. He steps closer to her, bringing a hand to the small of her back and leaning down to murmur in her ear. ''Laur?''

She jerks in surprise at the touch, tearing her attention away from the screen to look at all the eyes on her. ''She...'' She looks back down at the screen. ''She looks exactly like me,'' she whispers.

''Trust me,'' Cisco says. ''She is not you. She's like off brand you. It's like - Chanel,'' he gestures to her. ''And then,'' he points a finger at the screen, scrunches up his nose, and says, ''Walmart.''

''We don't have to do this,'' Dean tells her. ''If you're not comfortable with this, we can go home. Or I'll talk to her. You don't have to - ''

''Yes, I do,'' she says, and he recognizes that tone of voice. He's not going to change her mind. ''I need to talk to her. You know I need to talk to her.''

''Yeah, absolutely,'' Barry says. ''We can make that happen. Just be warned that she may not be all that forthcoming.''

''Understood.'' Laurel looks at Dean, catching his eye. She still looks profoundly creeped out by this but she also looks determined. He knows that look. That's her screw fear, I know what I have to do look. There will be no talking her out of this. He looks back at Dinah on the monitor. She doesn't look nearly as animated as she usually does. It's not like her to not be pacing the length of her cell or flipping off the camera every ten minutes.

He tilts his head to the side and considers her plan. It's not the worst plan he's ever heard. Desperate, sure, but not awful. The people here are good. In over their heads maybe, but they're good at heart. If they saw her bleeding out, they would rush to her side to help without a single second of hesitation. It would be the perfect moment to strike. That part of her plan makes perfect sense. But why would she go after her suit instead of just running? Why would she risk it? It's just a bunch of leather and fishnets.

He looks up, eyeing the people surrounding him. When he catches sight of Iris breaking away from the group, he snatches up the case file and discreetly ducks away to join her. ''Iris.'' She looks up from where she's digging around in her purse, and he hands the file over. ''Thanks for letting me look at this.''

''Sure,'' she smiles easily. ''No problem.'' She slips out of his jacket and hands it over. ''Thanks for letting me borrow this.''

''Anytime. Hey, how do you know he's Caucasian?''

She looks thrown, putting down her purse and frowning down at the file. ''What?''

''The partial description of him,'' he says. ''It says he's Caucasian. It also says he never takes the hood off.''

''Right.'' She flips the file open, rummaging around until she can pull out a piece of paper and hand it to him. ''Witness statements.''

''Amnesty Bay,'' he reads. ''Isn't that all the way in - ''

''Maine,'' she nods. ''He's been around. As far as we can tell, he showed up on the scene in June in Amnesty Bay. We've confirmed that since then he's made kills in Blue Valley, Coast City, Ivy Town, and now here. He's smart, really smart, but Amnesty Bay was his first kill. At least his first kill as Onomatopoeia. He wasn't as polished then. He slipped up and someone saw him lift his hood up to make a phone call. It was dark but she was certain that he was a white guy, around six feet, possibly six foot one.''

''A phone call,'' Dean raises his eyes. ''Do you - ''

''We have nothing on a partner,'' she says instantly, because Iris West might be able to read minds. ''Just that there might be one based on that phone call. Or,'' she shrugs. ''Maybe he was just ordering a pizza.''

''Did this witness hear what he said?''

''No.''

''She hear his voice at all?''

''Male, deep, hoarse, possibly either a Midwestern or Southern accent.''

''Doesn't exactly narrow it down,'' he says. ''That describes a lot of people. Hell, that describes me.''

''I know.'' She takes the paper back from him when he hands it over. ''It's a loose description at best. He could be anyone.'' Then under her breath, she mutters, ''Just another reason white men can't be trusted.''

''I can't argue with you there.''

She puts the paper back in the file and looks up at him, lips pinching together. ''Anyway,'' she says, pointedly. ''What did you really want to talk about?''

''What do you - ''

She silences him with a single look.

He holds her gaze for a second and then looks over his shoulder at Laurel. She's talking to Cisco, listening with rapt attention to whatever he's saying. He turns back to Iris. ''When Dinah escaped over the summer, did she have to go searching for her suit?''

Iris shakes her head. ''No. She had it with her in her cell. When she was first captured, she refused to take it off. Since it's standard procedure to check everyone we bring in for hidden weapons, explosives, or self-destruct buttons and we found nothing on her, we figured there was no harm in letting her keep it.''

''But you didn't give it back to her when I brought her back in?''

''No, we put it in storage. Why?''

He's not sure how to answer that question just yet but he knows there's something there. It doesn't make any sense for Dinah, bleeding from her wrists and trying to escape a secure facility, to waste time searching for some supervillain suit. ''She went after it,'' he says. ''She could have escaped. Why would she take the chance?''

She does not look nearly as flummoxed as he feels. ''I've been around enough of these people to know that they get weirdly attached to those scraps of leather,'' she says simply. ''They become part of their personas as heroes and villains. It allows them a separation between that life and their civilian lives. They're not just outfits for them. They hide in them. Plus, with Dinah, you have to take into account that it's all she has left. I mean, she's on another earth with no way back home. She has no friends, no family, no allies, and she's jailed. That suit is all she has left. It makes sense that she would want to cling to it.''

He can't argue that point, not without telling Iris things that Dinah told him in confidence, but there has to be more at play here. Faking a suicide attempt is a desperate move. A clever move, but a desperate one. If Dinah is that desperate to get out then there's no way she would willingly endanger her one chance of freedom for that suit, even if it is the only link she has left to her past. It can't be about the suit.

''Either that,'' Iris allows, ''or maybe she's just really committed to the goth action Barbie aesthetic she's got going on.''

''I will admit I'm not ruling that out.''

''Dean!'' He whirls around at the sound of his wife's voice. She's standing next to Barry, looking at him expectantly. ''Are you coming?''

''I'll be right there,'' he promises. ''Don't talk to her without me.'' He turns back to Iris, leaning in a little closer to ask, ''You think you can do me a favor?''

''Depends on the favor.''

''Can you check Dinah's suit again?''

''What am I looking for?''

''No idea,'' he admits. ''A secret pocket with a piece of paper that has her master plan written on it in invisible ink? A cyanide pill? Cash? She had to have been looking for something.''

''I can do that,'' she agrees.

''And can you - ''

''I will do it discreetly,'' she nods. ''But,'' she points a finger at him, ''this means that next time you're in town, you're taking me out for pho and spring rolls.''

''Deal.'' He holds out his hand for her to shake. She has a very firm handshake. He is not at all surprised by that. He gives her one last wink and then hurries to catch up with Barry and Laurel.

He tells them that he and Iris were just discussing Onomatopoeia. It works because it's not technically a lie and because as soon as he mentions that idiot, Laurel starts unleashing a steady string of questions. Dean has no doubt that part of the reason for the steady stream of inquiries is genuine concern. She never stops being the Black Canary. They're not two separate entities. She always wants to know what's going on, what she can do to help, what strategies are being used to catch the bad guys. But he also knows that another reason she's filling any possible silence is because of Dinah.

Dinah's existence freaks her out. She's determined to face her, but she hasn't asked much about her. He's told her about Dinah, or at least some things about her, but she hasn't asked the questions herself. He watches Laurel as they venture farther into the maze of Star Labs. He keeps an eye on her face, her posture, the tone of her voice as they get closer. She can handle herself. He's not worried about that. It's just that he knows her and he knows Dinah and he knows there is a good chance that this could end badly.

''You know what we should do when we're done here?'' He asks, the second there's a lull in her questions.

She looks at him, eyebrows raised. ''Go home? Because it's like a nine hour drive and it's already - '' she pauses to grab his wrist, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up to look at his watch '' - a quarter after eight?''

''No,'' he says, ''we should go to a movie.''

''A movie?''

''Just you and me,'' he nods. ''We can decompress. I still haven't seen Moonlight.''

''Oh my god, it's so good,'' Barry says. ''Uh, but not really what I would watch to unwind, if that's what you're going for. It's pretty heavy. Maybe the Trolls movie? I'm hearing good things about that one.''

Dean throws his arms out with an exaggerated grin. ''Trolls, Laurel! Come on. Anna Kendrick, Zooey Deschanel, the guy from that one boy band. I'm sold.''

''You sure know an awful lot about the Trolls movie,'' Laurel says.

''Mary watched the trailer seven times in a row when it first came out. She's been waiting for it.''

Barry asks, slightly incredulous, ''Did you just refer to Justin Timberlake as the guy from that one boy band?''

''Yeah.'' Dean sends him a carefully blank look. ''Why?''

''He's got like ten Grammys.''

''Wow, all for that boy band?''

''What? No, not for - '' Barry stops in his tracks to narrow his eyes at Dean. ''You're messing with me, aren't you?''

Dean grins but doesn't say a word. Beside him, amusement crinkles over Laurel's face and she starts to laugh. He watches in triumph as some of the tension in her shoulders releases. ''Don't take it personally. He does that to everyone,'' she advises, patting Barry on the shoulder as she moves past him. ''If Mary's been waiting for this movie then she would kill us if we saw it without her,'' she says, as soon as Dean falls in step with her once again. ''But maybe we could see something else. I could use a date night,'' she admits.

''A date night it is then,'' he promises. ''We can even splurge for the overpriced movie theater candy.''

''Oooh, fancy,'' she comments. ''Can we get Milk Duds?''

''Why would we not get Milk Duds?''

Her smile dims as they get closer to the pipeline but she doesn't stop. ''I feel like Clarice Starling,'' she says, letting out a nervous laugh. ''Either of you have any advice?''

''Don't let her get in your head,'' Dean tells her. It's all he can think of to say. ''She'll try.''

''You sure you want to do this?'' Barry asks.

Laurel nods. ''I am.''

He doesn't argue with her the way Oliver undoubtedly would. He just accepts what she says. Dean catches the split second look of relief and surprise on her face when she is not immediately questioned or shot down. It's not an unfamiliar look to see on her face - that surprised look she gets on her face when she's treated with respect - but it's never easy to see. He knew that Oliver was a shit leader and a shittier friend, but he did his best to support Laurel's decision to work with him and his team. He didn't want to seem too overprotective or controlling. He doesn't regret that, not exactly, but he wishes he had done more to encourage her to step out on her own, build her own operation. She could have done it. He knows that. Maybe if she had, she wouldn't have died. Maybe if he had gotten her to leave, none of this would be happening.

Laurel quickly schools her features into her hardened lawyer expression as they enter the pipeline. She doesn't say anything, but she does straighten her posture and clench her fists. She looks ready. She's not. Dean knows her better than that. Her clenched fists are a nervous tic, not a sign of confidence. She looks over at him, just once, before Barry brings up Dinah's cell.

Dinah is already on her feet by the time the doors slide open to reveal her behind the thick glass, but she's not looking at them. She's looking at the camera in her cell with a curious frown on her face. Dean has about three seconds to take in the sight of her before she puts on her mask of indifference. She's much paler than she usually is, hair limp and greasy, bandages on her wrists sticking out like a sore thumb, and there is this troubling aura of sickness and weakness that isn't normally there. It's not hard to pick out the exact second she understands who she is looking at when she turns towards them. Her eyes widen, a barely noticeable sign of shock, and then her entire body relaxes and this wicked smirk rolls across her lips with ease.

''Look at that,'' she purrs out, slinking over to the glass. ''A dead woman walking.''

Laurel recoils minutely when she first lays eyes on Dinah, lips parting in astonishment as she stares unblinkingly at her mirror image standing in front of her. She recovers quickly. ''Look who's talking.''

Dinah's smirk falls away. She tilts her head to the side and looks Laurel up and down in this unnervingly slow and judgmental way. Then she pulls her lips back into this big toothy, wolfish grin and says, ''You look good for worm food.''

Laurel doesn't flounder for a second. ''I moisturize.''

Barry leans over to Dean to whisper, ''This is going on my top ten list of weird shit that's happened in the past few years.''

Dean smiles, just a little.

If she's surprised by how unbothered Laurel is by her presence - and she is - Dinah opts not to show it. She huffs out a small laugh instead. ''Cute.'' She looks around Laurel until her eyes land on Dean, and then she grins. For a second there, it almost looks genuine. ''Hi, Dean.''

''Hey, Dee,'' he greets. ''You've looked better.''

She holds up her arms to show him the bandages. She doesn't seem at all embarrassed or ashamed. He's not surprised. Dinah is a map of scars. She wears each and every one of them with a bluntness that he's never known before. These new bandages mean nothing to her. What's one more stroke on the canvas? ''Blood loss.''

''I heard.'' He shakes his head. ''Stupid move.''

''That's your opinion.''

''You slit your wrists,'' Laurel states.

''To escape,'' Dinah says. ''And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those meddling kids.''

Laurel actually smiles at that. Probably because it's exactly the kind of cheesy joke she would have made. ''I'm sure.'' She looks less nervous now. More curious than anything. That's a relief. She's not 100% right now. That's no secret. She's a little more prone to panic attacks than before and he doesn't want Dinah to pick up on that. If she spots a weakness, she will absolutely exploit it. ''You don't seem all that surprised to see me,'' she points out.

Dinah steps back from the glass. She crosses her arms. ''I wondered.''

''You did?'' Laurel narrows her eyes. ''Why?''

Dinah's lips stretch into another predatory grin. She rakes her eyes over Laurel once more, from head to toe and then back up again. Dean has no idea what she could possibly be looking for but he doesn't like the way she keeps doing that. She's definitely looking for something. Scars, maybe. Something to tie them together. He feels suddenly, inexplicably, like he's intruding. Like he shouldn't be a part of this conversation. He doesn't want to leave. He wants to be right here, right behind Laurel, ready to pull her out if he needs to. But he has to wonder just how much they're going to be able to get out of Dinah with this many people in the room. She's lost control of her entire life. Her secrets are the only thing she has left. She's not going to give them away.

Dinah looks at Laurel for a long moment, and then uncrosses her arms, and steps back over to the glass. ''Real witches don't burn.''

Dean watches Laurel tense up for a second, fists clenching and then quickly unclenching. Dinah notices. She zeroes in on that one split second of vulnerability with hunger in her eyes. ''What the hell does that mean?'' He asks, cutting in before she can pounce.

Dinah pauses, eyes still on Laurel, and then she turns to look at him. ''My mother used to say that,'' she says. ''Or so I'm told. She was a historian. She specialized in the witch trials. There's an old joke in the history community that no real witches were ever killed back during the days of witch trials because they would have just used magic to escape. Tell me,'' she slides her gaze back over to Laurel. ''How did you manage to escape the stake?''

''I didn't,'' Laurel says. ''I'm not a witch.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' Dinah cocks her head to the side with another one of those intimidating smiles of hers. ''We're all witches.''

''I didn't escape anything. I was dead.''

''But now you're not. Does this surprise you? You're an Ellard. Ellard women have a habit of getting out of sticky situations.''

A quick, soft smile darts across Laurel's lips before falling away. ''Not all of them.''

Barry leans over to Dean again to whisper, curiously, ''Ellard?''

Dean looks between Laurel and Dinah before he answers. ''Her grandmother's maiden name.''

At the sound of Barry's voice, Dinah snaps to attention. She stands up straighter and looks at him with this big smile. ''Oh, hi there, Red,'' she greets smoothly. ''How's Iris?''

''None of your business.''

''Wow, don't be so touchy. I'm just making friendly conversation. Hey, listen. Bring me some gum the next time you're down here.''

He opens his mouth, seemingly ready to fire back at her, and then snaps his jaw shut, blinking. ''...What?''

''Gum,'' she repeats slowly. ''I want some. Big Red, if you can get it.''

He sighs and rolls his eyes. ''Oh, right, okay, because you want to chew me up and spit me out. I get it. That's clever.''

Dinah looks exasperated. ''No. I just like cinnamon. God, Barry,'' her lip curls in disgust. ''Not everything's about you.''

''Jesus, Dee.'' Dean tries to look as annoyed by her behavior as possible but he can't help the tiny smirk pulling at his lips. He has nothing against Barry but he has to admit it's entertaining to watch her fuck with people. She does it with such ease. She makes it look effortless. She must have been a hell of a con woman.

She looks away from Barry and turns her eyes to Dean, peering up at him, all false innocence and coquettishness. ''What? My mouth gets dry.''

''Do you have to antagonize every single person you interact with?''

''I'm an antagonist, you half-wit,'' she sneers.

''Look,'' Laurel cuts in sharply. ''If you want to talk in circles so you can keep us down here for as long as possible because you're lonely then go right ahead.''

Dinah blanches, recoiling and stepping away from the glass. She looks unexpectedly shaken and expectedly pissed off that Laurel has managed to split her apart her campy villain persona in less than five minutes. Dean's not sure why she's surprised, honestly. Dinah and Laurel aren't just birds of a feather. They are the same bird. There is nothing for Laurel to unravel. She already knows who Dinah is.

''You can have your fun with me,'' Laurel assures her calmly. ''I'll stay with you.'' It's a real offer. Completely genuine. Such a Laurel thing to do. Dean's really hoping Dinah doesn't take her up on that offer. ''But I need to ask you some questions first,'' Laurel goes on, ''and I'd really appreciate it if you could answer them honestly. I'm not here about being alive. I'm here because - ''

''I know why you're here,'' Dinah says. ''Your scream was triggered.''

''Triggered,'' Laurel repeats. ''So this - It was always there?''

''If your genes are anything like mine, yes.''

Laurel's face falls. This isn't overwhelmingly surprising news but she still looks crestfallen. Everyone wants power but they fail to understand how terrifying the weight of it is. Dean can understand that. He was the Righteous Man. His existence was manufactured by Heaven so his body could be a weapon. He still has nightmares about that. His body, his life wasn't truly his own until he was in his thirties. If Laurel feels at all the way he did back then, helpless, afraid, and disgusted by her own body - well. He hopes she doesn't feel that. It's an awful way to feel.

''Aww, don't look so down, Princess,'' Dinah coos. She sends Laurel another one of those sly, unnerving smiles of hers. ''You're acting like this is bad news. This isn't a burden. This is a gift.''

''I don't even know how to control it.''

Dinah snorts like she thinks that's a joke. She looks over at Dean again, locking eyes with him, but when he doesn't give her whatever she's looking for, her smirk fades. ''Wait.'' She stands straighter, putting her hands on her hips. ''Are you serious?'' She gapes at Laurel. ''Of course you know how to control it.'' She sounds incredulous at the idea that Laurel could ever be intimidated by these powers. ''It's a part of you,'' she says. ''The same way your arms and legs are a part of you. Can you control those? It's as easy as breathing.'' She makes it sound so simple.

That might actually be the most helpful thing she's ever said. Although, with that said, she's still looking at Laurel like she can't decide whether she wants to eat her up or crush her under her boot.

Laurel folds her arms and huffs bitterly. ''That has not been my experience.''

''How is it triggered?'' Dean asks.

''Trauma, mostly.'' The tone of Dinah's voice is casual, almost lazy. She seems to have no problem telling Laurel what she wants to know.

It's strange. If something has nothing to do with her, it wouldn't be unexpected for her to sit back and watch the fireworks. She loves drama, especially when it doesn't affect her. She is essentially a soap opera villain. But this does have something to do with her. These are her powers too. She has kept her life and her knowledge of her power under lock and key for six months because it's the only thing she can control in here. He's asked about her powers. Team Flash has asked about her powers. Her response was always the same. A vicious snarl of, ''Fuck off.'' She never gave anything away. And yet she has no problem letting Laurel into her secret club minutes after meeting her?

Call him paranoid but it's hard to trust that kind of contradictory behavior. Dean likes Dinah and all, but he has never once forgotten who she is. For all he knows, she could be lying through her teeth right now just for fun.

''Physical trauma,'' Dinah says. ''Emotional, a loss, an accident, a violent attack, does it matter? Trauma is trauma.'' She looks at Laurel. ''Any of this blowing up your skirt, sweetheart?''

''I - yeah.'' Laurel clears her throat uncomfortably. ''I get it.''

''I thought you got your powers because of the particle accelerator explosion,'' Dean says.

Dinah glowers at him. ''I said this happened to me around the time of the explosion,'' she snaps. ''It's not my fault if you jumped to conclusions.'' She looks at the three of them with a critical frown. ''Are you all very stupid?''

''Has anyone ever told you that you're extremely unpleasant to be around?'' Laurel questions.

''I'm locked in a fucking cage like a damn animal,'' Dinah hisses. ''I'll be as unpleasant as I want. At least I'm not a junkie.''

''Okay!'' Dean is already shaking his head. ''Nope. Nope, nope, nope.'' He steps in between Laurel and Dinah, turning his back to Dinah. ''We're done. This is over. Laurel, let's go.''

''No.'' She says it plainly, easily tugging out of his grasp. ''I'm not done here.''

''She's - ''

''I don't care.'' She looks over his shoulder. ''She can say what she wants. It doesn't matter. It's not like she can hurt me.''

''Laurel - ''

''Dean.'' She locks eyes with him. ''If you didn't want her to use my addiction as a weapon then you shouldn't have told her about it. That was you,'' she's calm, keeping her eyes on him, refusing to let him look away, ''wasn't it? How else would she know?''

He stops. He turns to look at Dinah. She grins at him. He swallows nervously. He turns back to Laurel. ''That was a mistake.''

Laurel shrugs her shoulders. ''Luckily, I am not that fragile.''

''Yeah, Dean,'' Dinah mocks from behind him. ''Quit being so controlling.''

''I need you to give me a few minutes alone with her,'' Laurel says calmly. She throws a look in Barry's direction. ''Both of you.''

''No.'' Dean disagrees instantly and vehemently. ''Dean.''

''Laurel, no. Absolutely not. It's a bad idea.''

''What exactly do you think I'm going to say to her?'' Dinah asks. The corner of her lip ticks up into a half smile. ''What are you worried I'm going to tell her?''

Nobody acknowledges her.

''Barry,'' Laurel sighs. ''Is it at all possible for her to physically hurt me?''

He shakes his head. ''No.''

''See?'' Laurel puts both her cold hands on Dean's cheeks. ''I'll be fine,'' she promises gently. ''I just need five minutes.''

He releases a breath and closes his eyes before bringing a hand up to cover hers.

''You're different when you're around her,'' Dinah remarks, curious. He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. ''You're weaker,'' she says. ''I guess everyone's a little weak when they have something to lose.''

Dean tightens his jaw. ''Please remember she's a con woman,'' he says. ''She's a manipulator. She'll say anything to get under your skin.''

''Wow, and here I thought we were friends,'' Dinah monotones.

He turns his head to look at her with an arched brow. ''Am I wrong?''

She beams at him. ''No.''

''Dean,'' Laurel says. ''Honey, I know. You've got to calm down here. You know I can handle this.''

No shit. She has an uncanny ability to overcome. He's not worried about her capabilities. He's worried about what she'll believe. Dinah can be awfully convincing when she wants to be. ''I know you can,'' he says. He threads his fingers through hers and lifts her hand up so he can press a kiss to the back of it.

Behind him, Dinah makes gagging noises.

Dean heaves another sigh and rolls his eyes heavenwards. ''I'm staying within shouting distance.''

Laurel chuckles. ''Got it.''

He pulls away from her to look at Dinah. ''You gonna cause trouble here?''

She looks confused that he's even bothering to ask that question. ''Of course. Trouble is what I do best.''

''Awesome,'' he deadpans. ''I'd be careful if I were you, Dee. Laurel's not someone you want to piss off.''

She laughs in his face. ''Whatever you say, buddy. Hey!'' She calls after him when he turns his back to walk away. ''Make sure I get my gum!''

He waves his hand dismissively, grumbling a, ''Yeah, yeah'' under his breath. He's going to get her the damn gum. That's not a question. She's got him conned around her little finger. He just doesn't want to make it that obvious.

For the first few minutes, standing in the hallway, Barry doesn't say anything to him. Dean can tell he wants to. It's obvious what he wants to know. When he finally does ask the question, Dean doesn't even bat an eye.

''Does this have something to do with what happened in August?''

Dean stops pacing but doesn't turn around to face the younger man. Everyone seems to have their own opinion on what happened between him and Dinah during her day trip to Star City. For the record, he did not have sex with Dinah. Not that anyone believes that. He was a grieving widow, she was his dead wife's doppelganger, there was a motel room. That's enough for people to draw their own conclusions. It probably doesn't help that he's refused to tell anyone what really did happen in August but fuck them. It's not their business to know. He got her back here. That's all that matters.

He turns, finally. ''What do you think happened in August?''

Barry leans back against the wall, studying Dean with a critical eye. ''Well, you shot her,'' he says plainly. ''But before that, I have no idea. Clearly there's something you don't want Dinah to tell Laurel.''

Um, yeah, it's Dinah.

She thinks it's hilarious that people are so sure that they slept together. She has no issue with encouraging the rumors. She has no shame. There's a big chance she'll tell Laurel they had some torrid affair just for kicks. Hell, even if she doesn't, there's an even bigger chance that she'll tell the truth about what happened and that's... Just because they didn't fuck doesn't mean nothing happened. He hasn't had the chance to tell Laurel about that yet, though he's sure she suspects. ''Dinah gets her rocks off by taking the truth and twisting it into something way more scandalous than it is,'' he says.

''True,'' Barry agrees. ''On the other hand, Laurel's your wife. You guys are a team. I don't think she's going to up and leave you because her Disney villain doppelganger wants to make trouble.''

''That's not what I'm - Laurel's not...'' He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. What does he say? Laurel's not in a good mood? Not feeling well? Not right? Is that it? She came back wrong? Dinah can tell Laurel whatever she wants, and Dean is still confident that his marriage will be fine. They work hard on that. That's not what he's worried about. Laurel isn't - She's not happy. She hasn't been happy. There's something...off. There's something wrong.

He knows it's only been a week and the wounds are still fresh, but she's not herself. She's lost. The other day, she called Mary by the wrong name. Called her Henry. He only knows that because Mary told him that night while he was reading her a chapter of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. He didn't know what to tell her when she took the book from his hands, held it to her chest, and asked who Henry was. Laurel never told him about calling Mary by the wrong name. He hasn't brought it up.

She's trying. She smiles, she laughs, she plays with Mary and comforts everyone and says yes to going to a movie with him. She eats food when she has no appetite so he doesn't worry. She stays off her feet and rests, she practices mindfulness and does her breathing exercises to avoid panic attacks. She gets out of bed in the mornings. She keeps going. It must be exhausting to try as hard as she is to make everyone believe that she's still who she was before.

There are real moments in between the pretending. There are real moments here and there where she's really her and she's really home, but that's not enough. Life should be more than stolen moments of okay in between hours and days of pain.

She's hurting. She's scared, she's confused, and she's sick. She doesn't want people to know this, but Dean is the one with the front row seat to it. He doesn't know if this is the aftermath of trauma, if she's just going through a bad period with her depression, or if the unstable spell is deteriorating and taking her away from him, but he knows this isn't something he can fix.

She's been spending a lot of time outside lately. It's something that's been gnawing at him. Ever since she got back, she has been taking every opportunity to be outside. Whenever it's not raining, she's out in the backyard, tending to that damn garden or sitting at the table on the back porch with her tea. She says she needs the space. She says she's having trouble with the walls. It bothers him. It shouldn't. It such a stupid thing to be bothered by. It shouldn't matter. It matters, he knows, because he is not outside. The distance between them is what bothers him. She feels so far away.

Death is an ending, but nothing tears people apart the way life does. He knows that better than most people. He just wants her to come home. He's been waiting for so long. He wants her to be happy and comfortable. He wants to go back to the way things were.

''Dinah has a habit of getting under people's skin,'' is all he eventually says. ''I don't want her to stress Laurel out.''

Barry nods, pausing for a minute or two before he answers. ''I get that,'' he says easily, offering a small smile. ''But Laurel seems like she can handle herself. She's the Black Canary.''

Dean smiles dimly. ''Right.''

Barry doesn't say anything else. He seems to be able to sense that Dean isn't particularly in a sharing and caring kind of mood right now. Dean's grateful for the quiet. It's uncomfortable and it drags on forever, but at least Barry's not trying to force the issue.

It feels like they stand out in the hallway forever. Dean keeps checking his watch impatiently, watching the minutes tick by. Five, then ten, then fifteen. He calls Thea to check in and see how Mary's doing and tries not to sound too anxious. He doesn't think he succeeds. This is only the - what? Fourth night he's been away from Mary in her entire life? He trusts Thea more than he trusts almost anyone else when it comes to his daughter but it's still nerve wracking to be away from her. He's just about to send a text to Sam with an update when Laurel appears. Doesn't even hear her coming. He looks up from his phone for half a second and has to do a double take because she's standing right there.

The second he sees the look on her face, that familiar shadowed, closed off look, his heart drops. ''Babe?'' She looks up at him, completely blank. ''What happened in there?'' He asks, even though he knows she won't answer him. He's not entirely sure she can. He think she might be disassociating right now. He knows what that looks like on her just like she knows what it looks like on him.

She looks at Barry, eyes still expressionless. ''You should go secure her cell.''

He doesn't move. ''Are you all right?''

She doesn't answer the question. Just repeats, ''You should go secure her cell.''

Barry throws a look over to Dean, uneasy.

Dean works hard to maintain a casual, unbothered look and gives the younger man a nod. He waits until Barry's gone before he says anything to her. ''Laurel?''

She's wringing her hands, fingernails picking at her knuckles where her rings used to be. She doesn't react to him saying her name.

He tentatively reaches out to close his hand over hers. She jumps, gasping and snapping her attention to him. She still looks confused. ''Laurel,'' he says again. ''Where are we right now?''

She blinks, opens her mouth, and then doesn't say a word. She licks her lips and frowns. ''...What?''

''What city are we in?''

''Starling City.''

He draws in a breath. ''Right,'' he sighs. ''You know what? Let's sit down for a minute.'' He moves to touch her wrist and she flinches away from him. The one sudden movement seems to at least trigger some awareness of reality but not exactly in the way he wanted. He notes the hitch in her breathing, the way her eyes dart around wildly, the sudden air of restlessness.

''Wh-Why?''

''Because it's been a very long day,'' he says calmly.

It works the way it always works for them. She looks up at him, breathes out, relaxes, and then all but collapses onto the ground. She sits cross legged, winding her arms around her middle tightly. He warily sits down across from her. She looks frantic right now so he is not going to touch her but he'd like to try to gauge how bad this is going to be. He has no issue helping her get through a panic attack but he doesn't think she would want to do that here, of all places.

''We have to go,'' she blurts out after a second, words tight and slurred.

''Sounds good,'' he says instantly. ''Where do we have to go? Outside? Do you want some fresh air?''

''No.'' She shakes her head. ''We just - We have to go. We need to go.''

He still has no idea what she means by that. She looks frustrated that she can't get all the words out. ''We'll go whenever you're ready,'' he decides. He leans into her space to rub her temples.

''I'm sorry,'' she gets out after a minute, face crumpling. ''I'm so sorry.''

Definitely a panic attack. She always apologizes when she's having a panic attack. ''It's okay,'' he says, and tries not to push too hard. Apologizing during these attacks, for her, seems to be a reflex. Telling her not to never works and only upsets her further. ''It won't be like this forever,'' he says instead, because that's what he says when this happens. ''This is a few minutes of your life, Laur. It's not a big deal.'' Rubbing her temples isn't doing a damn thing tonight. Her breathing is still too quick, morphing into short, uneven pants, and there are tears gathering in her eyes. She's in pain, one hand clawing at his knee, the other grasping at her throat.

Normally, if she's feeling that restless feeling that accompanies the onset of an attack, she goes for a run. When she's feeling floaty and blurred, she sits on the ground because something about it makes her more aware of her surroundings. When she's feeling breathless, she does breathing exercises. There are ways to avoid panic attacks, to stop them in their tracks, but not this one. This is happening and it's happening in Star Labs, in Central City, away from all the places she feels safe and all the places she can hide. When she comes out of this, she's going to be so mad at herself. She shouldn't be, but she will be. He knows her well enough to know that.

Dean is just really hoping she doesn't throw up. Because he's just. His daughter suffers from vertigo. He's so tired of cleaning up puke.

He gets her pressed against the wall and hopes that the feeling of the hard floor and the hard wall at least work to tether her here. He takes her hand and holds it to his chest, over his heart, so she can feel his steady heartbeat. ''Are you doing your breathing?''

She manages a nod, but her breathing is still abnormal and it's getting worse. He doesn't think breathing exercises are going to save her here.

''Just focus on my heartbeat,'' he says. ''You remember that scene in Dirty Dancing where he- ''

She cuts him off with a groan, resting her head back against the wall, and squeezing her eyes shut. ''Why... Why does everything...come back to Dirty Dancing with you?''

''Uh, I think the real question here is why does everything not come back to Dirty Dancing with you?''

She makes a mildly distressing coughing noise that might be a laugh. ''Don't make me laugh,'' she wheezes. ''I'm - I'm trying to breathe and my chest...my chest feels like it's in a vice.''

''Okay,'' he says. ''No more jokes.'' He watches her, lips turned down into a frown, pushing back a grimace every time she gasps for breath. Her breathing is still getting worse. She sits there for less than a minute and then her gasps grow louder, more desperate sounding, and her eyelids snap open.

''Dean,'' she says his name in a quick, terrified pant.

He swallows a flinch. ''I know,'' he tries to soothe. ''I know it's scary. It won't be like this forever,'' he says again. ''It'll pass.'' This is what they do. This is something they both know how to do. It sounds stupid but it's almost comforting to be back here. This is familiar territory. It feels like their life again and less like they're trespassing on someone else's tragedy.

''I - I'm sorry,'' she says again, closing her eyes.

''Why? This is the most normal thing we've done since you got back.''

She manages to cough out another wobbly hiccup of a laugh in between wheezes. ''Th-That's...so fucked up.''

''True,'' he says, gently smoothing her hair out of her sweaty face with his free hand. ''But we're pretty fucked up so it fits.''

She doesn't waste any more energy on talking. This step of her panic attacks never lasts long. That doesn't mean the minutes don't feel like they're passing at snail speed. It never gets easier to have to just sit there and listen to his wife literally gasping for breath. Especially when it was one of the last sounds he heard her make on April 6th. A few seconds of pain and confusion, one horrifying gasp, some sickening gurgling while she was seizing, and then she was just gone. He's trying really hard not to think about that right now. He needs his heartbeat to feel steady under her palm.

Her gasping turns into choking within thirty seconds and then she moans and jerks her body away from the wall. She pulls her hand away from him and pushes herself up onto her knees. She braces one hand against the floor, presses the other firmly to her chest, and in one split second, her face crumples and the wheezing pants give way to hysterical sobs. It's a sudden shift but not unexpected.

''Okay,'' he whispers, hauling himself onto his knees in front of her. ''Okay, baby, I've got you. I'm right here.'' There's no quick fix for one of her attacks, not when she's this deep into it, but he can minimize her discomfort. Normally, at this point, he'd get her into bed with a cool cloth, a glass of cold water, and the lights turned off but his supplies are limited here. The best he can do is help her out of her jacket to cool her off, pull her hair out of her face, and encourage her.

She latches onto his wrist, though her grip is weak, but she can't say anything around the vicious and miserable sobs clogging her throat.

''I know,'' he says yet again, even though he could not possibly know. ''This is the worst part.'' The shaking comes on quickly this time, about a minute after the hysteria starts, but it takes the uncontrollable crying a little longer to subside than it normally does. He takes it in stride. ''You're doing great, Laur,'' he says. ''The shaking means it's almost over.''

Her grip on his wrist tightens slightly, which he takes to be a good sign. The sobs do eventually die down to whimpers, but her entire body is still trembling and she's still struggling to catch her breath. The shaking he's not worried about. It's adrenaline, just her body reacting to the stress. Her breathing is what he really wants to get under control. It's not like they have a paper bag for her to breath into or a hot bath to soothe her tense muscles or even one of those meditation apps she's so fond of to help direct her in her breathing.

''I think...'' Her voice is breathless and slurred, quiet and hoarse from crying. ''I think the worst is over.'' For a few seconds, she doesn't dare to move, and then she carefully sits back down on the ground. She groans, holding onto his hand with both of hers for dear life. He doesn't even bother to say anything about her fingernails digging into his flesh. She ducks her head down, pressing her forehead to his hand.

He reaches out massage her scalp, giving her a much needed minute of silence. In the quiet aftermath, he realizes, suddenly, that Barry still hasn't come back yet. He strongly doubts it's because Dinah's talking his ear off. Nice that the kid knows to give them a minute or two.

''This isn't her,'' Laurel croaks out without lifting her head.

''What?''

''It's not her fault.'' She raises her head, sniffling and looking at him with her bloodshot eyes. ''Don't blame her. She didn't do this.''

''You mean Dinah?''

She nods jerkily, reluctantly letting go of his hand.

He wipes some tears off her flushed cheeks. ''Was there a trigger at all? Or was this just random? I know you've been tired lately. I know that can - ''

''There was a trigger.''

''But it wasn't something Dinah said?''

''It wasn't her fault.'' She clears her throat. She looks away from him, down at her hands. Her nails are still scratching at her skin. ''We need to go.''

''You keep saying that.'' He gently threads his fingers through hers. He would rather have her claw at him than pick at her fingers. ''I think maybe we need to get you into bed.''

She snaps to attention at that. She looks bizarrely bewildered by the suggestion. ''What? No.'' She shakes her head adamantly. ''No. We have to go. I need to see her.''

''Her.'' Still no idea what the hell she's talking about. ''Can you stand?'' Gingerly, he helps her to her unsteady feet. She's wobbly but she does let go of his hand and stands confidently on her own two feet. ''You know these things can wipe you out for the rest of the day,'' he points out. ''And it's already late. I really think we should - ''

''I'm angry.'' Her voice is cold. She sniffles again and wipes at her eyes, but doesn't look at him. He sees her jaw tighten. ''That was the trigger. I'm angry. I'm angry.''

''You're angry.'' Had not been expecting that one. That's new. ''Why?''

''Because she knew.''

''Who knew? Dinah?''

''She knew the whole time,'' she snarls.

''You're gonna have to break this down for me.''

''She knew what I - what I was. What I am. What would happen to me.'' She grabs her jacket off the ground, shrugging back into it even though she still looks sweaty and shaky. ''She never told me.'' The look in her eyes keeps getting darker and darker with each word she says. There is no way to adequately describe how fucking pissed off she looks. She's not even ten minutes out from a panic attack, there are still tears and sweat on her face, she looks wrung out, but the look on her face and the clipped tone of her voice is so sharp that it could cut through steel. ''Thirty years,'' she bites out. ''And she never even bothered to tell me about what was in my own body.''

Dean gapes at her, a sick sense of dread coiling in his gut. ''Laurel, are you - are you talking about - ''

''My mother,'' she hisses out. He has never heard her voice sound like that. He's heard her doppelganger's voice sound like that, but never hers. ''My selfish, cowardly mother. She knew. She knew that Ellard women have this - this thing inside of them,'' she gestures at her throat. ''And she never said a word. Not one single word.''

He will be the first to admit that he does not like Laurel's mother. That bridge has been burned. She was never even interested in building it in the first place. It's not that she hates him that bothers him. He's never cared about that. It's how she treats Laurel and Mary. Like they're not worthy of her presence. Like nobody is worth anything to her if they're not Saint Sara. Even when she started trying with Mary after Laurel died, she would never really try. She showed up, half-assed trying to be a grandmother and failed miserably, but that was never about Mary. That was about trying to assuage her own guilt.

Dinah Drake-Lance has a cold heart. There's not enough room for everyone in it. Laurel never made the cut. She was shoved out as soon as Sara came along. There's no way Mary would have ever made it in. She's a shit mom and a shit grandmother. That's not news. But this is something else entirely.

This is not her failing to call Laurel on her 30th birthday only to call the next day and say, ''happy 29th birthday.'' This is not her doing that stereotypical grandparent thing where she ''teaches'' Mary that you can't leave the dinner table until you've finished all of the food on your plate, which took him about a week to undo and re-teach his daughter that you do not have to keep eating when you're not hungry because that's not healthy. This isn't her spending her entire visit criticizing him from his parenting to the cleanliness of the house to the state of his and Laurel's marriage. This is life altering.

The part that he's stuck on, chest seizing up in panic, is the part about all Ellard women. ''All Ellard women have this?'' He doesn't know how his voice sounds so calm. ''Laurel,'' he whispers. ''Mary.''

She brings a hand up to her throat, eyes clouding over. There's a haunted look on her face, like she's remembering the Cry exploding from within, rising uncontrollably in her throat, erupting in a wave of destruction. He wonders if it hurts. He's never thought about that before. It's all he can think about now.

''We have to go,'' she says. ''Now.''

.

.

.

March, 2013

Dean flings the dishtowel over his shoulder and pulls open the oven door a crack to check on the lasagna. It doesn't smell like a lasagna. It doesn't look like much of a lasagna either. He shakes his head and closes the door. The things he does for that girl.

He pushes the lasagna out of his mind for a minute and fishes his phone out of his pocket to see if Tommy has gotten back to him yet. Still nothing. He hasn't answered any of the texts Dean sent him since noon. Guess he won't be coming for dinner tonight. He puts his phone down on the counter and leans back against it. Something's up with Tommy. Laurel's been ignoring it. She keeps shrugging it off and saying things like, ''He's just busy with the club. It only just opened. You know how important this is to him.'' Yeah, he knows. He went to the opening night just to support Tommy, even though he was surrounded by alcohol there and even though he and Laurel were both anxious about leaving Mary with Sam for a few hours. Verdant is not the problem here. That would be too simple. It's something else. Something bigger.

Dean can't help but wonder if it's this. If it's them. It's not like it would be completely out of the realm of possibility for Tommy to feel overwhelmed. Maybe this is too much.

He shoves off the counter and tosses the dishtowel onto the surface. He doesn't want to think about this right now. The past few days have been crappy enough. Mary's been going through her first cold. Laurel's mother was in town. It's been a mess. He can't deal with Tommy's issues right now.

He's just started rummaging around in the fridge for the fresh basil when he hears something. He shuts the fridge and moves to the doorway, poking his head out into the hall. ''Did you just call me?''

Her voice calls back, ''Can you give me a hand with Mary while I get dressed?''

He throws one last quick glance at the timer on the oven and then heads down the hallway. In the bedroom, both Laurel and Mary are dripping wet and wrapped in towels. Laurel's hair is pinned up with a few wet, messy tendrils falling down and sticking to her skin. Mary, all bundled up in her little hooded towel, is whining and squirming in her mom's arms. ''Hey, girls.'' He fixes an easy smile on his lips and props a shoulder up against the doorway. ''How was your shower?''

''I think she liked it,'' Laurel says. ''She didn't want to get out. Can you get her into her pajamas for me while I dry off?''

''Sure.'' He pads farther into the bedroom to ease Mary out of Laurel's arms. ''C'mere, kiddo.''

It's hard not to notice that Laurel doesn't even look at him once during that entire exchange. He opts to ignore that for now and focuses on Mary. He gets her dried off, into a fresh diaper, and into her pajamas while Laurel dries off and throws on some sweats. In that entire time, Laurel says exactly seven words to him. She says, ''Don't forget to put lotion on her.'' That's it. Even then, she's still not looking at him. He's chattering away, making jokes, cooing at Mary, anything to make sure she stays relatively calm and doesn't have a fit while he's trying to get a diaper on her, but Laurel is completely silent.

He looks over at her once and she's just standing in front of the full length mirror in her underwear, staring at her reflection. There is no expression on her face. She looks at herself in the mirror blankly, like she can't recognize her own reflection, and then she tears her eyes away and puts her clothes on. He can't tell if she's disassociating or if she's thinking about something. He thinks it's most likely the latter - thankfully. She's got a lot going on in her head right now. This is not about him. This is not about Mary. This is about what happened today and what's been happening over the past few days. This is about her mother.

Dean is not the world's biggest fan of her mother. To be fair, he does barely know the woman. Prior to this unannounced visit, he had only met her a few times before. The first time was during the first year of his and Laurel's relationship. She'd had open scorn for him the second they met. He had assumed, at the time, that her dislike stemmed from the fact that he was older, unemployed, rough around the edges, mooching off her daughter, and they had moved into together before they even knew each other. That was why Quentin hated him. That's why Quentin still hates him. Her dislike was reasonable at the time. Except it hasn't gone away over the years.

The second time he met her was when Richard died and he has to admit he didn't try that hard to get to know her then. He was far too preoccupied with making sure Laurel – who was pregnant at the time - and Bea were okay and staying hydrated and fed.

The most recent time he met her was last September. Laurel was hugely pregnant, still reeling from Oliver's return, and hadn't spoken to her mother since Richard's funeral. Dinah came into town on her way to visit her sister in Tacoma and took the time to meet them for lunch just so she could sit there, criticize Laurel's every move, ignore him completely, and then make outrageous demands to be at the birth and to stay in their apartment with them for at least two weeks after.

Dean may not know her very well, but he knows she's a pill. She's also a shadow. The relationship between Laurel and her mother is sporadic at best and not for lack of trying on Laurel's part. She tried to involve her mother in wedding planning back when an actual wedding was still on the table, but Dinah couldn't be bothered. She tried to involve her in her pregnancy for a little while, but Dinah blew her off until she appeared out of nowhere and tried to overcorrect. She's tried to involve her in Mary's life, but Dinah has shown zero interest in her granddaughter. She was here for three fucking days and she held Mary maybe twice.

Dinah is a dark cloud hanging over Laurel's head. She is one of the many ghosts that haunt her life day in and day out. She is not some evil, abusive monster. There is nothing tangible that Laurel can hold up and say, ''Look what you've done to me.'' She's just an absence. She's alive so there's nothing to mourn but there's nothing to hold onto either.

He understands how it feels to live with that kind of invisible scar.

He finishes up with Mary, snapping on her Cat in the Hat footie pajamas with ease. ''There you go, pumpkin.'' She's not quite as squirmy anymore but the poor girl still looks unhappy and she's looking up at him with these big, heartbreaking eyes like she's asking him why he's not making her feel better. ''Are you still miserable?'' He presses his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss to check for a fever. She's not warm. The worst of the cold has passed, but she must be exhausted. She's been so congested and her sleep has been awful. It has not made the past few days with Laurel's mother easier. ''Colds are the worst,'' he murmurs, ''aren't they?''

''I think the shower was a good idea,'' Laurel says. ''The steam really seemed to help with her congestion. She's still fussy but she's breathing easier.'' She takes Mary from his arms, bouncing the baby girl softly when she fusses. ''I'm just going to nurse her now. That usually helps. Do you think we should give her a dose of baby Tylenol tonight?''

''I don't know if she needs it. I think her fever's gone.''

''Right,'' she nods. ''Right, I knew that. Just, um...'' She closes her eyes briefly, clutching Mary a little tighter. ''My mom said...'' She trails off, frowns, and then shakes her head. ''It doesn't matter. We just need to remember to keep an eye on her for an ear infection.''

''We will,'' he says. Then, as casual as possible, he says, ''If you wanted to lie down for a bit, I can feed her.''

She stares at him. Slowly, a smirk crawls across her lips. ''You can breastfeed her? Honey, I know you're a superhero of a dad, but,'' she pats his chest, ''these wells are dry.''

''Ha ha. You know what I mean. There's breast milk in the fridge. I can give her a bottle.''

''Why would you need to do that when I'm right here?''

''I just know today has been a shit day and I thought maybe you'd want - ''

''I'm fine.'' her voice is stern, and the small smirk drops off her lips instantly.

''Never said you weren't,'' he says easily. ''But, hypothetically, if you wanted to talk about anything, I'm here.''

''You hate talking,'' she says shortly, and then she turns around and walks away from him.

He stares after her, eyebrows raised. Just like him to end up with someone just as emotionally fucked as he is. He gives her a minute to cool down while he heads into the bathroom to wash his hands. She's in the living room when he emerges, just settling down on the couch with Mary and the nursing pillow. He hesitates, watching her from behind for a minute. ''For the record,'' he says. Her shoulders tense but she doesn't turn around to look at him. ''I don't hate talking to you. It's the best part of my day.''

She turns to face him, an apologetic tilt to her mouth. She looks like she wants to say something to him but before she has a chance, there's a knock on the door. Dean reluctantly looks away from her, heads over to open the door, and immediately realizes he completely forgot that he invited Sam over for dinner.

''Got your text,'' Sam says in lieu of an actual greeting. ''Lasagna, right?''

Dean considers his answer to that carefully. ''...In a way.''

Sam narrows his eyes. ''I don't know what that means,'' he says, ''but I brought garlic bread. Garlic bread goes with all things.''

In theory. Dean accepts the foil wrapped loaf of garlic bread and steps aside to let his brother in. ''Quick question: Can you not feed yourself?''

Sam scrunches his nose up in what looks like deep offense. ''You invited me. Also,'' he holds up a finger. ''Unlike you, I'm still a hunter and funds are kind of limited right now.''

That's because Dean was the one who brought in most of the money. This kid can't hustle to save his life. He never bothered to learn. Hustling people at pool, gambling, these were all things he was ''above'' when he was a moody teenager and an even moodier young adult. He had no problem spending the money Dean brought in, but earning it was where he drew the line. Wonder if he's regretting that now that he's all on his own.

''You won't see me turning down free meals anytime soon,'' Sam says.

''You might after tonight,'' Dean mutters under his breath, closing the door.

''What?''

''Nothing.'' He grins, holding the garlic bread up. ''Thanks for the garlic bread.''

''Sure.'' Sam makes a beeline for Laurel and Mary. Before Dean has a chance to warn him, Sam leans down to kiss Laurel on the cheek and then almost immediately bolts upright. ''And that's your breast.''

Laurel has very little reaction to that. ''Yep. The left one, to be specific.''

He grimaces, cheeks flushing red. ''Sorry.''

Somehow, it actually manages to get a small chuckle out of her. ''Oh, sweetie, at this point everyone's seen my boobs. At least you didn't get full on flashed like some people.'' She doesn't say much else and her smile is clearly half-assed but at least it's something.

''I've gotta get back to the...'' Dean pauses, blinking. ''...Lasagna.'' It's not lasagna. He looks at Laurel, catching her eye briefly. ''Holler if you need anything?''

She nods but doesn't divert her attention away from Mary.

He ducks back into the safety of the kitchen once more, checking the timer on the oven. He gives the ''lasagna'' a cursory look and then pulls the fresh basil out of the fridge. He glances up from what he's doing briefly when Sam wanders into the kitchen and starts rifling around in the fridge. He's just slicing up the garlic bread and arranging it on a baking sheet so he can throw it in the oven for a quick toast when he hears Sam's quizzical voice say, ''You know I love your cooking but that's one funny looking lasagna.''

Dean stops what he's doing for a minute, trying to ready himself for the inevitable ridicule, and then he says, ''It's vegan.''

Sam stands straight and turns to him with wide eyes. ''I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you just say it's vegan?''

''Yes.''

''You made a vegan lasagna?''

''Yes.''

''You.''

''Yes.''

''A vegan lasagna.''

''Yes, Sam.''

Sam stares at him for a long time. ''Have you had a stroke?''

''Look.'' Dean crumples up the foil the garlic bread was in. ''Laurel's been on a health kick lately because she's breastfeeding. She showed me this recipe the other day and said she'd like to try it so we're trying it.'' He throws the foil away and grabs a plate off the counter, thrusting it at his brother. ''Do you want some carrot bacon?''

''Uh.'' Sam looks down at the plate. ''What now?''

''Do you want some carrot bacon?''

''What?''

''It's bacon made out of carrots.''

''...What?''

''It's - ''

''No, I heard you,'' Sam says. ''I just wanted to know if you hear yourself.''

Dean sighs again for the millionth time and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is what he gets for trying to do something nice for his wife.

After a moment or two of deliberation, Sam takes a piece of carrot. He chews the thing at an agonizingly slow speed. He looks...confused. ''Huh,'' he says eventually. ''You know what this tastes like?''

''A carrot?''

''A really screwed up carrot.'' Sam opts not to take another bite, which is probably for the best, and instead puts the carrot back on the plate. ''What'd you do to this thing?''

''I don't fucking know,'' Dean grumbles. He tosses Sam's half eaten carrot into the trash and puts the plate of definitely-not-bacon-but-also-not-really-carrots back on the counter. ''There's liquid smoke and - I don't - It's vegan.'' He looks at the plate, lip curling in disgust, and then he has to turn away from it. He's still personally offended by that. If Laurel tries it and likes it then - okay. Maybe it would be worth it. But calling carrot sticks bacon is blasphemy. He feels wronged.

''It's not bacon,'' Sam declares.

''No shit.'' Dean slips the baking sheet full of garlic bread into the oven next to the vegan...whatever.

''How can a lasagna be vegan?'' Sam asks, twisting the lid off the soda in his hand. ''Doesn't the whole thing rely pretty heavily on the cheese?''

''If it's a good lasagna.''

''Cheese isn't vegan.''

Dean swallows yet another sigh. ''It is if you're using cashew ricotta and hemp seed parmesan.'' There is about a five second stretch of silence after he says that and then Sam promptly bursts into laughter. ''Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,'' Dean rolls his eyes. ''You came here for dinner, which means you're stuck eating this shit too.''

''Then I'm glad I brought the garlic bread.'' Sam lifts the soda to his mouth and then halts right before he takes a sip. There's a look on his face like he's just had some major epiphany. Slowly, he lowers the bottle and asks, very seriously, ''Is there kale in it?''

Instead of verbally answering, Dean groans and looks up at the ceiling in despair.

Sam cackles. ''This is great,'' he says, abandoning the soda in favor of fishing his phone out of his pocket. ''This is amazing. I'm texting Cas. And also everyone we know. People need to know that Dean Winchester, the world's most obnoxious carnivore, is currently making a vegan lasagna with hemp seed parmesan just because his wife asked him to.''

That is the part that snaps Dean out of his carrot bacon induced shame and back to reality. Calmly, he wipes his hands on the dishtowel and then he leans over and snatches the phone from Sam's hand before he can send a single text. ''No, you are not. I don't want anyone teasing her about this right now.''

''Nobody's going to - ''

''Sam.'' He glances over at the entrance to the kitchen quickly, just to make sure they're alone. ''I'm doing this because she needs a win,'' he says lowly. ''It's been a shitty couple of days.''

Sam goes quiet at that. All the humor drains out of his face and his expression morphs into that all too familiar pinched, concerned look. ''She did seem a little off,'' he admits. ''What happened?''

''Her mother was in town.''

''Her - '' Sam's jaw drops. ''Wow. Her mother? I... I didn't even know they had a relationship.''

''They don't,'' Dean says vaguely. ''I...don't think Laurel is Dinah's favourite person.''

''She's her daughter,'' Sam says disbelievingly.

Dean looks down at the fresh chopped basil on the cutting board. He says, tersely, ''Some parents suck.''

Sam doesn't say anything to that.

''She didn't come here for Laurel,'' Dean goes on. He busies himself with the task of cleaning up the kitchen. He gets the basil into a bowl, wipes down the counters, and puts the cutting board in the sink. ''She came here for Sara.''

''Sara? Uh, how does that work?''

''She had it in her head that Sara was alive,'' Dean says, pulling open the dishwasher to load it up. ''She saw some girl's picture and convinced herself it was Sara. And let me tell you, this girl looked nothing like Sara,'' he shakes his head. ''But Dinah was convinced and when she's convinced, it's only a matter of time before Quentin drinks the Kool Aid too, which means Laurel's left holding the bag for both of them. She's barely slept the past couple of nights because she's been working overtime to prove her mother wrong. Eventually, it all spiraled and then it came out that Dinah knew Sara was getting on the boat with Oliver that day.'' He snaps the dishwasher closed a little harder than intended. ''She caught her sneaking out and instead of locking her ass in her room, she told her some bullshit about following her heart. Even though she knew it would hurt Laurel.''

Sam lets out an unimpressed low whistle. ''Jesus.''

That about sums it up.

''So she feels guilty because of what happened to Sara,'' Sam says. ''Does she feel guilty about what she did to Laurel?''

Dean can't help it. He bursts into loud, bitter laughter. It doesn't sound much like laughter. ''Why would she? It's just Laurel.'' It comes out in a snarl. ''It's not just her. It's Quentin too. They both know Laurel will always forgive and forget no matter what they do so they think they can get away with anything. She's the fucking pack mule for their emotional weight. But who gives a shit if her back is breaking, right? It's Laurel. She can handle it.''

Sam says nothing for a long time other than a quiet, contemplative, ''Hmmm.''

Dean turns on the faucet to rinse off the cutting board. He's trying to focus on cleaning and keeping his hands busy but when he looks over at his brother, Sam has this thoughtful look on his face and he's looking at Dean like he's waiting for something. ''What?''

''Nothing,'' Sam says. ''Just - you know. This doesn't remind you of anything? Of anyone?''

Dean tenses, gripping the cutting board tighter. He says, as casually as possible, ''Nope.''

''Dean.'' Sam says his name so warily it sounds like he's approaching a wounded wild animal. ''Come on, man, you know our childhood - ''

''This has nothing to do with our childhood.'' Dean turns off the faucet and whirls around to scowl at Sam. ''This is about hers.''

Sam stubbornly refuses to drop it. ''You really don't see the similarities?''

Dean shoulders past Sam to check on the lasagna without answering. Yes, of course he sees the similarities. How could he not? He stands there, staring at the lasagna for a long time before he finally lets out a breath and looks over at Sam. ''Can you take the lasagna out of the oven when the timer goes off?''

''Sure thing.''

''The garlic bread might need a few more minutes but you have to watch it or else - ''

''Dude, I've got this.''

''If that garlic bread is burnt when I come back,'' he points a finger at Sam, ''you're paying for the pizza we're inevitably going to order tonight.''

''Okay, control freak.''

Dean reluctantly leaves the food in Sam's moderately capable hands and leaves the kitchen. In the living room, Laurel is still curled up on the couch with Mary. She's just finishing up burping her and he can hear her talking softly, apologizing for everything that's happened over the past few days. He hangs back for a moment, listening to the sound of her tired voice. It kills him that she feels the need to apologize for things like a random cold or her mother's behavior. She's always apologized a lot but it wasn't until she was pregnant that he started noticing how frequent her apologies are.

He steps further into the living room and as soon as she sees him, Laurel is already rushing to apologize. ''I'm so sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have snapped at you.''

He waves it off. ''Don't worry about it.'' He takes a seat on the coffee table so he's sitting across from her. She seems far more relaxed than she was earlier today. Then again, she usually does when it's just them.

''Is dinner ready?''

''Soon.'' He smiles thinly. ''Listen, Laur, there's...'' He trails off. He's not sure how to approach this. He's not Laurel. He doesn't do motivational speeches. Besides, she has a habit of getting overly defensive whenever someone brings up the fact that her parents don't treat her right. He would find that to be a mildly irritating character flaw if he didn't relate to it so much. ''Back in 2006,'' he starts. ''We were working this case. A rawhead. It had taken some kids and, uh, during the takedown, I got hurt.''

''Dean.'' She's already shaking her head at him. ''I love you but I really don't think I can hear the story of how your heart almost gave out at twenty-seven again. It freaks me out.''

Doesn't exactly bring up shiny happy memories for him. ''Right, sorry, but that's not what I was getting at.'' He looks at Mary, still awake but seemingly content for now, snuggled in the safety of Laurel's arms. Then he looks at Laurel. It's not hard to see the toll her mother's three day long visit has taken on her. He doesn't think he's seen her look quite so broken down in a long time.

When she was pregnant, she had a rough first trimester. We're talking multiple trips to the emergency room for vomiting, dehydration, cramping, and fainting spells. It was the hardest part of the pregnancy and he suspects that some of her intense hatred of pregnancy might stem from the misery she experienced then. It was an awful time, and he did not make it any easier on her. He wasn't around as much as he should have been back then. He was still hunting, still chasing after Dick Roman, determined to tear him to pieces and get revenge for what happened to Bobby. Even when he was home, he was often distant, distracted, and drunk. He wasn't entirely checked out, he tried to do what he could, but there were stretches of time where Laurel was mostly on her own. He will freely admit that he failed her. It was one of the most physically and emotionally grueling times of her entire life, she was scared out of her mind, and he was a useless sack of shit. He is damn lucky she still agreed to marry him because looking back on it, she should have just left his sorry ass.

During that time, her grandmother was primarily the one taking care of her. He was too busy being a selfish asshole, Joanna and her dad did what they could but they both had full time jobs, Tommy was over all the time but still had a life of his own, and Bea needed a distraction from Richard's rapidly deteriorating health. Eventually, she was needed more at her husband's side, but for a solid month and a half, she was a fixture.

Dean lost count of how many times he would come home and find her doing meal prep or laundry or cleaning the apartment. She did everything she could. Went grocery shopping, made sure Laurel was resting, held her hair back for her when she was sick, kept her as hydrated as possible, and got her to nibble on homemade popsicles when she couldn't keep anything else down. When Laurel was upset or scared or just plain pissed off because she couldn't do the things she used to do, Bea was there to talk her down. She was everything Laurel needed back then. That's common knowledge. Bea's always been everything Laurel needed. What's not so common knowledge is that Laurel is not the only one who needed Bea.

Beatrice Drake has been, right from the start, good to him. That has never changed. Not even back when he was being the world's biggest idiot. He would come home and she would be there with her kind, cheerful greetings, offering to warm up a plate of food for him, waving off his offer to drive her home and telling him to get some sleep instead. She wasn't afraid to call him on his shit, plainly informing him that he needed to do better, that he had choices to make and that he either needed to make Laurel and the baby a priority or stop dragging her through the mud with him and remove himself from the equation entirely. But she never forgot that he was in pain too. She was sorry for his loss. She wanted him to heal, to be okay, not just so he could be there for Laurel but because she cared about his wellbeing.

She never once told him to ''man up'' or ''suck it up.'' It wasn't about toughening up because there were people he had to take care of. It was about getting better.

''I don't want you to be miserable for the rest of your life, my dear,'' she had told him, patting him on the arm. ''You deserve better than that.''

Nobody had ever said that to him before. The thing about living through a childhood like the one he had is that it is all you know so you consider it normal. It's hard, as a child, to find fault in what your parents do. So you become defensive, protective of the version of them you've created in your head to block out the hurt. Dean is willing to admit that he clung to that mentality, to the idea that his father was a hero and could do no wrong, for far longer than he should have. He made excuses well into adulthood.

Bea had - still has - a very specific way of undoing that. She shows him kindness and suddenly the memories of his father shift and darken in his mind. That sounds so simple and easy but really all it takes is one good person, one light to illuminate the cracks.

Laurel is still holding tight to the dark right now. He doesn't know if he should be pushing her or letting her figure things out on her own.

''When I was in the hospital,'' he starts again. ''Sam called Dad. Dad never picked up but Sam left voicemails. Told him everything. He told him about the hunt, my heart, that there was nothing they could do.'' He swallows hard. ''Dad never showed. Never even called.''

She looks thrown by that. ''I... I didn't know that part.''

''No. It's not - It's not something...'' It's not something he talks about. With anyone. Not even Sam.

''Right,'' she nods. ''That's okay. You don't have to - ''

''I do,'' he insists. It's not a memory that is happy or pleasant. It doesn't make him feel good. In all honesty, he doesn't really have that many warm and fuzzy memories of his father. Maybe a handful. Less, probably. ''I remember that we were on our way to Nebraska when Sam told me that he had called Dad. I didn't want to talk about it but Sam did and I was trapped in a moving vehicle so there was nowhere for me to run.'' He licks his lips. ''I was angry.'' He laughs lightly. ''I said he shouldn't have bothered him. That Dad had better things to do. I defended him. Sam was pissed but I wasn't surprised. You know? I wasn't surprised.'' He tries to smile for her but it feels stiff on his lips. ''It still stung,'' he admits. ''I was dying and my own father couldn't be bothered to take one day off from his vendetta to visit his sick kid. It's been a long time since that and it still stings.''

He has never admitted that out loud to anyone before. It doesn't feel as cathartic as he was hoping it would.

''You want to know the part that hurts the most? I know that if there had been no faith healer, no miracle, I would have died without ever seeing my dad again. I don't know if he would have regretted that decision but it's a decision he would have made. I know that. Just like I know that if the situations had been reversed and Sam had been the one in that hospital bed, Dad would have come.'' And there it is. That thing he's never said. That thing he's hardly allowed himself to think about. It's been eight years almost exactly since that case and it is still there in the back of his mind like it just happened last week. The pain of the initial injury, the exhaustion that followed, the fear, and the knowledge of death; that it was going to happen and he couldn't outrun it.

He remembers Roy La Grange, his batshit crazy holier-than-thou wife, the Reaper. He remembers Layla Rourke and her mother. He remembers everything about Layla. From her smile to her voice to the way he would check the Ford City, Nebraska obituaries every day until one day, there she was. All that was left of her was a name, a picture, and a few lines about her life.

And he remembers the absence. The empty space where his father should have been. The way it felt to be forgotten. How does someone forget something like that? How do you move on? ''Even after all these years, that part still hurts.''

Briefly, just for a fleeting moment, she looks caught. She looks down at Mary. He expects her to be defensive. She obviously knows what he's getting at.

''It never really leaves,'' he says. ''That feeling of being forgotten. Does it?''

She just keeps looking down at Mary. Mary isn't asleep but he can tell she's starting to drift off, contentedly sucking on her pacifier. Her eyelids are drooping but she's still looking up at her mother like she hung the moon.

He doesn't want to pressure Laurel to say anything if she isn't ready so he keeps his mouth shut and gives her a minute. When she eventually does look up at him, she looks miserable. She's not crying but she's close. ''It would be easier if I knew,'' she practically whispers.

''Knew what?''

''What I did.''

''Laurel.'' He's horrified to hear her say that. ''No,'' he says firmly, shaking his head. ''No, you didn't - ''

''Don't say I didn't do anything,'' she cuts him off sharply. ''There has to be something, Dean. There has to be.'' She sounds so desperate to find some kind of explanation. ''She can't just not like me. That doesn't make any sense. There has to be a reason. There has to be something. But I... I don't know what I did,'' her voice cracks. ''I wish she would just tell me. If it's something I can fix, I want to know. I just need to know what's so broken in me that makes everyone hate me.''

''Laurel, stop it.'' His voice comes out sounding louder and sharper than intended. Mary jerks in Laurel's arms, pacifier immediately falling out of her mouth. Immediately, she starts whining and squirming, turning to bury her face in Laurel's chest.

Dean sighs heavily. Whatever he's trying to do here, he's failing miserably. If he knew how to make these things better, especially when it comes to crappy parents, he would feel better. As it is, he can't even move past his own damages. ''This isn't about you,'' he tries, once Laurel has calmed Mary down and given her back her pacifier. ''You're not broken. She is.'' It's the only thing he can think of to say. Ideally, it would help. It's the truth. Logically, he knows it's not that easy.

It's never that easy.

''Telling Sara to get on that boat was wrong,'' he says. ''The way she treats you is wrong.'' He figures that's the most impactful thing he can say. Truthfully, he just really wants to say that to her. He figures nobody's ever told her that before. Nobody ever told him that until she came along.

''The way your father treated you was wrong too,'' she says, without looking at him. ''I just feel bad for Mary,'' she says, before he even has a chance to let her previous comment sink in. ''I had such amazing grandparents growing up. I feel bad she's not going to have that. I love my dad and I know he loves her, but he's - well, you know.'' She smiles, somewhat sadly, and runs her hand over Mary's head softly. ''I just don't want her to feel alone the way we did.''

''She won't,'' he promises. ''We'll make sure of that.''

There are many promises he intends to keep when it comes to these two, but that is at the top of the list.

.

.

.

November, 2016

When Laurel thinks of her mother - specifically in regards to her childhood - what she remembers most is a confusing mixture of love and indifference.

She remembers that her mother was the one who talked her down when she was having a panic attack because Dad got too worried and anxious. She can still hear her mother's voice in her head sometimes; that low, calm, steady voice breaking through the fog of panic to guide her home.

She also remembers the way her mother would drift away from her. She would cling to Sara, wrap herself around her like she was the most precious thing her arms had ever held, but she would distance herself both emotionally and physically from Laurel.

Laurel has a lot of memories of the back of her mother's head.

She grew up knowing that her mother loved her, but that she just didn't like her all that much. She never knew why. She used to wrack her brain trying to unlock that mystery, but she never could.

Now, though. Now. Well, she has to wonder. Maybe she wasn't a bad kid. Maybe she wasn't difficult to be around or hard to love. Maybe the divide wasn't because she was too emotional, too clingy, too whiny, too soft, too hard, just too much. Maybe the distance between them is not because of something she did or did not do. Maybe it's because of what she is. What's inside of her. Maybe her mother never truly disliked her. Maybe she was just afraid of her.

That's all she can think about on the drive to her mother's townhouse near the CCU campus. She turns the thought over in her head and takes it apart, trying to decide if it makes her mother's detachment better or worse. She decides it's the latter. If her mother didn't like her because of some facet of her personality that she found irritating, that would be one thing. If it's because she knew Laurel would grow up to someday have this sonic scream and she was afraid of that then that's so much worse.

Laurel did not ask for this. She would like to make that clear. She didn't ask for these meta powers that she doesn't want and can't control. She wasn't given a choice in the matter. Why should she be punished for something she was born with? Why does she always have to be the one who takes the punishment?

She is so tired of being punished.

By the time they turn down her mother's street, she has thought up an entire speech in her head. It's made up of all the things she's wanted to say to her mother. Dean keeps asking her if she's sure she wants to do this tonight. If she's sure she's ready. She tells him that she's been ready for years. She has thirty-one years of pent up anger and pain and it has all been compounded by one disturbing revelation from her cantankerous doppelganger. She's ready.

Then she knocks on the door, and her father opens it.

If possible, he looks even more surprised to see her than she is to see him. ''Laurel?''

''Dad?'' She gapes at her father, standing in the doorway of her mother's - no, scratch that, his ex-wife's house, a long ways away from his own home. He looks comfortable in the space, like he's flung open this door a million times before. He's dressed for bed and Laurel can see her mother over his shoulder, already in her robe and pajamas, walking around the kitchen, probably getting her nightly cup of hibiscus tea ready. It's like opening the door to the past.

He looks like a deer in headlights when he sees her and for a split second, Laurel almost feels bad for interrupting their night. Whatever this is, it's not something she had known about.

But then her mother pops up, appearing at Dad's side suddenly, and before Laurel even has a chance to think, her body remembers the anger. Her body tenses up, clenches her fists, and swallows the pressure in her throat. Her mother doesn't notice. She looks bewildered, looking back and forth between Laurel and Dean. ''What are you two doing here?''

Laurel tries to say something, but nothing comes out. She's forgotten the speech. Oddly, unexpectedly, all she can think about is that worn out composition notebook that she used to keep hidden under her mattress when she was a kid. It was her research book. She wrote down her mother's likes and dislikes, her pet peeves, the subjects she liked to talk about and the ones she preferred to avoid, the things that made her mad and the things that made her laugh. She wrote down all of Mom's favourite things, from pizza toppings to books and movies to songs to her favourite kind of cheesecake. For a long time, she used that as her reference book. Her guide to the one family member she couldn't understand.

She tried to model herself after her mother. She avoided the things her mom hated and went through a phase of only talking about the things her mother liked. Anything to get even a fraction of the love Sara got. It never worked. It all had a lasting impact on her, but it never gave her the close relationship she was looking for.

She likes mushroom and olives on her pizza because it's Mom's favourite. She enjoys reading because Mom has been an English professor since Laurel was eleven. She listens to Fleetwood Mac because that was what her mother listened to. She's a good public speaker because her mother taught her to be. She decided to become a lawyer instead of following in her father's footsteps because her mother balked (rightfully so) at the idea of her joining the police academy. Hell, she had a home birth just because it was what she was ''supposed'' to do as Dinah Drake's daughter.

Absolutely none of that got her anywhere.

Instead of a relationship with her mother, she just got a lifetime of lies and disinterest. That is all she can think when she sees her mother standing there. It almost knocks her off her feet.

''We need to talk to you,'' Dean speaks up for her, when it becomes clear that she can't. He places a hand on her lower back and she releases a slow breath, unclenching her fists.

''Oh.'' Mom smiles. She doesn't even give Dean so much as a dirty look. How uncharacteristic of her. She must be really thrown by their sudden appearance. ''Of course. Come in.'' She steps aside to let them in, pulling Dad along with her.

Laurel looks over at Dean before she steps over the threshold. He's looking at her worriedly, like he's trying to wordlessly ask her if she's really sure about this. She offers him a tiny smile and squeezes his hand ever so briefly as she moves past him into the house. He stays close to her when he follows her, practically glued to her, hands on her hips. She can't tell if that's because he's concerned for her or because he's uncomfortable in her mother's home. He did refer to this place as ''the lion's den'' that one singular other time he was here.

''Laurel,'' Dad says her name as soon as the door shuts. There's a tiny glimpse of a smile starting on his lips. ''I know how this looks. Your mother and I - ''

''I don't care.'' She doesn't mean for that to sound so careless and rude. It's just it's obvious what's going on here. The lights in the room are low, there's a half empty bowl of popcorn on the table, a single blanket on the couch, two half drunk mugs of hot cocoa next to the popcorn, and a movie paused on the television. She knows what a casual night in looks like when you're in a comfortable, long running relationship. This is basically every Friday night for her and Dean. There's also the fact that her parents look like two kids who have just been caught necking in the woods.

If she hadn't just learned a giant family secret, she would be ecstatic right now. Her mother is hard to read but her father has always worn his heart on his sleeve and she knows that he has never fallen out of love with her.

''It's good you're happy,'' she adds on. ''I want that for you.''

Her parents look at each other. They don't look like they were expecting that. She wonders what they were expecting.

''It's just a - a trial kind of thing,'' Dad says. ''We're trying out dating.''

''We're even going to counseling once a week,'' Mom says. ''We're serious about doing it right this time.''

''That's nice,'' Laurel murmurs. She sinks heavily onto the nearby loveseat. So glad their daughter's brutal murder could bring them back together. How romantic. She blows out a breath and leans forward with her head in her hands. Okay, that was mean. Despite how angry she is with her mother, she doesn't want to be cruel.

''I know this is unexpected,'' her father's voice says, ''but we figured you would be...happier.''

Laurel raises her head quickly. ''No,'' she says, trying for a smile. ''It's not that. I - I am happy.''

''Honey, are you all right?'' Mom asks. ''You don't look well.''

Laurel almost laughs at that. ''I'm not well,'' she says harshly. ''I'm pretty fucking far from it.'' She looks at her mother. She meets her eyes. She doesn't look away. ''Care to guess why, Mom?''

She doesn't think she has ever been so candid or blunt with her mother before. She definitely doesn't think she's ever sworn in front of her. But the words pour out, anger bleeding into her every word, and she watches her mother go pale as the weight of the words sink in. That one single look, that tiny bit of understanding and guilt, is enough to convince Laurel that it really is true. Her mother knew all along. There had been a small part of her clinging to the hope that maybe it was a misunderstanding. Not anymore.

''Tell me something,'' she gets out, rising to her feet. ''Be honest with me for once in my life. How relieved were you when I died?''

''Laurel!'' Even her dad's shocked admonishment isn't enough to deter her this time.

''It meant you got away with it, didn't it?'' She mocks. ''That must have been such a huge weight lifted off your shoulders. You didn't have to tell me a thing and no one would have to find out what a liar you are.'' She takes a step in her mother's direction as she's ranting, and then another, and another, and then Dean is there.

He steps in between them without a second thought, moving one hand to her waist and startling her out of her rage. ''Take a breath,'' he advises. ''Is this really how you want this to go down?''

''I was never relieved you were gone,'' Mom says. She sounds...honest. But defeated. She must know there's no way to weasel her way out of this one. ''Not ever. Not for one second.''

''But you know,'' Laurel insists. ''You know what I'm getting at, right?''

''You got your inheritance.''

''My inheritance?''

''That's what your grandmother called it. The sonic scream.'' She sounds so incredibly calm right now. ''I'm sorry.''

Laurel lets out a choked laugh. It's a miracle she doesn't start sobbing. She can feel it in her throat. It's hard to keep the anger steady when all she feels like doing is collapsing to the ground and screaming and screaming and screaming. ''Yeah? What are you sorry for? Are you sorry that this is happening to me, are you sorry you lied, or are you just sorry you got caught?''

There is no answer to that. She's not sure she would have wanted one anyway.

''Is anyone going to fill me in on what the hell is going on?'' Dad's voice is sharp, tearing her out of her blind rage briefly.

She can't look at him, shuffling her feet and glancing over at Dean, waiting for him to help her out here. He doesn't look like he knows what to say either. ''I - I have this thing,'' is all she manages to come up with.

''She's a meta,'' Dean chimes in.

Dad stares at her blankly. For a second, she wonders if he's even heard them at all. Then he turns to look at Dean, a stony glare falling into place on his face. ''No, she's not.''

She sighs and steps over to him, placing a hand on his arm. ''Daddy - ''

''No,'' he says it again, firm and resolute. It's like he thinks that if he says it with enough conviction, it will be true. ''You're not. That's not possible. It's not - This isn't you.'' He sounds so offended on her behalf. The idea of her being something other than the completely normal daughter he so desperately wants her to be seems to be preposterous to him.

''It is now,'' she says.

''No, no, that's - ''

''The destruction at the cemetery wasn't vandalism,'' she says, because it's all she can think of to prove it to him. ''It was me.''

He shakes his head, still stubborn as ever. ''Laurel, this is crazy.''

''I don't disagree.''

He rubs at his forehead. Off to the side, Mom still hasn't said a word. She's just standing there. ''How did this happen?'' He asks. ''Was - Was there an accident? Does it have something to do with how you came back?''

''We think my return triggered it,'' Laurel says. ''But it's always been there. Apparently,'' and this is the part where she looks straight at her mother, ''it runs in the family.''

Her father whips his head around to face Mom. He looks like the bottom has just dropped out from underneath him. ''Is that true?'' Mom doesn't say anything but she shifts uncomfortably. Laurel doesn't think she has ever seen her unflappable mother look so profoundly guilty before. It doesn't help. Maybe it's good that she feels guilty. It means she has a conscience. It doesn't make anything better. She still lied. If she felt so guilty about it, she should have told the truth. ''You knew.'' Dad says. He doesn't phrase it as a question.

Something about the tone of his voice sets her off because as soon as he says it, Mom's all about begging. ''Quentin.'' She reaches out to touch him but he flinches away from her. ''Quentin, please,'' she begs. ''Please let me explain.''

''Explain,'' he echoes. ''How do you explain this, Dinah? What's your excuse? You just forgot to tell me? For almost thirty four years?!'' He looks incredulous. ''What was the plan here, Di? Huh? Were you just never going to tell any of us? If this is something that affects the girls - ''

''It doesn't affect the girls,'' Mom cuts in. ''This only affects Laurel.'' She turns her pleading eyes to her eldest. ''I'm so sorry. This is how it works. Only firstborn daughters have this.''

Laurel stares at her mother, frozen somewhere between anger and terror. She feels stuck. She can't speak or move. There is a sickening tightening in her chest and her stomach is turning over, threatening to upend what little she's eaten today. Judging by the look on her mother's face, she doesn't fully understand what this means. Dean does. He has gone completely still, silently staring at Mom. Laurel swears she can feel the rage and the fear radiating off him in heat waves. Even Dad gets it, eyes widening as a look of horror passes over his face.

''Firstborn daughters,'' Dean's voice is strangely calm, and there's this look on his face that Laurel hasn't seen in a long time. ''You mean like my daughter?''

Mom closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. She looks regretful and full of guilt. At this point, her guilt and regret mean nothing. ''I'm sorry,'' she says again. Even that just feels repetitive and hollow.

''That's why you were so adamant you needed to be there when she was born, isn't it?'' Dean goes on, still deadly calm.

''It - It's why the women in my family have home births,'' Mom admits, wringing her hands. ''It takes a lot to control this. Physical pain is an exposure risk.''

''So you didn't give a crap about meeting your grandkid,'' Dean bites out. ''You just wanted to make sure your dirty little secret stayed a secret. And you didn't have some attack of conscience after Laurel died either, huh? You just wanted to make sure losing her mother hadn't brought out the Drake in my daughter.''

She doesn't disagree with any of that. She doesn't even bother to glare at him.

''You better start talking,'' Dad warns. ''Right now, Dinah.''

She looks sufficiently cowed. ''What is it that you want to know?''

''All of it,'' Laurel says. ''Let's start with: why only firstborn daughters?''

Her mother looks uneasy. She takes a seat on the couch, away from them. She looks so small sitting there. Laurel has never thought of her mother as small before. To her, Dinah Alexandra Drake-Lance has always been this larger than life force, so composed and put together, beautiful and intelligent. A little cold sometimes. Maybe somewhat pretentious. Infuriatingly classist. But somehow awe inspiring. A wonder to her young daughters. Laurel spend her entire childhood trying to get close to her brilliant but standoffish mother. Her mother was never interested; too big of a presence, too looming. Now she just looks resigned. Older and weighed down by the past, sitting on that old couch, bogged down by her secrets. She's done it to herself. Still, Laurel can't help but feel sad that this is what it's come to.

''On the Drake side - or the Ellard side, rather - we are the descendants of a witch,'' Mom says.

Laurel pauses at the word ''witch'' and exchanges a quick look with Dean. Real witches don't burn, she remembers.

''Her name was Hazel Aelard. I don't know the exact details of what happened in her life. This was way back in the 1500s. All my information comes from your grandmother and great aunt Faye. All I know is that Hazel was involved with a powerful coven somewhere in England. None of them were good people and they had enough power to wreak havoc on entire villages of people, but that wasn't enough for Hazel. She wanted more. She wanted power and wealth and eternal life. I don't know what it is that she did but eventually, she was banished from the coven.'' She pauses briefly, looking up at Laurel and then almost immediately dropping her gaze back down.

The casual, comfortable way she's telling this story, so sure of the details, tells Laurel that it might be one that has been talked about frequently in the Drake family. There are already bits and pieces of her childhood falling into place. Aunt Natasha has always had a fascination with witches and history. Sometimes Grandma would reference a Hazel in this hushed, angry voice. And Aunt Valerie, the oldest of the three Drake girls, was treated so differently, like she was somehow frail or ready to spontaneously combust at any given moment.

Laurel is furious with her mother because she's her mother. It was her job to protect her children, to prepare them for life, and she failed. All along there's been this bomb inside of her oldest child, just waiting to go off, and she never even bothered to warn her. But it wasn't just her, was it? That would be a simple kind of failure. An easier betrayal to swallow. The fact remains, however, it wasn't just her. The entire Drake side of the family knew and they did nothing. They said nothing. None of them warned her. Even Grandma, her biggest supporter, kept her mouth shut. Her silence hurts the most.

''What does some greedy witch from the 1500s have to do with anything?'' Dean bites out impatiently.

''Hazel refused to accept the banishment,'' Mom says evenly, continuing on with her story and completely ignoring him. ''She tried to overthrow the leader and take the position for herself. It didn't work. She managed to kill the leader but the rest of them turned on her. They nearly killed her. They drained her of her power, beat her within an inch of her life, and permanently disfigured her, but they didn't kill her. They cursed her instead. Except they didn't just curse her.''

''They cursed the entire family line,'' Laurel sighs, bringing up a hand to rub at her left temple.

''Hazel was pregnant at the time,'' Mom says. ''They wanted to punish her so they cursed her baby, but they didn't understand how unhinged she was. They thought she would care about her child. She didn't. All she cared about was power. They unknowingly gave that to her when they cursed her child. Hazel used her daughter like a tool,'' she says darkly. ''Raised her to be a weapon instead of a person and when she was a teenager, Hazel's daughter waltzed into that coven and decimated them all on her mother's orders. The coven thought of Hazel as a monster, they wanted her to be remembered as a monster, and so she gave them a monster.''

Laurel blinks, feeling her shoulders slump. ''Is that what I am?'' She asks. ''A monster?''

''No!'' Her mother's response is instant. ''That's not what I...'' She takes in a breath. ''We never had a word for this,'' she tries. ''We didn't know about metahumans. We just knew that this was designed to be a curse, a permanent reminder in every generation of what Hazel did so that's what we called it. It's not triggered in every case,'' she says. ''It's not something that's completely inevitable. Your Aunt Valerie has it but she's avoided being triggered. My cousin Elizabeth - Hers hasn't been activated either. They got lucky. I... I thought you had gotten lucky.''

''Yeah,'' Laurel snorts. ''I feel real lucky.''

''You went through so much,'' Mom tells her. ''I thought if you could go through all of that without activating the curse...''

''You thought you wouldn't have to tell her,'' Dad cuts in. He's looking at her like a stranger. She looks more shaken by that than anything else.

''What about when I got pregnant?'' Laurel demands. ''What about when I had a daughter? You didn't think I had a right to know then? I need to know what's going on with my child and you deliberately withheld information about something she has. That's not okay.''

''You sound like your grandmother.''

''Well, I'm glad at least one person was trying to look out for me and Mary.''

''I did what I thought was right.''

''How could you possibly think this was right?''

That gets her on her feet, eyes blazing. The fact that she has the gall to be angry right now is telling. Despite the big show of remorse, she still thinks she was in the right. ''You have no idea what this family has been through, Laurel.''

Laurel laughs again; less bitter this time, more tired. ''You're right,'' she says honestly. ''I don't. I don't know a damn thing about my family.''

Mom quiets at that. She looks up at Laurel without a word, conflicted, and then she asks, ''Do you remember your cousin Edie?''

Laurel swallows the sudden lump in her throat. ''Of course I remember her.'' How could she not? Before the Lance sisters became the resident tragedies of the family, there was Edie. Laurel remembers her older cousin in bits and pieces. The ballet slippers, the classical music she liked to listen to, her singing voice, that mischievous little half smile of hers. She was the beautiful, witty older cousin Laurel idolized.

The last time she ever saw her was when she was nine and Edie was fifteen. After that, her life became a string of bad luck. A horrific car accident that killed her best friend and left her seriously injured and in a medically induced coma for six weeks followed by a stay in some top rehab center in the UK, and then once she got better, she just...never came home. She became this ghost who sent letters and postcards and pictures updating the family on her life. She sent presents on Christmas and she called Grandma and Grandpa on their birthdays, but she was never physically there.

She studied abroad for a few years, then she moved around a lot, eventually settled somewhere in Oregon, and then she killed herself when she was twenty-one. Just like that she was gone. It's been speculated that maybe she had gotten into drugs after the crash because Aunt Val mentioned frequently that Edie had ''pain'' leftover from the accident.'' Either way, her death shook the entire family. Grandpa took it especially hard. She had been the first grandchild and he adored her. Edie had also been a firstborn daughter.

''Oh my god,'' she murmurs. ''Edie had this.''

Her mother nods somberly. ''The crash brought it out. After it happened, Valerie thought it was best to send her to live with Faye in Maine. There was never any coma or rehab center. We thought we could use that as an excuse and then she could come home once she had gotten things under control. Valerie and Danny - They had to think of their other children. The boys were still young. They had to protect them. Faye had had her cry for over forty years at that point. She knew how to control it. The hope was that she would be able to help Edie with it. Teach her how to live with it. But your cousin...'' She grimaces. ''She didn't take the change well. She was...volatile.''

''You mean dangerous,'' Dean translates, crossing his arms.

''She was scared,'' Mom says. ''Faye tried. Valerie tried. Natasha and I - We all tried. Edie was just too unstable. She couldn't control it. She couldn't be around other people. So Valerie and Danny made the decision to move her out to Maine permanently. We told you kids that she was traveling. A few years later, when Faye got sick, she couldn't care for Edie anymore so Valerie brought her back to Washington. They wanted her to be close to them in Tacoma but - ''

''Not close enough that she would hurt the boys if she went off,'' Laurel finishes for her.

Mom presses her lips together. ''They set her up in a house in Aberdeen,'' she says. ''They paid for everything. They made sure she had everything she needed. Rent, groceries, clothes, books, everything. They called her once a day and they set aside time to see her on her birthday. They did the best they could.'' She says this all very passionately. It's all an excuse, that much is obvious. She just doesn't want it to sound like one.

Laurel isn't buying it. They did the best they could is a phrase too often associated with excusing parental neglect. It's a way to minimize the damage. Whitewash the past. You hear the words and suddenly you're supposed to forget the wrongdoings and think oh, well, at least they tried; some parents don't even do that.

John Winchester did the best he could. What does that say about that particular phrase?

''The best they could,'' Dean repeats mockingly. ''By locking their kid away like she was fucking Rapunzel?''

''You do not get to pass judgment on my sister for this,'' Mom bites out. ''You have no idea how hard it was for them to do what they did.''

Instinctively, Laurel instantly steps in front of her husband to place herself in between him and her mother. ''I'd watch your tone when speaking to him if I were you, Mother. You're already on thin enough ice as it is.''

''Let me get this straight,'' Dad pipes up, blowing right past the tension. ''Everything you told us about Edie's life after the accident was a lie?''

''You didn't need to know the truth,'' Mom says softly. ''It was a family matter.''

''Right.'' A fleeting, scornful smile crosses his lips. ''Family. I guess I never realized you didn't consider the girls and I part of your family.''

''Oh, no,'' she shakes her head adamantly. ''No, that's not - ''

''What you meant,'' he interrupts. ''No, of course not. You seem to be having a lot of trouble saying what you mean tonight, Dinah.''

''Quentin, you and the girls are my family,'' she says. ''You mean everything to me.''

He doesn't even acknowledge that. ''What about Jackson and Seth?'' He demands coldly. ''They were all close. Did they ever get to know what happened to their sister or do they still think she just up and left them? What about your parents? Beatrice and Richard kept all of Edie's letters. Richard used to read them out loud every time we went over there. He was so proud of his globetrotting granddaughter. Did she even write those letters? Or were they in on this too?''

Mom is quiet for a long time. ''They knew the curse had been activated,'' she admits. ''They didn't know the severity of the situation. We told them she was doing well.''

''God, Dinah,'' he scoffs. ''What the hell is wrong with you?''

''We were trying to protect them from the pain!'' She cries. ''Mom felt so guilty for passing this down. We didn't want her to be hurt. None of us did. Including Edie. That's why she wrote the letters. She didn't want them to worry.''

''What about Edie?'' He looks at her with narrowed eyes. ''Your sister cut that girl off from her entire support system and hid her away like she was some kind of shameful secret. Is that how you all saw her? Is that what Laurel is supposed to be now?''

''No! No, of course not!''

''Did Edie ever get to see her brothers again?''

''That was Valerie and Danny's choice to make.''

''That's a no then.''

''It wasn't my place to step in. It was their choice.''

''Well,'' Laurel says, ''their choice killed their daughter.''

It's a horrifying thing to say but it's a horrifying story she's just been told. She keeps thinking about her cousin. Edie is a closely guarded memory to her. She is a smiling fifteen year old, a confident young woman, a lucky daughter who got to be close with her mother without even trying. She is an image of a beautiful ballerina, blurred by time. She is the first casualty, the first loss, the first moment of silence around the dinner table. She was the first ''in memoriam'' angel ornament Aunt Natasha made. Sara was the second. Laurel wonders, idly, if Nat has made her an ornament yet.

There are a lot of dead girls in the Drake family history.

Laurel has worked hard to remember Edie's life and not her death. She prefers to think of her as the cousin who was an amazing ballerina and not the cousin who slit her own throat at age twenty-one just to get away. For the most part, she thinks she has succeeded. When she thinks of Edie now, she mostly thinks of her dancing in their grandparents' living room, practicing for a ballet recital, her movements full of this incredible fluid grace while six-year-old Laurel poked her head into the room to watch with big eyes.

Even still, it's hard not to think of what happened after. The Drake family used to be close. Most people don't know that now. Everything was a big production. Every holiday, every birthday, every Sunday night dinner. The whole family would congregate at Grandma and Grandpa's house. They were loud and fun and close. Then Edie died and it was like the lights all started to go out one by one. They tried for a few years, kept it up for as long as they could even though Aunt Valerie cried when she saw the empty place setting saved for Edie, but then Sara died and everything just collapsed.

Laurel can't remember the last time she saw her family all together. Actually, yes, she can. Grandma's funeral. Before that, it was Grandpa's. The funerals are all they really have now.

So, yes. What she said might have been harsh but all she can think about are the what ifs. If Edie hadn't been so isolated and alone, if she'd had more support, would she still be here? Would they still be a family? Did the family break apart because kids grow up and seasons change or because a precarious situation was massively mishandled?

Her mother doesn't seem to follow that train of thought because she looks straight up repulsed by the comment. ''Laurel!''

It doesn't do a thing to calm the swell of rage. ''They treated her like a radioactive freak. They isolated her for years, cut her off from her family, and we all know how that ended, don't we?''

Mom looks down at her hands. Her fingers skim over the place her wedding band used to be. She looks over at Dad, still looking like she's silently begging him for help. When he gives her nothing, she clears her throat and says, with a barely noticeable wince, ''Actually, Laurel, you don't. Edie didn't kill herself.''

''Di,'' Dad's voice is so soft Laurel can barely hear him. ''What are you talking about?''

''She didn't kill herself,'' she says again. It sounds like she's having trouble getting the words out. ''That's just what Valerie chose to tell people. She didn't want to create panic.''

Laurel is officially getting a headache. A migraine, actually. She can feel it coming on. There is only so much she can take. ''Why would there be panic?''

''Because she was hunted.'' It's Dean who says it, quiet but matter of fact. Laurel turns to him but he is pointedly not looking at her. His eyes are on her mother. The expression on his face is caught somewhere between stony professionalism and resignation. ''Edie was killed by a hunter,'' he says, ''wasn't she?''

Laurel isn't sure if it's the words or the strange tone of voice he's using but her entire body goes ice cold when he says that.

Mom squares her shoulders at the accusation but doesn't bother to deny it. ''She left the house. She knew she wasn't supposed to but she wanted to buy Christmas presents to send to her brothers so she went to the mall and she... She got overwhelmed. The scream - It just came out and - ''

''The building collapsed,'' Dad finishes. ''I remember that. It was all over the news. Dinah, people died that day. A lot of people.''

''They never did figure out what caused the collapse, did they?'' Dean asks conversationally. ''They thought it was a bomb. Then they tried blaming it on shifting soil and an unstable foundation. A sinkhole. An earthquake. Tunneling below. Nothing concrete. Which means it was just another freak accident with mass casualties. The exact kind of thing that brings a hunter to town.''

''Hunters should mind their own business,'' Mom spits out venomously. ''Stick to cursed objects and haunted houses. This kind of thing is way above their paygrade. They're too simple to understand this. Edie was a scared kid.''

''A scared kid who killed fourteen people,'' Dean fires back.

Her eyes darken with fury. ''So that means she deserved to die?''

''I never said that. All I'm saying is that she wasn't entirely innocent.''

''But she was a person,'' her voice trembles. ''She had a family. She was twenty one years old,'' she says thickly. ''She should have been given mercy. But you hunters...'' She curls her lips into a cruel, mocking sneer. ''You cowardly, small men running around with your delusions of righteousness, so quick to believe the murders you commit are somehow justified because your victims weren't quite normal. Whatever that is. You're not known for your mercy, are you?'' She takes a few slow, somehow threatening steps in his direction. ''Especially you, Dean Winchester. Son of John Winchester. Tell me, do you really think you can save the world by killing every person who doesn't fit into your pathetically narrow minded worldview?''

And that's when Laurel snaps.

She feels like she should be more surprised that her mother apparently knows all about the supernatural world but given everything else she's just learned about her mother and her secrets, that's pretty low on the list of shocking things. What she's stuck on is the way she's attacking Dean. She steps in between the two, reaching out to grasp her mother's wrist tightly. ''I seem to remember warning you to watch your tone when speaking to my husband,'' she hisses, leaning in close. ''If you keep attacking him, I might just start screaming myself and I don't think anyone wants that.''

Mom rears back, stunned. She looks wounded. Laurel ignores that completely and whirls back around to face Dean. He looks rattled. She doesn't know it's because of her mother's words or hers, but she instinctively feels the need to fix it. She only gets about two steps before she hears her father's voice.

''How do you know so much about the building collapse?''

She stops. The question hangs there in the air between them. Dean closes his eyes briefly, jaw ticking nervously, shoulder slumping. She recognizes that body language. He tries so hard to be some stoic, hard to read badass but she knows all his tells. She knows him inside and out, better than she knows herself. Or at least she thought she did. He opens his eyes and looks right at her. Just like that she knows why her mother has hated him for all these years.

''No.'' She shakes her head, trying her hardest to cling to denial. ''No. No, no, it wasn't you. Tell me it wasn't you.''

When he speaks, his voice is something she hardly recognizes. She hasn't heard it since 2010. ''I was doing what I was told.''

''Yes,'' her mother says from behind her. ''You were good at that from what I've heard. You were your daddy's sharpest knife. What a hollow little thing you must've been inside.'' Her voice is gentle but cruel, dripping with disdain and disgust. ''I remembered you, Dean. I remembered you the second I met you. You think this has all been about social status? Your personality? The age difference? I don't care about any of that. I don't want you around my daughter because I don't want to get a phone call one day telling me you've slit her throat the way you slit my niece's.''

''Dinah,'' Dad says, uncharacteristically calm and even. ''I think you need to stop talking now.'' There is cold rage in his eyes when he turns to Dean and he's inching closer to Laurel like he's getting ready to shove her behind him for safekeeping. ''You killed Edie?''

''I was there,'' Dean says. ''Aberdeen, Washington. December, 2000. That was my father's case. Mysterious building collapse. Multiple witnesses reported hearing a painful scream-like noise before the building went down. Dad was sure it was a banshee. But I did not kill her.'' He says the last part so desperately.

''You're lying,'' Mom snarls.

He doesn't even give her a second glance. ''Laur,'' he pleads. ''Laurel, please.'' He reaches out, latching onto her wrist, and...and she flinches. She doesn't mean to. She's not... Her mother is trying to sway her. This is fearmongering. She knows that. She will not be afraid of her own husband. It's just that this isn't how she expected to spend her night. This isn't what she expected to learn. She thought this would be different. She didn't think it would be like this. He looks devastated when she flinches away from his touch. He tries to cover it up, quickly letting go of her and taking a few steps back to respect her space, but she sees it. ''Your mother can believe what she wants,'' he says. ''You know I don't care what she thinks. I need you to know the truth. I didn't kill her. My father - He was the one who - ''

''Killed some girl because he thought she was - what? A monster?'' Dad growls out. ''He didn't even know what she was. Was helping her ever an option? Do you people not fact check before you start shooting?'' He's placed himself in front of Laurel now, like a wall, blocking Dean from getting to her.

Dean looks like he's about to spiral. He's trying to look at Laurel and only Laurel but her father is in the way and he's trying to come up with something to say but her parents keep talking over him. She wants to say something to him before this gets out of hand but her voice won't work. She tries. By the time she manages to get a quick rasp of his name out, it's too late.

That's the thing about conditioning: it never goes away. It's something that is always inside of you, waiting.

She can literally feel the moment he switches. It's like the air gets thicker, electrified with some awful thing, and then she's watching him crawl back into that spot where he feels safe, where he feels like he can take on the world. In one quick instant, he goes from Dean Winchester, her husband and Mary's father to #1 Soldier, Daddy's Blunt Little Instrument. His posture straightens into this military-esque pose, his lips tighten, his eyes darken, even his voice is rougher. If John walked in right now, he would be looking at the same kid he left broken.

''My father made the decisions,'' he says in that same eerie, forced voice. ''Maybe sometimes he made the wrong call, but he was the one in charge. I didn't question my orders. It wasn't my place.''

''Your - '' Dad stares at him, mystified. He takes a step back. Small mercies. ''Your orders?'' There is almost an undercurrent of pity to his voice.

''I did what he told me to do,'' Dean says quietly. ''I followed the orders he gave me. I didn't slit anyone's throat.''

Laurel has never had the pleasure of meeting John Winchester face to face but she is Dean's wife. She is the one who has to live with the ghost of him. She knows what remains of him in the scars left behind. Dean may not love to talk about his father but back when they were going to couples counselling, of course parental issues were going to pop up. They needed to understand each other. What Laurel understands now is that if John led the charge back in 2000 then Dean wouldn't have had many options. Back then, he followed orders. Simple as that. Sure, he was an adult and could have removed himself from the situation but it's never that simple. It's not easy to walk away when there is nothing to way to. Abuse is not a clear line in the sand. He probably didn't even know that he wasn't hunting a banshee.

She doesn't think that necessarily excuses his actions but this is not the black and white situation Mom seems to want it to be. To place all the blame on Dean, one singular part of the terrible equation is foolish and willfully ignorant.

''That's enough.'' She steps out from behind her father. ''That's enough. I don't need to hear anymore.'' She moves back over to Dean and uses every bit of her fast fading energy to keep her voice even as she says, ''I need you to wait outside for me.''

He blinks, slips, and tumbles out of Solider Mode. ''Laur - ''

''Dean,'' she lowers her voice. ''You need to get some air.''

She knows he takes it as a rejection. She can see instantly that he thinks she's taking her mother's side. Still, he doesn't even argue. He looks like he wants to, but he doesn't. He looks at her, then her parents, and then he just silently accepts the dismissal. She shuts her eyes, guilt rising in her chest. She's going to need to fix that. There's something she needs to do first. She waits until he's out the door, front door clicking shut behind him, gives it a few more seconds for him to get down the front path, and then she slowly turns around to face her parents.

''I want you to listen to me,'' it's like this low, warning hiss, ''and I want you to listen to me good. You do not get to speak to my husband like that. Not ever. Am I making myself clear?'' She doesn't wait for an answer. ''I am sorry about Edie. I loved her too. She deserved better. But you don't get to place all the blame on Dean because that is not fair. You keep saying Edie was a scared kid - well, guess what? He was the same age as her and trust me, he was just as scared. I may not be able to stop you from being angry with him but you know nothing about what kind of situation he was in back then. You have no idea what John was like. And why the hell are you bringing all this up now?'' She hasn't looked away from her mother once during her tirade. Her mother looks a little intimidated. ''It's been six and a half years. If you were really worried about my safety, you would have told me everything as soon as you recognized him but you didn't.''

''I didn't think you would believe me,'' Mom tries weakly. It's a pathetic attempt.

''Bullshit,'' Laurel snaps. ''You just liked having someone around to blame. Like it or not, Edie killed fourteen people. Maybe she didn't mean to but she was still responsible for their deaths. Maybe instead of forgiving one scared kid and condemning another, you should admit that there's more than enough blame to go around. And you know what else? Do not think for one second that I don't realize the only reason you're telling me all this crap about Edie and how she died is because you want to take the heat off yourself for all the lies.''

The entire time Laurel has been here, her mother has been all about excuses. Desperate explanations and half assed apologies are all she's given, excuses piled on top of excuses, trying to reason away her lies. She wants them to understand why she did what she did, she wants them to forgive her, but she has never looked truly scared about the possibility of being denied that forgiveness. Until now. Something about Laurel's voice or the look in her eyes, the finality of it all, seems to visibly spook her. It's like she's just realized that there's a possibility that she's just lost her husband and her daughter. ''Laurel.'' She looks pale. She steps over into her space to grab her hands. ''Sweetie, please, please just - ''

Laurel tugs her hands out of her grasp and steps back. ''Don't touch me,'' her voice is hard, unforgiving. ''You lied to me for my entire life. You kept information about what's essentially a genetic mutation from me for years. I passed this down to my daughter and I didn't even know it. That's not going to go away. Do you get that? It's not going to go away.''

''I know,'' Mom chokes out. There are tears gathering in her eyes and she looks like she so badly wants to reach out and touch her to keep her here but she doesn't. ''I'm sorry.''

Laurel blinks, trying as hard as she can to push the tears back. ''What does that mean?'' She manages to get out. ''What does that give me?''

Her mother cannot answer that question. She brings both hands up to her mouth to stifle her sobs but she can't give Laurel an answer.

Laurel looks over at her father, still trying to keep it together. ''Daddy,'' her voice softens. ''I'm sorry you got dragged into this.''

He shakes his head. ''Don't be sorry,'' he assures her. ''I needed to know.''

''Are you okay here? We can give you a ride back home if you - ''

''I'll be fine here for tonight,'' he says abruptly. ''I think it's time your mother and I had an honest conversation.'' He throws an unimpressed look in Mom's direction. ''For once.''

Laurel manages a quick nod, closing the distance to give him a hug. ''I'm sorry I ruined your night,'' she murmurs.

''You didn't ruin anything,'' he whispers in her ear. ''None of this is your fault.'' He drops a kiss to the top of her head, and she feels tears pricking at her eyes. ''I'm so sorry this is happening, sweetheart.''

She closes her eyes until she can manage to push the tears away. ''Me too.'' She pulls away reluctantly. ''I'll call you tomorrow.'' She tries not to look at her mother when she turns to leave, but she catches sight of her standing there, crying, helpless. It makes her heart plummet into her gut. But it doesn't make her stay. She hesitates for barely a second, then she turns, and walks away. She doesn't look back.

When she steps out into the cold night air, all of her composure and energy just drains out of her. Very quickly, she feels this wave of unpleasantness slam into her. It's like she can't breathe. She feels like all of her defenses have been stripped away from her, leaving her naked and raw. She feels like she needs to go scream until her lungs give out. That is not something she wants to do. She swallows the scream, barely managing to avoid choking on it. She closes her eyes and tries to remember what Siren said. It's as easy as breathing. She draws in a long deep breath through her nose and lets out a long deep breath through her mouth. She repeats this action three more times until the scream in her throat goes away.

She stands there in the chilly breeze, numb and tired. She has no idea where to go from here. She thought finally getting answers would help. She thought it would give her a direction to go in. She thought it would make at least one part of this nonsensical mess make sense. That's not what's happening. All she has now is more questions. She feels like she's just been left with nothing but anger and a brand new sense of loss. And she's so exhausted.

Then she spots him.

Dean is standing over by the car, leaning back against the driver's side, head down, back to her. She looks at the back of his head for a minute, at the heaviness of his shoulders, and that's when she starts to cry. It's kind of pathetic that that's the line but just seeing him standing there cuts away at her. It shouldn't. It's just Dean. There is no one else on earth she's more comfortable around. He's her husband. The love of her life. The father of her daughter.

The man who had a hand in her cousin's murder.

What is she supposed to do with that? What's the right way to feel? Should she feel angry? Is she a hypocrite if the main emotion she's feeling right now is sadness for Edie and for Dean? Is she betraying Edie if she's worried mostly for Dean? Her mother had no right to bring up what happened sixteen years ago. It was classic deflection and all it did was cause a lot of hurt.

Dean has told her about his past. Maybe not everything but she knows he's told her more than he's told any other partner. She's aware that he's done some unsavory things. She has known from the beginning that he has blood on his hands. She still chose to let him into her life. She still chose to marry him, have a child with him, and build a life with him. She is not going to question her entire life because of something he did when he was twenty-one and Daddy's Little Soldier.

She knows who he is. That's enough.

She blinks and wipes at her eyes to get rid of any trace of her tears. She can't let him see that she's been crying. He's already had a bad enough night. She doesn't want to add to his guilt. She rakes her hands through her hair, still standing frozen on the front steps. Then she takes in a deep breath and gets it together. She hurries down front path towards him. She can tell by the way his shoulder tense almost unnoticeably that he's heard her coming but he doesn't look up. Even when she steps off the curb and moves to stand next to him so close their shoulders touch, he doesn't look up at her. She leans back against the Impala. She wants to take his hand. She doesn't.

''This doesn't change anything,'' she says, though she knows it's a lie.

He looks up at her. There are shadows in his eyes. She recognizes those shadows. There was a time when she spent more time with them than with the real him. ''Yes,'' he says, ''it does. I killed your cousin.''

''Your father killed my cousin,'' she clarifies. ''You were just following orders.'' That doesn't make it better. They both know that. ''Did you know when you met me that I was connected to her?''

''No. Not until tonight. I know you've talked about her before but it's a common name and it's not like - Her last name was different.'' He sighs and tilts his head up to look at the stars in the sky. ''I didn't know.''

She taught him the constellations. She remembers this. They were on the fire escape of her old apartment; that old rent controlled apartment that she had lived in for nearly a decade, the place where Mary was born, where Tommy lived with them, the place where they fell in love. They were both drinking that night - wine for her, beer for him - because this was before sobriety, back when they were both pretending there was no problem.

The night Laurel pointed out the constellations to Dean was ten days after he had reluctantly agreed to stay with her for two weeks. It was less than three months after they had met. Three months before the night she told him she loved him and he didn't say it back. Seven months before her appendix burst and he took her to the emergency room in the middle of the night. Seven months before he told her he loved her for the first time while she was doped up on drugs and he thought she couldn't hear him.

It's funny. The things you think about.

She kissed him that night, on the fire escape. It was the first time since Seattle. She made the first move. She remembers that too. Both in Seattle and sitting on that fire escape. She kissed him in Seattle because her entire body felt like it was humming with adrenaline and because she was shivering and wet from the rain and wanted someone to warm her up. She kissed him on the fire escape because she did not want him to leave.

She's wondered over the years what he would say if she told him that she basically manipulated him into staying with her by using sex, but she's never been able to tell him. He never did leave. He just moved from the couch to her bed. Not after the two weeks were up and not after the six weeks it took for his shoulder to heal fully. Just like that he went from a weekend hook up to a temporary roommate with benefits to her live in boyfriend.

She looks over at him, studying his profile. Her mother can unearth secret after secret, pin Edie's death entirely on Dean, and Laurel will still choose him. She hopes he knows that.

''Her last name was Hart,'' Dean says. ''Edith Nadine Hart.''

She looks at him in surprise. ''You remember her name?''

There's a beat of silence and then he looks away from the stars. ''I remember all of their names.'' He says it so hollowly. ''I'm sorry. I swear, I would've told you if I - ''

''Dean,'' she interrupts gently. ''Stop it. I know.'' She places a hand on his arm. ''I knew when we first got together that - ''

''No,'' he cuts her off. ''Don't. You couldn't have... You didn't sign up for this.''

''And you didn't sign up to be a widower,'' she reminds him. ''We both have things to be sorry for.''

He lets out a breath. She can tell that he's restraining himself from telling her that it's not the same. She loops her arm through his and laces their fingers together, watching him closely. There are so many questions she wants to ask about what happened in December of 2000 but she's not sure he's up for that right now.

''I gave my father her address.'' The confession is said softly and abruptly.

She tries to swallow but her mouth is too dry. ''What?''

''I was the one who told him where to find her,'' he says. ''I may not have slit her throat myself but I'm just as responsible for her death.''

She still does not let go of his hand. ''What happened that day?''

He looks uncomfortable. ''She...'' He clears his throat. ''She was the odd one out. We'd already identified all the victims and talked to all the survivors and witnesses, but she was the only one we couldn't track down. We found her name from a gift receipt. We didn't know for sure that it was her but we wanted to talk to her. We couldn't dig up an address but we tracked down her parents' address so Sam and I went to Tacoma to talk to her family and Dad stayed in Aberdeen. I remember her parents weren't home but I talked to her aunt. That must've been - ''

''My mother,'' she says with a nod.

''I don't know how I've never...'' He frowns. ''She looked...different.''

She's not surprised by that. ''That would've been back before she started dyeing her hair dark and straightening it.'' Also before she went through the loss of a child and a divorce. No doubt she looked different back then. Loss is like a scar. ''She would have looked a lot different.''

''I still should have recognized her.''

''Why?'' She raises an eyebrow. ''It's not like you two are close.''

''I... I told her I was a friend of Edie's,'' he looks down at the ground. ''I said I hadn't heard from her in a few days and I was worried and wanted to get in touch with her.'' He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. ''Must've tipped her off. She didn't tell me anything, but it didn't matter. Sam had already snuck into the house while we were talking and stole Valerie's datebook. As soon as I found Edie's address, I called Dad and gave it to him. When we got back to Aberdeen, he told us the banshee was dead and it was over. I never questioned him. Never even thought about it.'' He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. ''It was just another case. We didn't talk about them when we were done. We just moved onto the next.''

''Dean...''

''I want to tell you that if I had known she was just a girl, I would've done something different but I don't... I don't know what I would've done.'' He sounds incredibly ashamed of that. ''It wasn't like I had anywhere to run to. He was all I had.''

''I know,'' she whispers, squeezing his hand. ''You were just as isolated as she was.''

''This isn't something you can forgive.'' He says that like he's already decided for her.

She pulls her hand out of his and steps in front of him, forcing him to look at her. ''I don't think you get to decide what I can and cannot forgive.''

''Laur - ''

''I can't absolve you, Dean.'' She inches into his space, hands grasping at his jacket. ''I can't take this from you. I wish I could, but I can't. But I won't crucify you either. You are not the villain of this story. You were doing what you had been taught to do.'' He doesn't look convinced and his entire being from his posture to his expression seems defeated. ''I can't force you to stop carrying this with you,'' she says, ''but I will not add to your guilt.''

Cautiously, she reaches her hand out and lays her palm flat against his cheek. He looks oddly stunned by the gesture, as if he is somehow undeserving of her gentleness. His breath noticeably hitches and then he just melts, leaning into her touch without hesitance. She knows this. They've been here before.

''I forgive you,'' she tells him, because it really is that simple. At least to her. This is a choice that she is making. Nobody will take that from her. Not even him and his never ending need to carry everything. ''I'll give you that,'' she whispers, ''even if you won't take it. I love you. Okay?'' She leans in close to rest her forehead against his. ''I love you,'' she says again. ''We'll be okay.''

He nods jerkily, releasing a small, shuddering breath. She curls one hand around the back of his neck and drags him in for a hug. He caves immediately and hugs her back, winding his arms around her tightly and burying his face in her hair. The tremor in his left hand is acting up. ''I'm still right here,'' she says, just because she needs to say it and she needs him to hear it. ''I'm still with you.''

.

.

.

July, 2010

This is not how she thought her life was going to go.

When she was younger - killing herself to get top grades, taking the Adderall that she bought from some guy named Chad to focus and the Xanax prescribed to her by her GP to calm down from the constant panic and pressure - she used to picture her future and it looked nothing like this.

Back when she was young and dumb, too naive to plot out her future but too stubborn to leave it all unplanned, she thought she had it all figured out. She was supposed to be engaged to Oliver by now, working in environmental law, living in a high rise condo downtown where she and Ollie hosted wine and cheese parties and dinners for their families, and maybe there would even be a cat. They would have a long engagement, long enough for him to get all that wandering eye bullshit out of his system and grow up, and then they would be married by twenty-seven. They would buy a house in one of the upscale but not too snobby suburbs in Starling, get a dog, and then somewhere ideally between the ages of thirty-two to thirty-five they would have one or two kids. She had even started looking at schools to enroll their future children in because the best ones fill up in an instant and their waiting lists are like years long so sometimes you need to plan ahead.

That was the plan.

That was the life she was supposed to be living.

Instead, she's...here.

Wherever here is.

She's twenty-five, single, living in the same apartment she's been in since she was nineteen, working as a waitress because her chosen profession is highly competitive and there are no jobs for a young female lawyer in this city unless she wants to sacrifice all her morals or risk everything to open up that nonprofit that Joanna's been talking about, and she is so lonely that sometimes she feels like she's choking on it.

And - oh yeah. Her two night stand from May showed up on her doorstep less than a week ago clawed all to hell, with a messed up shoulder, a bruised knee, completely delirious with fever.

At least her apartment is rent controlled.

That's a plus.

In the hospital parking garage, Laurel allows herself a few moments of peace and quiet in her car to take a breather. She has been on her feet all day long and everyone in her life is currently under the impression that she is having a full blown nervous breakdown because she's letting some stranger into her life like it's no big deal. She has waved off their increasing concern over the past few days and she's mostly avoided seeing them in person in fear they might try to stage an intervention, but truthfully... She does understand their concerns.

She doesn't know what the hell she's doing with this guy. She barely knows him. They spent one weekend together in May. They do not have a relationship. She still hasn't entirely worked through what happened that weekend, honestly. It's not even the werewolf pack part that has sent her into a tailspin. She thinks she handled the existence of the supernatural world and the subsequent near death experience quite well if she does say so herself. I mean, she's had a few panic attacks over the past month or so and the nightmares haven't quite subsided but she feels like that's to be expected.

It's the sex part that she is still trying to come to terms with. She does not have casual sex. It's not something she judges. She's not against it. It's just never happened before. Everyone she's ever had sex with she has loved in one way or another. This is uncharted territory.

If she's being honest with herself, it's not just about the casual nature of the sex. It's - Well. She's never had sex like that before. It might be a bit hasty to label it the best sex of her life but... No, actually, you know what? It was. It definitely was. Maybe it was the adrenaline. When you think you're going to die and then you don't die, the rush of adrenaline that follows is intoxicating. It was like her whole body was electrified.

Laurel groans and flops back against the seat, covering her face with her hands. She can't believe she's playing nursemaid to a drifter just because he gave her multiple orgasms. That's so messed up. You don't change your entire life around for some random dude off the street just because he spent a weekend fucking your brains out. That's unhealthy.

It's official: she is a mess. She is a hot mess. She is a disaster of a human being.

Maybe she does need an intervention.

She heaves a sigh. She turns off the air conditioning, which had been running at full blast, and kills the engine. She reaches over to grab her purse and the tote bag from the passenger seat. Whatever. Regardless of her questionable reasons for doing this, she has another shift in two hours and she wants to bring Dean some fresh clothes and some company before she has to go back to work. She may not know him all that well but she knows that he came to her when he was bleeding and that he deserves not to be alone right now. She is willing to take on that responsibility.

It's not about the sex. That's the part she is not ready to admit to herself. It's a convenient excuse but that's not why she's doing this. That's not why she's letting him in. There is something broken in him just like there's something broken in her, and Laurel Lance has always had a habit of collecting broken things.

She collects them like some people collect coins. She invites the brokenness in, fixes them up the best she can, and hopes that one day, while she's working on someone else, she'll stumble across some magical way to fix herself. Sometimes she wonders if all seemingly selfless people are hiding motives like that. Is kindness really just selfishness in disguise? Is everyone in the world broken?

She would love to be able to blame Sara and Oliver for this, for breaking her, giving her a morbid curiosity of human suffering, but she doesn't think it works that way. She was born with something inside of her a little bit mangled. Sometimes she thinks that's why they did what they did. She has wondered, ever since May, if Dean Winchester might be the same as her.

The hungry recognize hunger after all.

She tries not to think too hard about it as she walks into the hospital. She tries to be positive and upbeat when she's with Dean. He is clearly having a rough time right now. Not just because of the injuries but also because of whatever is going on in his head. She knows he lost his brother, and she knows he's on his own right now. She'd like to rectify that, at least while he's recovering. She doesn't know how long his recovery time is going to be. If they decide his shoulder needs surgery then he's going to be here for awhile and she doesn't want him to be alone for that.

Once she gets into the hospital and into the elevator, she starts digging around in her purse, scrounging around for her wallet. Maybe she should have smuggled in some food. He's been complaining about the bland hospital food. She should have grabbed something from the restaurant before she left or stopped at Big Belly Burgers. She steps off the elevator, still rifling around in her purse. Money is tight this month but she thinks she might be able to afford a couple burgers. She just wants to drop him off these clothes and then she's going to get him some food. She glances up as she approaches the nurses' desk and has to stop short to narrowly avoid running into Claudia, the head nurse. ''Sorry,'' she manages a tired smile. ''Guess you can tell I've had a rough day.''

''Laurel?'' Claudia looks surprised to see her. Weird given that she's been here every day for the past five days. ''What are you doing here?''

Laurel forgets all about digging for her wallet. ''Oh, you know. Just here to get my daily dose of charm. Unless he's in more of a grouchy mood tonight.''

Claudia's expression goes from confused to sympathetic. ''Oh, honey, Dean's not here. He left about twenty minutes ago.''

Laurel's jaw goes slack. ''He...'' A nervous laugh tumbles out of her lips. ''What? No. No, he couldn't have. He still had at least another day here.''

''He should have,'' Claudia agrees, ''but that boy is stubborn as a mule. I tried to talk some sense into him but he wasn't having it.''

''So he just left?''

''Signed the AMA and everything.''

Laurel clutches the straps of her purse with numb fingers. Oh. Okay. So that's it then. He's gone. Probably halfway out of the city already. She doesn't know why she's so hurt. This was always how this was going to end. Even if he had agreed to stay with her while he recovered, he would have just left in the end. Maybe this is better. A clean break. Rip the band-aid off. That way there's no time to get attached. Except she's already attached. She has talked more with him in the past five days than she has talked with anyone in years. Which sounds pathetic, but he's good company. He's a good listener. Granted there's a good chance that was the drugs, but it still counts. He has this strangely soothing voice, kind eyes, and he makes her laugh. It has felt so good to laugh again.

This is the problem with collecting brokenness. Broken people never stay.

But really. He couldn't at least have left her a note? A fucking voicemail? What a jerk. ''Wait.'' She looks back up at Claudia. Her apartment is close to the hospital but not within walking distance, especially not when his knee is still a gigantic bruise so he would have had to take a cab and it's rush hour right now. Not to mention, she moved his car into her space in her apartment's underground parking garage because she was nervous about leaving it out on the street and he has no idea which space it's in. ''He left twenty minutes ago?''

Claudia nods. ''About fifteen, twenty minutes ago, yeah.''

A small glimmer of hope sparks in Laurel's chest. She throws out a quick thank you to Claudia, and then takes off. It's a good thing she's an avid jogger. It's also a good thing that she was raised in Starling City because that means she knows how to get back to her place fast despite the rush hour traffic. She takes side streets, avoids all the major intersections and most red lights, and makes it home faster than she ever has before.

He's probably drugged to the gills too. He should be at least. If he's not, he's in a world of pain. Either way, he's impaired. He has a fractured shoulder, for God's sake. He should not be driving. She finds a parking spot near the alley, and then she takes off running. Hurt and disappointment have given way to anger by now. What kind of asshole just ups and leaves like that? What kind of idiot even thinks about getting behind the wheel in this condition? She pulls open the gate to the parking garage, makes a beeline for her assigned space, and then she promptly ends up skidding to a halt.

She surveys the scene in front of her, trying to regulate her breathing, and then sputters out an incredulous, ''Are you fucking kidding me?''

Dean, who legitimately appears to have gotten stuck in his shirt like a three year old trying to dress himself for the first time, turns in the general direction of her voice. ''Laurel?''

This is the man she ran a red light for. She - a cop's daughter - ran a red light. For this guy.

This guy.

The one tangled in his own shirt.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. It might be time to admit it: her taste in men is questionable at best. ''No,'' she responds sarcastically. ''This is your common sense. We haven't talked in awhile.''

''That's hilarious,'' he mumbles from inside the shirt. ''Can you help me with this?''

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but drops her bags and moves over to help him with his shirt. It is, admittedly, quite the puzzle with his shoulder injury. They do manage it between the two of them but it's touch and go for a second there. The sling is an obstacle. She's amazed he didn't ditch it as soon as he left the hospital. That seems like the kind of thing he would do. Yet another reason she would like him to stay with her while he recovers. He will not take proper care of himself and even if he doesn't wind up needing surgery now, he will in the future because he refused to let it heal properly.

What was even his plan here? Was he planning to wander around shirtless for the four to six weeks he's supposed to keep his arm in this sling? Was he never going to change clothes? How was he planning on showering? How the hell was he going to drive?

''I can't believe you checked yourself out of the hospital,'' she says, peering up at him. She's very close to him right now. She hasn't been this close to him since Seattle. He's paler than he was then. There are dark circles under his eyes. He could use a shave. And maybe a shower. A meal that isn't hospital food and a night of rest in an actual bed. She can give him that. She doesn't know why he's being so stubborn about it.

''I'm fine,'' he says, which is a big fat lie.

''You're not fine.''

He looks down at her, his eyes seem to slip to her lips, and then he suddenly realizes how close they are and he backs away. ''It's time for me to go.''

She props her hands up on her hips. ''Go where?''

He turns his back to her and goes back to rummaging around in the trunk of his car. ''Somewhere else.''

''You're hurt.''

''Laur, trust me,'' he starts, and she drops her hands to her sides, blushing against her will. Nobody has ever called her 'Laur' before other than him. She doesn't hate it. ''I've had worse.''

''You don't even have a place to stay.''

''What are you talking about?'' He stands straight and whirls around to face her, offended. ''Of course I have a place,'' he says, gesturing towards his car.

She raises her eyebrows. ''This is a car.''

He shrugs, unconcerned with that particular truth. ''Only home I've ever known.'' He points towards the backseat. ''This is a bed.'' He waves a hand at the trunk. ''This is a pantry. I've got everything I need. Look!'' With a flourish, he produces a warped looking box of Girl Guide cookies. ''Cookies!'' Then he frowns, tilts his head to the side, and shakes the box. It sounds mostly empty. His frown deepens and he stares down at the box as if he's trying (and possibly failing) to remember the last time he bought Girl Guide cookies. He shakes it off and eventually gives up on trying to remember, tossing the box back into the trunk. ''Oh, hey!'' He grins when he spots something else rolling around in the trunk, reaching in and pulling out a can. ''A beer!'' He cracks open the beer with one hand like it's some kind of reflex, narrowly missing splashing her, and then moves to take a sip.

Laurel is not usually quite as reactive as this but as soon as she sees him go to chug the alcohol while on pain meds, she snaps. She slaps the beer out of his hand and watches as it goes crashing to the ground, spilling the contents all over the concrete.

Dean has a surprising non-reaction to that. He looks at her, then at the beer spilled on the ground, then back at her, and then he says, completely deadpan, ''That seemed overly aggressive.''

''You're on medication!'' She yelps. ''You can't drink! Or drive. You certainly can't drink and drive. Like, ever.''

He does appear to accept that. ''I can agree with you on that. It's fine. I'll sleep it off.''

''In your car?''

''Wouldn't be the first time.''

''That's ridiculous,'' she says. ''Just come upstairs.''

''No.''

She is about ready to stomp her foot in frustration like a child. Or possibly drag him up to her apartment by his ear.

''I've taken up enough of your time,'' he says, slamming the trunk shut. ''I shouldn't be here. You were right when you said it was selfish.''

She grimaces guiltily, looking down at the ground. Yes, okay, she did say that. It was not one of her finer moments. In her defense, she was terrified. Some dude she barely knew had just showed up in the middle of the night, seriously wounded, barely coherent, and refusing to go to the hospital. Terror seemed like a natural response. She finally managed to convince him to let her take him to the emergency room somewhere around seven in the morning but it was a long night. He was in bad shape. It scared her. And it pissed her off. She thought she was watching him die. She didn't think he had a right to make her watch that.

''How dare you come to me to die,'' she'd muttered to him, while she was changing the bloody bandages for the second time in an hour. ''I don't care if it's what you want, you selfish asshole.''

She hadn't meant for him to hear that. She thought he was passed out.

''I said that because I was scared,'' she says. ''You showed up on my doorstep half dead.''

''I know,'' he sighs. ''I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have come here.''

''No,'' she agrees. ''But you did. You can't take that back now.''

He looks positively flabbergasted that she's refusing to give up on him. ''I am not a good man, Laurel,'' he tries. ''I'm not someone you want hanging around.''

He may have a point there. His life is light years away from anything she has ever been involved with. It's horrifying and it's dangerous. Problem is she is just as stubborn as he is and she has made up her mind. ''This may shock you,'' she drawls, ''but I am the one who gets to decide who I want hanging around me. I happen to think it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to spend time with you.'' She smiles at him when she says that, and hopes it's disarming enough. ''I don't believe you're a bad person,'' she says honestly. ''Maybe bad things have happened to you, but that doesn't make you bad.''

That one seems to stump him. There's something in his eyes when she says that. He looks like he so badly wants to agree with her, to give in and stay. ''You don't even know me.''

''I know you saved my life.''

''Just another Friday night for me,'' he mutters. ''You can't invite every one night stand to come live with you. That's highly irresponsible.''

''Um, excuse me?'' She puts one hand on her hip and holds the other up, making sure to look as offended as possible. ''It was two nights.''

That actually gets a laugh out of him. He has a nice smile. She's noticed that. She hasn't had the chance to see much of it, but it definitely makes her stomach flip flop a little when she sees it. She is not expecting anything from him. Maybe she should have led with that. She doesn't believe that if he stays they will somehow fall in love and live happily ever after. That's unrealistic. That kind of thing would never happen. Not in this lifetime. Not matter what happens here, he is going to leave her. She's okay with that. She'll have to be okay with that. That doesn't mean she shouldn't try to do the right thing here.

''I'm not asking you to marry me,'' she says, tossing him a halfhearted smirk. ''I don't think we're going to have some epic love story. I'm not trying to pull a rom-com. I just want you to be comfortable while you rest and get better. Especially if your shoulder winds up needing surgery.''

Dean slumps back against the back bumper of his car and rubs at his temple with his good hand. She can tell by the way he's moving gingerly and the tension in his body language that he's in pain. That's why she doesn't understand his refusal. She's offering him a safe haven. Why won't he take it?

Part of her is beginning to wonder if he's afraid of her. Is this so rare? It's like she's offering him kindness and he's looking for a knife.

''Look,'' he glances down at the car keys in his hand. ''I'm not asking you for anything.''

She throws her arms out, frustrated. ''Then ask me for something!''

He doesn't. He looks up at her, meets her eyes for less than a second, and then looks away, clenching his jaw. He's not going to say anything. He's not going to ask.

She knows she's getting desperate. She hardly knows this guy and yet she's fighting tooth and nail to get him to come home with her. She is aware that might seem a bit Kathy Bates in Misery. She just has this feeling about him. He's in a lot of pain - and she is not talking about physical pain. The loss of his brother is something recent. She knows that, and she knows what loss can do. She is not his keeper. Not his family or his girlfriend. She's not even sure if she qualifies as his friend. She just can't help but think that if she lets him go, she'll never see him again. She's worried that he won't escape his next hunt with a fractured shoulder, a sore knee, and infected claw marks. She's worried he won't escape at all. She doesn't want that to happen.

Even if she never sees him again after this, she wants to be able to know that he's still out there, alive, fighting. She wants him to make it through this. If he makes it through this, maybe that means she can too.

''Okay,'' she says quietly. ''Then let me ask you for something. I'm asking you to stay with me. Not forever,'' she adds on quickly when she sees him start to object. ''Just while you heal. You need somewhere to go. You need a bed. You need a home.'' She steps into his space, careful to go slow in case he wants her to stop. ''I am asking you to come home.'' She chews on her lip nervously and then places a hand on his cheek softly. It's a small gesture, mostly meant to force him to look at her. She doesn't expect it to feel quite as intimate as it does. ''You need help, Dean,'' she tells him. ''I'm here. Let me be here.''

He seems dumbfounded by the softness of her touch at first, blinking, startled by the comfort. He looks like he's trying so hard not to lean into her touch, but he loses that fight.

''Take what you need,'' she offers, ''and I'll give you what I can.''

The look on his face almost makes her want to cry. ''Why are you doing this?''

''Because it's the right thing to do,'' is her instant response. She doesn't even have to think about it. ''Also, I've been told I have a bleeding heart.'' Her hand has started to trail down his cheek to his neck. She has to take a step back. They're too close. She doesn't know what to do with the way he's looking at her. This is an act of kindness and friendship. The last thing she needs right now is to be in some kind of weird relationship with a demon hunter. Her life is already chaotic enough.

He stands straight, towering over her. ''I can't stay for long.''

''Well,'' she clears her throat, folding her arms over her chest. ''The sling needs to stay on for four to six weeks so...''

''I can do two,'' he says. ''That's all I can give you.''

That's useless. What good is two weeks? ''Okay,'' she nods. ''Two weeks it is then.''

''Two weeks,'' he agrees, ''and then I'll be out of your hair for good.''

She is going to have to work on that last part. ''Deal,'' she says, holding out her hand for him to take.

He hesitates, just for one minute, and then he reaches out and takes her hand.

.

.

.

November, 2016

The drive back to Star Labs is quiet.

Laurel keeps one hand on her husband's knee and dissects her entire childhood in her head. It was right there. It was all right there in front of her all this time and she missed it. How could she miss it? Where was she?

She looks out the window, watching as the city lights zoom past, and listens to the low hum of the radio. She tries to block it out, tries to save the regret and the anger for tomorrow, but she can't. Her entire childhood is literally crumbling apart in her head. So much makes sense now. All these little oddities, all these Drake family quirks - they were never innocent. They mean something else now.

She walked on eggshells for her whole life and she didn't even realize she was doing it. She's been a time bomb since the day she was born, and she couldn't even hear the ticking. It's humiliating in a way. She feels like she's been duped. It's not her fault, she knows that, but her entire family knew something about her that she didn't. They all looked at her and they could see it. She must have looked so naive to them. And not one of them said a word to her.

There's something violating about that.

It's not just the giant family secret that's hanging over her head either. It's what happened to Edie. It's Dean's part in it.

When Grandpa died, it wasn't sudden. He was in his eighties and he had stage four colon cancer. It was a waiting game. She remembers the night he died. There are some parts of it that are a little blurry. She was pregnant, hormonal, and hysterical. She wasn't at her best. But she remembers most of it. She remembers spending all that time in the hospital, in and out of his room, waiting for him to die. It was her, Grandma, Mom, Dean, the aunts, and her cousin Jackson and his husband. It was a long, traumatic night and everyone was devastated and thoroughly exhausted so she didn't think anything of it when Aunt Valerie refused to acknowledge Dean's presence. She didn't notice when the same thing happened at the funeral either. Or the wake. Or even years later when Grandma died. It just slipped right past her.

She was grieving, inconsolable both times, and Dean's focus was mostly on her so she missed the snub. Not to mention, Val has always been a little spacey and she never really recovered after Edie died so it was easy to miss the snub. Laurel just thought it was par for the course with her. But that wasn't what it was. It wasn't grief.

Everything was right in front of her from the very beginning. She can't believe she missed it.

''Maybe we should get a motel room for the night,'' says Dean, just as they're pulling into the Star Labs parking lot. ''It's been a shit night. You must be tired.''

''I'd rather just get home,'' she says quietly. ''I want to get back to Mary as soon as possible.''

He doesn't argue. ''Yeah,'' he mutters. ''Me too.'' He pulls the keys out of the ignition and turns his attention to her, taking a long look at her. ''How are you feeling?''

Not ready to go there just yet. That's how. ''Honestly? Kind of hungry.'' Which, to be fair, is true. She has had zero appetite all day long and now she's suddenly famished. She's going to roll with it. She could probably stand to eat something. She can't even remember what she's eaten today. She thinks she might've had a yogurt this morning and a granola bar on the drive here but other than that she doesn't think she's had anything. She's not even sure she's had much water. She should really work on that.

The look of surprise on Dean's face lasts about three seconds and then he just looks absurdly ecstatic. It's sort of adorable. ''Really?''

She nods. ''I'm starving. I think being mad at my mother makes me hungry.''

''Way to find a silver lining,'' he chuckles. ''All right, we'll grab something to eat when we're done here. Hope you're okay with fast food. I'd take you out on the town but you're a famous dead person. I'm thinkin' Laurel Lance being spotted at some Central City steakhouse alive and well might invite some questions into our lives.''

''I don't like steak,'' she points out. ''And,'' she wrinkles her nose, ''I'm not famous.''

''You literally have a statue.''

''Ugh.'' She rolls her eyes. ''Why do people keep bringing up that stupid statue?'' She's sure Ollie had good intentions when he had that thing commissioned and she knows grief had a hand in it but erecting a statue of her was a poorly thought out decision. Also, it is godawful. She's never seen the thing in person because she's been on house arrest since coming home but she's googled it and it is...not good. ''It's being taken down next Friday anyway,'' she mumbles. ''It doesn't even count.''

''Babe,'' Dean says seriously. ''You have your own Wikipedia page.''

''Lots of people have their own Wikipedia pages.''

''Yeah, lots of famous people.''

''I'm not famous.''

''People dressed up like you at Comic Con,'' he says. ''There are comic books about you. There's an action figure. You have fanpages on almost every social media outlet. There's street art of you from here to New York. This one mural in Brooklyn went viral. People write fanfiction about you. Your Instagram account is verified. You have almost half a million followers. Plus, Fox News really hates you so that's how you know you've made it big.''

She blinks, stunned. Now that... That she didn't know. She knew about the comics and the fanpages because all of that was brought to her attention long before April. She was told that there were tumblr blogs and twitter accounts dedicated to Black Canary just a few months after she first put on the mask. There are blogs and comics and various forms of merchandise dedicated to all the vigilantes. Apparently they're quite profitable. She even knew about the fanfiction. She just decided it was best to shield Dean from it because a lot of the ones involving her were Green Arrow/Black Canary smut and she didn't think her husband - of all people - needed to see that particular kind of, um, creativity.

She's even been made aware that she, Laurel Lance, is a known figure in Star City these days. One of the first things Thea talked to her about after she came back was what they were going to have to do in order for her to resume a somewhat normal life. Thea had advised her that they would have to make a public announcement of her return, come up with a cover story for her being alive, and then immediately create a media storm in order to get ahead of any possible arrest warrants or indictments. Late night talk shows and ''cultivating a social media presence'' were both mentioned.

Thea is really good at her job.

But the other things - Comic Con, action figures, street art, Fox News, a verified Instagram - are news to her. The last time she checked her Instagram account was Valentine's Day when they'd gotten stuck in traffic on their way home from dinner and she'd wound up posting a #V-Day selfie because she was bored. She'd had fifteen followers. To go from fifteen followers to half a million is quite a leap. She didn't even want an Instagram! Tommy and Joanna made her get one because they thought she was too boring social media wise and because they had failed all their attempts to get Dean to ''at least make a Facebook, it's 2013.''

She's never been big on social media. She had a Facebook for a couple years but barely used it. She has a private Snapchat account not because she wanted it but because Thea introduced Mary to it and Mary found the filters hilarious. Social media is nice in some ways, sure, but she finds it too distracting and she prefers a more private life. She's not sure how she feels about the fact that half a million people have now seen her workout selfies and pictures of her husband and child. She was hardly a frequent poster but she did use the Instagram. She should have made her account private.

It's not like she could have anticipated this. She wasn't expecting to be a public figure. That was never in any of her plans.

...It is a little satisfying to know Fox News hates her, though.

She jumps and looks up when her door opens. She hadn't even noticed Dean getting out of the car. ''Why would people want to follow a dead person on Instagram?'' She blurts out. ''Do they think I'm going to be 'gramming from the great beyond?''

''I don't know,'' he shrugs. He offers her his hand and helps her out of the car, which is unnecessary but sweet. ''I don't understand the millennials. But now I think you should post a selfie just to scare the hell out of people. Is that wrong?''

''Yes, that's mean.''

He laughs again, wrapping an arm around her and tugging her closer so he can drop a kiss to the crown of her head. She lets him, relaxing into the embrace. ''Point is,'' he says. ''You, pretty bird, are famous. A week after your funeral some producer called me and tried to get me to sell the movie rights to your life story to make a Black Canary movie.''

''You're joking, right?''

''Know what's weird? I'm not.''

That's surreal. Life since coming back from the dead sure has been strange. Sometimes it's so unbelievably bizarre that she's not entirely convinced it's real. Maybe this has all been one big coma dream. Maybe she's in the Upside Down. That would certainly make more sense than her having a verified Instagram account. Or superpowers. But mostly the Instagram thing. ''If they ever do make a movie out of my life,'' she begins, small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. ''I hope they get Tom Hardy to play you 'cause I know you have a crush on him.''

''I do not have a - '' He stops, rather abruptly, and then just shrugs his shoulders and rolls with it. ''Nah, I'm not even gonna pretend. I know who I am and I know I'd tap that.''

She snorts and hides her face in his shoulder to stifle her laughter. She only draws away from him, very reluctantly, when she hears his phone start blaring classic rock. He sighs, attempting to keep her close to him but ultimately lets her pull away and fishes his phone out. ''Hello?'' Almost instantly, he tenses up. ''Sara,'' he gets out before he is presumably cut off. ''Hey - whoa, hey, hey, hey, slow down, pint sized.''

Laurel straightens up when she hears her sister's name and her mind immediately goes to Mary. In the span of about ten seconds, she has thought of exactly seven horrific scenarios that could be playing out right now and each one of them involves something happening to her baby. Mary could be hurt or sick or having a vertigo attack. She could be bleeding, she could have a broken limb, something could be wrong with her ears, her hearing, she could have a tick bite. Ticks don't look like much but they're a real danger! Every parenting blog says so.

''How did you even know about - '' Dean breaks off in a sigh, apparently cut off again. ''I know, Sara, it's fucked up.'' He rubs at his eyes with his free hand. Nothing about his body language is really in line with something being wrong with their daughter. ''Yeah, she's right here, but... Okay, just... Yes, okay. I'm just saying - she's exhausted. ...All right, all right, just a second.'' He looks at Laurel and says, needlessly, ''It's your sister.''

She gestures for him to give her the phone. ''Sar-bear,'' she greets. ''What's wrong?''

''Are you seriously asking me that right now?!''

Laurel winces at the sound of her sister's screech. Oh. Right. ''Dad called you.''

''He's a mess,'' Sara says bluntly. ''I've never heard him like this before. He is so mad at her.'' There's a pause and then she says, voice unusually small, ''I'm so mad at her.''

Laurel closes her eyes briefly, bringing a hand up to her forehead. She opens her eyes when she feels Dean's hand massaging the back of her neck. He's hovering around her worriedly, one hand moving to grip her waist loosely. There is yet another thing to add to her list of reasons to be pissed at her mother. She may not have an amazing relationship with her mother, but Sara always has. She doesn't want her to have to lose that. She doesn't want her to be disappointed in Mom. She pulls the phone away from her ear to murmur, ''I'll meet you inside.''

''You sure?''

She nods. Dean leans in to kiss her cheek softly, lets his hand linger on her hip for a second, and then turns to leave. She watches him walk away and all she can think of to say to her sister is, ''I know. I'm sorry.''

''Why?'' Sara mutters. ''You didn't do anything.''

''I know. Still. I'm sorry you're upset.''

Sara sounds concerned when she asks, in a low voice, ''Are you okay?''

Laurel wanders away from the door to the building and back over to the car. ''I don't know,'' she answers honestly. She opens the passenger side door and sits down, feet still on the pavement.

''How could she do this? How could she keep this from us?''

''I guess she thought she was doing the right thing.''

''This wasn't the right thing.''

''No,'' Laurel whispers. ''It wasn't.'' She sucks in a breath and leans forward. ''How much did Dad tell you?''

''Just that you inherited the scream from Mom's side of the family, she knew about it, and she never told us. Why? Is there more?''

''He didn't tell you anything about Edie?''

''Edie? Cousin Edie? What about her?''

''Nothing,'' Laurel says, perhaps a smidge too quickly. This is not a conversation she wants to have over the phone. She still doesn't know how much to tell Sara about what happened to Edie. Specifically the part about the Winchesters and their involvement in her death. ''Or, um... Something.''

There is a long silence on the other end. Laurel can practically picture Sara's face as the realization dawns on her. ''She was a firstborn daughter.''

''I... I'll tell you about it when I get home, okay?''

Sara doesn't hear that part apparently. ''Wait, holy shit. Does this have anything to do with why she - ''

''It's late, Sara,'' Laurel says, gently but firmly. ''We shouldn't talk about this over the phone.''

''...Right. We'll talk about it later.'' Something about Sara's voice sounds off.

''Sara,'' Laurel says softly. ''It's not going to happen to me.''

''What?''

''You're catastrophizing,'' Laurel says. ''Whatever horrible thing you think happened to Edie because of this. It's not going to happen to me. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.''

Sara lets out a humorless laugh. ''Laurel,'' she says. ''Something bad already happened to you.''

Automatically, Laurel winds an arm around her abdomen and tries to ignore the phantom ache from where the arrow went in, the ghostly memory of Darhk's voice in her ear. I want you to give your father a message for me. She lets out a slow breath and looks down at the wet cement. She doesn't want to think about that tonight. She has enough to panic about. Quite frankly, it's a miracle she hasn't had a second panic attack yet. With one as big as the one she had earlier, there are usually what she calls ''aftershocks.'' Guess she's been too busy and too angry to panic.

''I'm sorry,'' Sara says suddenly. ''You're right. It's late. I should let you go. I just wanted to - I don't know. Hear your voice, I guess. Make sure you were okay.''

Laurel smiles and hopes her sister can hear it in her voice. ''And I love you for that,'' she says. ''Hey, how's my girl doing?''

Sara's response is instant. ''I'm okay. Thanks for asking.''

''Good to know, smart ass,'' Laurel laughs. ''But I was actually talking about Mary. Was she much trouble for you guys?''

''Eh,'' she can literally hear the shrug. ''There may have been a minor meltdown at bedtime, but we handled it. Well, Thea handled it. I hid in the kitchen and ate all your goldfish crackers. Anyway, she's fast asleep now. I've learned I may not be mom material. Like, Laurel, how do you say no to her?'' She sounds completely baffled. ''She gives me those big eyes of hers and I just want to give her everything she asks for.''

''Wow,'' Laurel drawls. ''You are so lucky Thea's there.''

''I really, really am,'' Sara agrees. ''I would've crashed and burned without her. We would've had microwave popcorn and store bought chocolate cupcakes for dinner and she'd still be up watching Netflix. Luckily, Thea was here to make us mac and cheese. Did you know she sneaks veggies into her mac and cheese?''

''I did.''

''That's really smart.''

''You know, Sara, I think I've just put my finger on why you're the favourite aunt.''

''I accept that title with gratitude,'' Sara says, laughing.

Laurel relaxes ever so slightly at the sound. She's never told her sister this but Mary's laugh reminds her a lot of Sara's laugh when she was a kid. It's still the best sound. At least that's one thing about her childhood that no one can take from her. The memories of growing up in the Drake family have changed tonight, shifted from innocent childhood memories to something else entirely. There was so much going on behind the scenes that she didn't know about and now all she can think about is how she was never as innocent or as normal as she thought. Everything has changed. But she still has Sara. Now and then, she still has Sara. Those memories are untouched by her mother's lies at least.

''Laurel?'' Some of the humor has drained out of Sara's voice. ''You still here?''

''I'm here,'' Laurel reassures her. She picks at a hole in her jeans and thinks of Mary. It's not just her life that has changed tonight. She's been trying not to think about that. ''What am I supposed to tell her, Sara? How am I supposed to explain to her what she has inside? She's four. How do I make her understand? I don't even understand.''

Mary is four years old. Right now, her biggest problems are bedtime and not having a pet and that's the way it should be. Her life is just starting to get back to normal in her eyes. Mom's home, Dad's feeling better, and Aunt Thea still makes the best mac and cheese in the world. She's not old enough to fully grasp how messed up things are. She's smarter than they give her credit for, always has been. Growing up with parents who live with mental illness and addiction has allowed her to understand the concept of empathy, compassion, and caretaking in a way that maybe some other four year olds can't. But this is too much. She is smart and she is strong, but this is just too much. It's not like she can just not tell her. That's what her mother did. It hasn't ended well. If this is something Mary has then she needs to know about it in case something happens. It could be triggered at any time.

''How do I apologize for doing this to her?'' Laurel says, voice low.

''You don't,'' Sara's tone is firm. ''You don't apologize because you have nothing to apologize for. You had no idea this thing existed. This is not your fault.''

''But I'm still the one who passed this down to her,'' Laurel argues. ''She's already different, Sara. I don't want to keep making her life harder than it has to be.'' She looks up at the moon, blinking against the pressure behind her eyes. ''I don't want her to be scared of herself,'' she admits shakily. ''You and I both know how awful that feels.''

''Laurel,'' Sara murmurs. There's a long stretch of silence after she says that. ''Okay,'' she says. ''I know you already know this but your daughter is an incredible little girl and she is going to grow up to be an incredible young woman. Part of that will be because of you and Dean. I don't think you two realize how lucky Mary is to have you guys as parents. You're good at this. Both of you. And you're going to be there to love and support her every step of the way, no matter what happens. That's all you can do.''

Laurel sniffles. She hopes love and support will be enough. The part that worries her is the potential for isolation. Mary is already having trouble making friends with the kids at her preschool because of her hearing. They don't want to play with her. According to Dean, she eats her snack with the teacher most days. If something happens and her cry is triggered while she's still young, it will only add to her loneliness. She doesn't want her to end up like her and she definitely does not want her to end up like Edie.

''I guess.'' She swipes at her eyes, sitting up a little straighter. ''Uh, listen, Sara, I should go. Dean's supposed to be taking me to get something to eat and then we need to get on the road.''

''Oh, right. Sure. I should probably get some sleep anyway,'' Sara says, clearly trying to make her voice sound as light and casual as possible. ''I'm wiped. And I was only a babysitter for a day.''

Laurel chuckles. ''Are you guys going to be okay if we don't make it home in time to get Mary ready for school tomorrow?''

''Yeah, yeah, we're good. Don't worry about it.''

''All right, get some sleep, kiddo.''

''Hey, Laurel?''

''Hmm?''

''I have several questions about Paw Patrol.''

Laurel blinks several times, thrown. Can't say she had been expecting that one. ''You - wait, what?''

''Why can the dogs talk but the cats can't?'' Sara asks, dead serious. ''That seems speciesist. How did those dogs learn to drive? Who was their teacher and why did they think it was a good idea to teach dogs to drive? Where are Ryder's parents? Are they the ones bankrolling this? If not, where is he getting his financial backing? Why is Marshall the one in charge of fire and rescue and all the medical stuff when he can't even stand in one place without falling over? I would not trust that dog with my life. Also, why can't the Mayor handle anything without needing help from a ten year old? Even Ollie's more competent than that. And when does that poor kid get a break? He can't even play on the monkey bars without getting called away. And you know what? You know what else? Why is there only one girl dog and why does she have to wear so much pink? That seems gender specific and reductive.''

Laurel doesn't say a word for a long time, too shocked to answer, and then she bursts out laughing. ''Oh my god, Sara,'' she gets out. ''How much screen time did you give my child today?''

''Oh, she only watched two episodes,'' Sara says. ''I watched like six after she went to bed.''

''Seriously?''

''I wanted to know if my concerns were addressed! I asked Mary my questions when I was watching with her but she just signed something at me and Thea told me to be quiet so I had to go on a fact finding mission. Fact: I learned nothing. I just wound up with more questions.''

''Okay, I'm going to hang up now.''

''Wait, wait, wait, Laurel! One more thing, it's really important. I promise it's not about Paw Patrol.''

''What is it?''

''...Did Max and Ruby kill their parents?''

''Good night, Sara.''

The last thing she hears before she ends the call is Sara's laugh echoing through the quiet night.

For a few minutes after she ends the phone call, Laurel stays right where she is. She doesn't rush to go back inside. She allows herself a few moments of much needed silence. A few minutes where she can close her eyes, take a few deep breaths, and not think about anything. She lets the silence wash over her, focuses only on the November breeze, and the panic that has been eating away at her finally starts to lessen. She's sure it will come back, most likely violently, but right now, she enjoys the moment of solitude. The knot in her chest begins to loosen.

God grant me the serenity, she remembers, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

She can't change what her mother has done. She can't change the lies. She can't change what happened to Edie either, but she can make sure that doesn't happen to her. She can change the outcome of this. Her mother and her aunts, even her beloved grandmother, they treated this thing like a weakness. Something to be afraid of and ashamed of. She doesn't want that. She doesn't want to isolate herself from the world as if she's some unclean thing that needs to be hidden away. She will readily admit that she is terrified of this scream inside of her, but she will not be ashamed. That's not the kind of life she wants to live, and that's not what she wants to teach her daughter. She wants to teach her to be brave.

Dinah said this wasn't a burden. A sociopathic murderess version of herself may not be the best person to take advice from but she was right about that. This is not a burden. A complication, yes, maybe. A challenge. But not a burden. It's a part of her. She will have to make room for it the way she's made room for everything else. Accept that it's a part of her, will always be a part of her, but refuse to let it drag her under.

She will not end up like Edie. She won't leave her family behind again. They've been through enough. So has she. She will not be anyone's victim ever again.

Laurel looks down at Dean's phone in her hand. She turns it on to check the time and, unexpectedly, a laugh rises up in her throat. His lockscreen is a picture of her. She recognizes where it's from instantly. Last March when they had taken a quick overnight trip to Seattle for their anniversary. She remembers that night so clearly. March 15th, 2016. She remembers being in the back of their Uber after dinner on their way back to the hotel, texting Thea to make sure everything was okay at home, but she doesn't remember Dean snapping this picture of her. She's glad they took that trip.

She remembers she hadn't wanted to take the trip. She had been so busy and so distracted by everything going on that she had almost forgotten their anniversary and when Dean suggested going to Seattle, she had hesitated. There had been a millions reasons to put it off. She didn't want to take the two days off work (even though she'd had vacation days), she thought finding someone to watch Mary overnight would be a hassle, she wanted to focus on the Darhk case, she didn't want to leave her team in the lurch.

She had even attempted to persuade him to put the trip off and take an extended vacation in the summer. ''If we wait, we could make plans to go somewhere else,'' she had said. ''Maybe Hawaii. We could make it a family trip. Maybe even stay for a week or two.''

But he had insisted. He didn't want a week in Hawaii with the family. He wanted one night in Seattle with her.

Looking back on it, she is so glad he pushed for that trip. That was one of their last real moments. It was one of the last times they got to spend quality time together just the two of them. Now, after everything, she's happy to have that memory. She ended up having such a good time that she told him she wanted to go back for her birthday. They had even made reservations at the hotel for the following month. She hadn't made it to her birthday. She hopes they didn't charge him anything when he had to cancel at the last minute.

When this is all over, when they find the witches and sort this out, when she has been legally resurrected and has her cry under control and everything has gone back to normal, they should go back to Seattle. That sounds like a good idea. They'll stay in the same hotel, the one with the view of the city lights and the Puget Sound, they'll order room service so they won't have to leave the room and they'll laugh at the foolish idea that something as inconsequential as death could ever truly keep them apart.

That sounds like a plan. She'll make the reservations as soon as they get home. March 15th, 2017. It will be a good day. She's counting on it.

Laurel slips the phone into her pocket and gets to her feet. As soon as she stands up, she feels this sharp, stabbing pain in her right side. It's so strong it takes her breath away. It starts as this stinging feeling, then becomes a burning nausea, and then it just hurts. A cry pushes through her dry lips and she doubles over, clutching at the Impala's door in an attempt to keep herself upright. She grabs at her side, fully expecting to feel blood but there's nothing there. This intense agony is pain she knows. She remembers this. She has felt this exact pain before. Back in April when Damien Darhk shoved an arrow in her lung.

Terror slams into her and she moans weakly, tears of pain blurring her vision. It's instinct for her to call out for help, but she clenches her teeth together and stays as quiet as possible, working on trying to get oxygen to reach her lungs so she can stop making this awful, wet gasping noise. The pain does not pass quickly. It's not phantom pain because of PTSD. She's not having a flashback. This is not in her head. This pain is real, and it is blinding. She can't think straight, she can't hear anything but the blood roaring in her ears, and everything seems so far away.

It takes a few minutes but then the pain begins to dissipate. It's a slow fade, growing weaker, turning into something a little less excruciating, then into something tolerable that she can at least breathe through, and then eventually, there's nothing but a dull ache.

She doesn't risk moving at first. She stays doubled over, one hand wound around her abdomen, just trying to catch her breath. Finally, she manages to straighten up and close the door. She's still breathing harshly, taking in large gulps of cold air and she swears she can taste blood in her mouth, but she can at least stand. She grits her teeth and lifts her shirt up to look at her scar. She doesn't know what she'd been expecting. It's still there. It's not inflamed or irritated, not swollen or red, it hasn't somehow opened up, she's not bleeding. There is no physical trace of what just happened other than the soreness left behind.

She lowers her shirt and presses her lips together. Whatever that was, she is not keen on letting anyone else know about it tonight. Team Flash all have their own problems to deal with. They don't need hers. And Dean has had a bad enough night. She'll tell him tomorrow. It can wait. It honestly could have been a fluke. She hasn't ruled that out. Just because it felt real doesn't mean it was. It was probably psychological.

She is still rubbing at her side, trying to keep her movements somewhat sluggish and careful as she walks back into Star Labs. Her eyes immediately seek out Dean. He's off to the side, talking quietly with Caitlin. She still has no idea what went on there but she knows it's something he feels immensely guilty for so it's good they're talking. She doesn't want to interrupt them. Instead, she moves over to the console in the center of the room where Cisco and Harrison Wells are standing, talking to someone over the comms.

When Cisco sees her, a wide grin stretches across his lips. ''Hey, BC,'' he greets.

She smiles softly. ''You know, Cisco, you can call me Laurel.''

''Nah,'' he shrugs, taking a long slurp from the Big Belly Burger's cup in his hand. ''Not as cool.''

She laughs. She should come here more often. She needs a Cisco in her life. ''What are you guys doing?''

''Crawl spaces,'' Harrison Wells declares proudly, looking at her with a slightly unnerving smile. It occurs to her that she has no idea which Harrison Wells this is. Is this even Harrison Wells? He doesn't seem to react to her presence in a way that says he recognizes her. He also doesn't appear to be evil. What exactly is the protocol for this?

Since her side is still throbbing slightly, she decides she's going to let it go for now. ''Crawl spaces,'' she echoes. She eases herself down into a chair and hopes they don't notice her slight wince, though she's pretty sure Wells does.

''We're looking for Onomatopoeia,'' Cisco says. ''We think there's a chance he might have hid in one of them after you blasted him. There's no way he's still there but if he was wounded by the glass - ''

'' - There might be a DNA sample,'' Caitlin finishes, coming to stand next to him. ''Which means there's a chance we could identify the man behind the mask.''

''Impressive,'' Laurel says, tilting her head back to send Dean a smile when she feels his hand on the nape of her neck.

''Everything okay?'' He asks, voice low.

''Yep,'' she says, determinedly upbeat. She holds up his phone with a flourish for him to take. ''She just wanted to ask me if Max and Ruby's killed their parents.''

Dean takes that in stride, nodding his head understandingly. ''A common question.''

''I feel like they almost definitely killed them.''

''I thought that too but they actually introduced the parents recently.''

''Hold up.'' She twirls the chair around to gape at him. ''What?'' She grabs his hand and pulls herself and the chair over to him. ''Are you serious?'' That is truly the most surprising revelation of the night.

''I recorded the episode,'' Dean confesses. ''Mary doesn't even like that show. I just needed to know.''

''Oh my god, do you still have the episode?''

''I think it's still on there. Gotta admit, it was kind of anticlimactic.''

Behind them, someone clears their throat.

Laurel turns her head, but keeps a tight hold on Dean's hand. Wells, Caitlin, and Cisco are all staring at them with identically confused and slightly concerned expressions. ''What language are you speaking?'' Cisco asks.

Dean says, ''Parenthood.''

''Sounds like an acid trip.''

''Uh, guys?'' Wally's voice sounds over the speakers. ''I think I found something? Wait, no - yeah, I definitely found something.''

''What?'' Barry's voice asks. ''Blood?''

''No, Mrs. Bloomfeld's cat. It's under her porch. It had kittens. They're so tiny.''

''...Mittens is a girl?!''

''Oh, thank God,'' Joe's voice says dryly, ''That woman has been on me about that damn cat.''

''I never found any kittens,'' Laurel mumbles. She looks up at Dean. ''Did you ever find any kittens?''

He shakes his head. ''Found lots of rats.''

''Okay,'' Iris says, strolling up to the console. She just sort of materializes out of thin air. ''Someone needs to get Mittens and her babies to the vet or an SPCA and someone needs to let Mrs. Bloomfeld know that her cat's alive so she can stop wearing her mourning veil. Also,'' she swirls around to face Dean and Laurel. ''I need to talk to you two for a minute.'' She doesn't exactly give them a choice in the matter. There's no use fighting her so Laurel just lets her pull her to her feet and does her best to bite back a groan of pain at the movement.

''Does this woman really wear a mourning veil?'' Dean asks as she pulls them out into the hallway. ''Or was that hyperbole?''

''Good question,'' Laurel nods. ''But also, hey, quick other question: Which Harrison Wells is that? Does he know who I am? I feel like I should introduce myself.''

Iris ignores all of this. The tone of her voice is slightly urgent when she turns to Dean and says, ''You were right about Dinah.''

Laurel has no idea what that means but judging by the way his expression darkens, it can't be good. ''What about Dinah?''

''I asked Iris to check out Dee's suit,'' Dean says. ''See if there's a reason why she would go after it instead of just ditching it.''

Laurel crosses her arms over her chest. ''What did you find?''

Iris cranes her neck to look around them, just to make sure no one's eavesdropping. ''I found two damn good reasons she wouldn't want to ditch this suit,'' she says, and drops a small object into the palm of Dean's hand.

It's a ring. To be more exact, it's a wedding band. Dean takes a quick look at it, oddly unfazed, and then hands it over to Laurel. It's a simple gold band, not unlike Dean's. For a moment, Laurel wonders if it could be his. Or at least Earth Two his. Then she notices the engraving on the inside of the ring.

Love always - OJQ. 8/3/05.

''Oh,'' is all she manages to get out.

''And that's not even the most depressing part,'' Iris says. She fishes something out of her pocket and hands what looks like a folded photograph over to Dean. He takes one look at it and goes pale. He still doesn't seem entirely surprised by what he's looking at. Wordlessly, he gives Laurel the picture.

She looks down at the photograph, at the smiling faces, and her heart just plummets. Instantly, without even stopping to think about it for two seconds, she looks at Iris and says, ''I need to see Dinah.''

.

.

.

The look on Dinah's face when she finds herself face to face with herself for the second time in one day is something akin to annoyed fascination. ''Hey, girl scout,'' she greets. She's sitting on the ground of her tiny cell with her back against the wall, closely examining her split ends. ''You look like death warmed over.'' She shoots Laurel a Cheshire grin. ''Pun obviously intended.''

The look on her face when Laurel silently opens the door to her cell and steps inside is a lot less annoyed and a lot more shocked. For a second, she almost looks fearful. Like she thinks she's about to be executed. She walls that fear up quick, clenching her jaw and looking purposefully irritated. ''Come to put me out of my misery?''

''Don't be ridiculous,'' Laurel scoffs, and shuts the door behind her, locking herself in. The action seems to stun Dinah into silence.

Laurel doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't bother to explain herself or warn Dinah not to try anything. She settles herself on the small, hard cot against the opposite wall. She has a panic button up her sleeve and a comm in her ear. She is armed with a syringe full of sedative just in case, a code phrase for when she wants out, and there is a small audience listening to her every word. She doesn't think she'll need the panic button or the sedative and she wishes this chat could be kept purely between them, but she understands that safety comes first and that she is taking a huge risk here.

Dinah doesn't need to know about any of that. What she needs to know is that Laurel is here, sharing the space with her, on the same level, open, unthreatening, and vulnerable. Hopefully that will help. ''You were right about my mom,'' she starts. ''She knew about my meta powers. She never told me.''

Dinah snorts. ''Shit move.''

''Yes. It was.'' Laurel cocks her head to the side, looking closely at the other her. She doesn't look exactly like her. Mirror images never do. ''I take it she told you on your earth?''

Dinah draws her knees up and gives Laurel a disapproving onceover. She looks somewhat curious but still guarded and on edge. ''She's dead on my earth,'' she states, emotionless and blunt.

Laurel's shoulders slump. ''Oh.'' There is a wave of sadness that washes over her when she hears that. She tries to remind herself that this is not her life and her mother is not dead, but it's still a hard thing to hear. ''I'm sorry to hear that.''

Dinah just shrugs. ''I barely knew the woman. She died when my sister was born. I was too young to remember her.''

''But you knew about your powers.''

''Dad told me. She was open about it from the beginning. She wanted me to know what was going to happen to me.''

Laurel looks down at her hands. Sucks that her own mother couldn't give her the same consideration.

''My family is proud of who we are,'' Dinah says, picking at the bandages on her wrist. ''No sense in hiding it.''

Laurel almost laughs at that. Mirror images indeed. ''That's not how it is here,'' she says. ''I think they're ashamed of it here. They call it a curse.''

Dinah snaps her head up to stare at Laurel with narrowed, offended eyes. ''Power is not a curse.''

''It can be terrifying if you don't know what to do with it.''

''Life is terrifying,'' is the flat reply. ''Doesn't mean you get to hide from it.''

That's it. That's the opening she's been waiting for. ''Really?'' It's true, in all honesty. It's good advice. Dinah has a good point. If not a hypocritical one. ''Isn't that what you've done?''

''Excuse me?''

''Come on,'' Laurel keeps her voice low. ''Look at you. We both know this whole bad girl persona you've adopted is just an act. You're trying to hide yourself from the world.''

Dinah laughs cruelly. ''Oh, you know that, do you?''

''Of course,'' Laurel replies, keeping her voice pointedly relaxed. ''I am you, you know.''

''You are not me.''

Laurel doesn't react to the harsh snarl. ''You're suffering,'' she says. ''I can see it from a mile away. You've had a rough life so you've walled yourself off from everything and everyone just to protect yourself from the pain. But walls can't stay up forever, Dinah.''

Still, Dinah has no strong reaction to that. She looks mildly agitated but she doesn't look too bothered or shaken by the words. She's still sitting on the ground, looking comfortable and relaxed. ''Is this the part where you save me from myself?'' She laughs at the thought, shaking her head. ''You just can't stop your damn heroism for one night, can you?'' She leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. ''Let me let you in on a secret, Princess,'' she intones. ''We're not the same. You can pretend all you want, but you don't know me.''

''I know you lost your Oliver,'' Laurel reveals.

Dinah waves that off like it's nothing. ''That was nearly a decade ago.''

''But you loved him,'' Laurel says. ''You love him.''

There is a long silence after that. Dinah visibly swallows but doesn't say a word. After a minute or two, she opens her eyes and looks at Laurel with a hollow smirk pulling at her lips. ''What is it that you want, Laurel?''

Laurel frowns, genuinely confused. ''What do you mean? I don't want anything.'' That is the truth. Or something close to it. This isn't a trick. She just wants to have an honest conversation. She knows what suffering looks like. She knows what it looks like on her. What she wants is to give Dinah a chance. Nobody else has done that. Dinah has made bad choices and she needs to face the consequences for that, but she does deserve a chance if she wants one. Only she can change her fate. She wants her to know that. ''We're just talking,'' she says.

''Please,'' Dinah says, voice dripping with sarcasm. ''I've played this game before. I know the rules.''

Laurel hums contemplatively. ''Is there anyone waiting for you?'' She questions after a minute. ''Do you have anyone back on your earth to go home to?''

Dinah scoffs, crossing her ankles.

Laurel persists. ''If there's someone you have to go back to - ''

''There's not,'' it's a short, sharp answer. ''There's no one.''

Laurel was so hoping she would have a different answer to that question. She thinks of the wedding band burning a hole in her pocket. The picture she slipped inside her jacket that suddenly feels too heavy to carry. ''What happened when the particle accelerator exploded?''

That one seems to get a reaction out of her. Dinah abandons her quest to peel off her bandages and looks at Laurel with a look in her eyes that reminds her vaguely of a wild animal. ''What?''

''What did it have to do with triggering your scream?'' Laurel asks. ''Were you injured? Was someone else?''

''Why don't you cut the crap,'' Dinah's voice is eerily smooth, ''and tell me what it is you think you know about my life. Because clearly you think you know something.''

Ideally, Laurel would give it a few more minutes. Spend some more time poking around Dinah's brain before the big reveal. She doesn't have that kind of time. She takes the picture out of her jacket and moves off the bed to crouch down in front of her doppelganger. She holds out the picture, face up so Dinah can see the grinning, happy, alive faces. Dinah has been locked in here since May. She's been without her suit since August. That's a long time to go without a picture of the one person you most likely love more than anyone else in the world. Especially when that picture is all you have left.

Laurel asks her next question softly, so only Dinah can hear. ''What happened to your son, Dinah?''

Dinah's reaction is instant, vicious. She snatches the picture from Laurel's hand and propels herself to her feet, shoving her away. ''Where did you get this?'' It's worth noting that she moves away from Laurel instead of rushing to attack her, which was the fear. It's also worth noting that her hands are shaking. ''You had no right to...'' She doesn't finish her sentence. She looks down at the photograph.

There are two people in the picture: Dinah and a little boy with sandy blonde hair, a light dusting of freckles across his nose, a gap toothed smile, and Ollie's eyes. In the picture, Dinah is behind him, leaning down to wrap him up in her arms, her cheek pressed against his. She is a far cry from the woman currently standing in this godforsaken cage. There is a healthy glow about her, a genuine smile on her face, and her eyes are soft and full of love. The little boy is beaming excitedly. He looks like he's laughing. On the back of the photograph, the date is scribbled in unfamiliar handwriting: June 25th, 2014.

There is no question about who the boy is. It's clear just from looking at him. He's Dinah Laurel Lance and Oliver Queen's son. It's incredibly strange for Laurel to look at him and see what her life could have looked like if different choices had been made. It's hard to look at him. She's willing to bet it's harder for Dinah.

Dinah clutches the photograph to her chest protectively. ''Who else knows about this?''

''Dean, Iris, and Barry,'' Laurel answers honestly. ''No one else. I swear.'' She bites her lip. ''He... He's Oliver's?''

Dinah glowers at her. ''Of course he's Oliver's. Who else would I willingly have a kid with? I don't even like kids. They're the worst.''

Laurel nods, clasping her hands together in front of her so Dinah can see them. ''What's his name?''

''None of your business.''

''You're right,'' Laurel sits back down on the cot, allowing Dinah to tower over her. ''It's not.'' She's not sure how to approach this next part. ''Dinah,'' she starts, ''when the particle accelerator exploded - ''

''Why do you keep bringing up that fucking explosion?'' Dinah snaps.

''You said it had nothing to do with how you got your scream,'' Laurel says, ''but I think it had everything to do with it.'' She pauses, taking in a breath. ''Your son,'' she says softly. ''He's - ''

''Dead,'' Dinah's voice is a clear attempt to be cold, emotionless, and hard. It would be a lot more convincing if her hands weren't shaking. ''Yes. He was hurt in the blast. He died a few days later.''

Laurel tries not to react to that. It's hard. There's this dull ache in her throat and her chest, this overwhelming grief for a beautiful boy she doesn't even know. She doesn't think she has a right to mourn him when she never knew him and he isn't hers, but just seeing his face... It makes her think of Henry. It's hard not to react. She knows Dinah won't accept her grief. Knows she'll write off her sympathy as pity. She swallows hard and tries to push it away. ''I'm - ''

''Don't,'' Dinah orders harshly. ''Don't tell me you're sorry.''

Laurel clamps her mouth shut and nods.

''Did you get what you wanted?'' Dinah is still clutching the picture to her chest. ''Are you happy now?''

Laurel stays silent for a minute. ''I just wanted to bring you your things,'' she says eventually. She stands, taking the ring out of her pocket and offering it up to Dinah. ''I thought you might want to have them back by your side.''

Dinah hesitates only for a second and then grabs her wedding ring from Laurel. She doesn't say a word, and she doesn't look her in the eye. She slips the ring back on her finger and looks back down at the picture of her son. It occurs to Laurel that this must be the only picture of him she has left. She takes something else from her pocket and holds it out. When Dinah sees what it is, her eyebrows raise. She looks genuinely stunned.

If the tension between them wasn't so thick, Laurel would be laughing at the look on her face. She goes for a small smile instead. ''You wanted Big Red, right?''

Dinah reaches out to take the pack of gum just as the cell door unlocks and opens. She startles, caught off guard. For a second, Laurel worries her unpredictable doppelganger might attempt to make a break for it in the brief window of opportunity she has. She clearly doesn't want to be here. Much to her surprise, Dinah doesn't even try. Laurel easily slips out of the cell as fast as she can and locks it back up without incident.

She doesn't leave it at that. She should because she knows she shouldn't rush this, but there's so much more that she wants to say to her. ''You can't wall yourself off from this pain,'' she advises gently.

''You think that's what this is about?'' Dinah chuckles lowly. It's a cruel sounding laugh. ''You think - what? I went dark because I lost a child? You think I just decided to hide from my grief by slapping on some black leather and screaming the world down?'' She rolls her eyes. ''Please. You have no idea what you're talking about. Be glad you don't. My son died, Laurel. I had this amazing little boy, he was my entire life, he was the only piece of his dad I had left,'' she swallows, ''and he died. Violently. I wasn't even there to hold his hand.'' She shakes her head. ''There is no wall that can keep that out. There is no way to hide from this kind of pain. I feel it every second of every day. It would be easier to swallow if that was the reason, wouldn't it?'' She smirks again, but it's far from convincing. ''It would make this whole thing cleaner,'' she tilts her head to the side, ''wouldn't it? If I was just some poor grieving mother making bad choices then you could be the hero. Snap me out of it. Turn me into you.'' She approaches the glass separating them and leans in, eyes sparkling, scowl twisted onto her lips. ''I am not you. I am not some pathetically idealistic Barbie doll with self-esteem issues and some sugary view of the world.''

Laurel doesn't react to that. Doesn't give Dinah the fight she's clearly craving. She just nods and says, ''You're right. You're not me. I shouldn't try to make you into me.''

Dinah looks a little uneasy at the lack of fight. ''So what happens now?''

''What do you mean?''

''Am I your new pet project?'' A snicker. ''Do I get to hear some speech about how I'm good inside and there's still time to change?''

Laurel stuffs her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket and frowns in confusion. ''How should I know if you're good inside?'' Truthfully, a motivational speech does sound like the kind of thing she would have done before. It's not before anymore, is the thing. Unfortunately - or fortunately depending on your feelings on motivational speeches - they're stuck in the after now. She doesn't even know what she would say. ''You made your choices.'' The flippant tone of her voice wipes that annoying smirk off Dinah's face real quick. ''Nobody should have to endure the kind of loss you've been through, but that doesn't erase what you've done. It would be dangerously naive and arrogant to think that your tragic backstory excuses your actions.''

The look on Dinah's face seems to be caught somewhere between relief and disappointment. ''That mean you're not going to offer me some bullshit redemption arc?''

''Redemption isn't given,'' Laurel says sternly. ''It's earned.'' She locks eyes with Dinah and refuses to let her look away. ''Would you like to earn it?''

Dinah's response to that is to burst out laughing. ''Earn it,'' she cackles. ''You mean change. Be like you. Remind me again, you self-righteous little twit, where did your heroism and your obnoxious goodness get you?'' A slow smile spreads across her lips. ''Oh, right,'' she says. ''Six feet under.''

Laurel tries not to flinch. She doesn't want to give Dinah the win but she can't quite help the squirm of discomfort.

''We live in an ugly world,'' Dinah says strongly, ''and the only way to survive it is to be ugly right back.''

She almost sounds like she truly believes that.

Laurel glances at Dinah out of the corner of her eye, thoroughly unimpressed. That's a bold statement of defeat. Even in her darkest moments, she has never believed that. She's not sure what she believes in anymore, she has to admit that, but she knows it's not that. Okay then. Since Dinah is so obviously asking for it, she can give her what she wants.

''I live in a beautiful world,'' she says. She lifts her chin, holding her head up high, straightening her back. Her voice is hushed but defiant. This, she knows how to do. She's good at this part. ''It's not a perfect world, but it's what we have. I understand that there is sadness here, and anger. I know that this life is full of fear and chaos, but I also know that there's hope here. There's always hope.''

Dinah looks petulant, crossing her arms and glowering like a sullen teenager. ''Do you honestly believe that?''

''I do.''

''Then you're an idiot.''

Laurel grins. ''Maybe.'' She looks at the bandages on Dinah's wrists and then takes a step closer to the glass. ''You know, when I tell my daughter about why I became the Black Canary, I want her to know that I felt it was my responsibility to preserve and protect the world so that she could hopefully live in a better one. It's important to me that she knows that my choices were made out of love. Always love. It's the one thing you can count on. I want her to believe in that. I also want her to believe in magic. Not witchcraft, not any of this crap we face,'' she laughs wryly, twisting her wedding rings nervously. ''But simple, every day magic.'' She pauses, trying to come up with something more to say. It's been harder to find the magic lately. That doesn't mean it's not there. It's just been...

...Harder to find.

''I wake up in the morning, I make my coffee, I go out into the backyard, the sun shines through the branches of the apple tree, and that's all the magic I need. I eat, I sleep, I breathe, I hear and joke and I laugh, and that, Dinah, is magic. I want her to know that there is beauty in this world, even in the darkness.''

Dinah remains unconvinced. She scoffs at that and rolls her eyes again. It's the first reaction this speech has managed to elicit.

''There is,'' Laurel insists. ''I promise you there is. You just have to look for it.''

''Are you going somewhere with this,'' Dinah deadpans, ''or do you just like to hear yourself talk?''

''You can't see the sun shining through the branches of the apple tree if you're rotting in a cage.''

Dinah still for a second but doesn't break eye contact with Laurel. The tensing of her shoulders betrays the cool, unmoved demeanor she's going for.

''Don't you want to be free?'' Laurel asks, even though she knows the answer. ''Listen,'' she sighs. ''I can't presume to know what you've been through or what impact it's had on you. I can't understand your pain. And you're right. It's idealistic to think that the choices you made were just made out of grief. I don't know you well enough to assume that. I can't tell you that you're good inside and that there's still time to change.'' She smiles tightly. ''All I can do is tell you what I would tell my daughter. Mary will learn loss. She's already had to learn that lesson and she'll have to learn it again. Probably more than once. She will know heartache and anger and fear. I can't stop that from happening,'' she confesses, regretfully. ''But when she learns that life is a fight, I will be there to teach her that it is a beautiful fight. When she's knocked down and she has to make the choice to either stay down or get up, I want her to get up every time. I want her to want to get up. Because she will get knocked down. And it'll hurt just the same every time. But we still have to get up. I want her to know that the sun has to rise every morning, and so do we.''

For some reason, that's the line that seems to pierce through Dinah's armor. She noticeably presses her lips together tightly and turns away from the glass, shuffling back over to the cot. She perches on the edge of the uncomfortable bed with the picture of her son still clenched in her right hand and Oliver's ring still adorning her left ring finger. She looks, suddenly, worn out and sickly. Maybe it's just the horrible lighting. Maybe it's the blood loss or the lack of sunlight. Or maybe it's the phrase.

The sun has to rise every morning, and so do we.

Laurel says that a lot. She can't help it. It's in her head every morning when she wakes up. Her grandmother used to say that. Not Beatrice Drake but Leanne Lance, her father's mother. She didn't know Leanne all that well - the Gotham Lances aren't a particularly close knit family - and she died when she was thirteen but she remembers she used to say that. It stuck with her. She clung to that phrase when the boat went down. Some days she resented it. Other days it was the only thing that got her out of bed.

She wonders if it means the same thing to Dinah. She wonders if it's something she perhaps hasn't heard in a long time.

''I want Mary to know,'' she goes on, dropping her voice slightly, ''that even in the darkest night, there will always be a light at the end of the tunnel and hands waiting to guide her home. That's what I want her to know. That's what I want you to know as well.''

Dinah carefully tucks the picture of her son under her pillow. ''Why?''

''Because I don't think anyone's told you that in a long time.'' Laurel leans a shoulder up against the glass and crosses her arms casually. ''If you want, I will offer you my hand.'' She knows that there is a good chance that this is useless. She knows that it's possible Dinah has made up her mind and nothing will change that. Maybe this is who she is. But she still has to try. It's just in her nature.

''You should do spoken word poetry,'' Dinah remarks. She reclines back on the bed, taking the plastic off the pack of gum. ''What were you hoping to get from this speech?'' She asks, peeling the wrapper off a piece of gum and popping it into her mouth. It looks a lot less like a casual action and more like a tactic to avoid looking at her. ''What's supposed to happen next?''

''I guess we'll find out.''

Dinah raises her head slightly, looking up from the gum wrapper she's currently rolling into a tiny ball.

''Enjoy the gum,'' Laurel says easily. ''If you have any other requests, let someone know and I'll see what I can do for you.'' She steps back from the cell and turns away to leave. Before she gets too far, she stops. She can't decide if her next words are a threat or a promise but she knows they need to be said and she knows she wants Dinah to really hear them. She turns back around to look at her doppelganger, at the hollowness of her cheeks and the shadows in her eyes, and she offers her a soft, ''I'll be seeing you, Dinah.''

.

.

.

end part six

---

AN: Chapter title from the poem ''I Wake in a Field of Wolves with the Moon'' by Jose Olivarez. The full line is: ''I know no love without teeth and have the scars to remember.''

(Also, listen. ALL LASAGNAS ARE VALID. Even the vegan ones.)