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.

8. Empire of Dirt

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Very brief vomit mention at the very beginning and a minor-ish scene of non-con.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Eight

Empire of Dirt

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April, 2016

The night of the funeral, long after Mary has gone to bed and everyone else has gone home, Dean lies in the dark with a hole in his chest where Laurel used to be.

He's a widower now. It's an ugly word; widower. He's tried it out, tried to make it fit on his tongue, in his life, but he can't. This isn't his life. This is nothing he wanted. This is a fucking bad joke. It's a crippling unfairness, a role the world has forced him into, and he hates it. He hates it so much.

It makes him so angry he can't see straight. This isn't how things should be. He didn't ask for this. Laurel didn't ask for this. Mary certainly didn't ask for this. Why did this happen? Why her? Why them? How is he supposed to sleep, how is he supposed to do anything at all, when all he can think about is how angry he is that this horrible thing happened to their family?

It makes him want to get in the car and drive to the nearest liquor store. He's already done that twice this week. Stormed out of the house and gone to the liquor store. Once, he even made it all the way up to the counter with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The only reason he didn't buy it and drink half the damn thing in the parking lot is because Thea called him, near tears, and said, ''Mary's crying for you and I don't know what to do.''

Sam keeps telling him to go to a meeting. Find a sponsor. Reach out to someone Laurel knew from the program. Call his former therapist. Get some sleep. Just talk to someone. Anyone.

Dean does not want to talk. He doesn't want to go to a fucking AA meeting. He doesn't want to call his therapist. And he can't sleep. He doesn't like being here without her. There is no other way to put it. Nothing feels right anymore. He's uncomfortable in this bed, in this house, in this skin, in this sobriety without her here next to him.

Is this what his father felt? He's tried so hard not to dredge up those ghosts, not to bring his father into this, but it's a valid question, isn't it? When you really think about it, how can he not bring his father into this? Is this what his father felt in November of 1983? What Sam felt in November of 2005? This restless, jittery feeling? This broken sleeplessness? This wretched anger and complete helplessness? Is this grief?

Or does he just really need a drink?

He's thought about that a lot lately. Just one, he keeps thinking. He could just have one. Just to take the edge off and help him get to sleep. Except it wouldn't be just one. It would never be just one with him. He's a drunk. He's not wired that way. He's not going to drink. He won't do that to Mary. But, fuck, does he ever want to.

Dean shakes his left hand out in an attempt to rid himself of the tremor.

Addiction doesn't look like a monster when you're an addict. It just looks like home. It's not some dark shadow in the middle of the night. It's a warm and steadying presence beside you, day in and day out, that tells you, I will keep you safe.

It hides you.

He is so used to hiding that he has forgotten how to grieve out loud.

Public grieving is, for some reason, exactly what people seem to expect from him right now. He's the widower. They want him to throw himself on top of the casket, fall to his knees and curse the universe, break down in wails every five seconds. They want a performance. He hadn't realized grief was expected to be such a performative thing.

He rolls onto his side, back to the empty space. He just wants to be able to get some sleep. He needs to sleep. He's gotten maybe a few hours in the past week and that's not good enough. He needs to be able to function properly for his daughter. He's all she's got now.

He can't seem to get away from that night, is the thing. Every time he closes his eyes, there's this flash, this flicker of Laurel. It's her mouth, apple red lips pulled into a grin, teeth white against red, lips parting for a laugh. It's her eyes, soft and kind, always kind, and glimmering slightly, a spark like she knows something he doesn't. It's Laurel, alive.

And then, suddenly, it's not. It's Laurel, dead. Laurel in that hospital bed, eyes open and sightless, mouth open like she was going to let out one final scream. It's eerie how quickly life can drain out of the eyes.

He's relieved she wasn't alone. That he was with her until the very last second. Maybe there should be some comfort in that. The fact that she didn't die alone and that he's not left to regret leaving her, to feel guilty that he wasn't there. He just wishes he hadn't seen it happen. Selfish, maybe. He'll own that. But how do you leave that image behind? How do you get that out of your head? He's seen a lot of people die in his lifetime. People he's loved. This was just...different.

He rolls over to face the empty space on the bed. He blinks back the moisture in his eyes and rubs at his face tiredly. He doesn't think he can do this.

The soft creak of the bedroom door startles him out of the excruciating pain. The door opens and the dim hallway light, the one kept on for Mary, spills into the room, and for half a second, he almost thinks...

He lifts his head just enough to see her standing in the doorway, bathed in the glow of the light. She steps into the room, shuts the door behind her, and scampers through the shadows over to the bed. ''Daddy,'' her voice says. ''Daddy, I need you.''

He clicks on the lamp and takes in the sight of her standing there. She's holding her horse blanket tightly and her hair is mussed, sticking up and falling into her face. ''What's wrong, pumpkin?'' He lifts her up into the bed easily, reflexively checking to see if her pull up is wet. Other than the occasional accident, mostly at night, she's been doing surprisingly awesome with potty training for the past four months now. Right up until this past week. She's been having accidents during the day and she has soaked through her pull up almost every night since Laurel... Since the 6th. He hasn't made a big deal out of it. There's been major upheaval and trauma. For now, he's going to assume this is normal. He doesn't know who else he can ask.

Can't ask Quentin. He'd just worry himself into a relapse. If he hasn't relapsed already. Laurel's mother is a hard fucking no on that front. He kind of wishes he could ask his dad. John Winchester may not have been perfect, not even close, but he's been through this. What's considered normal in this situation? Is there even a normal? Would John even know? What happened in those early days, the ones he can't really remember? What can he expect to happen in the coming days?

Mary flops down on the bed as soon as he lifts her up, burrowing under the covers and laying her head down on Laurel's pillow. She's dry tonight, so a wet diaper isn't what's woken her up. ''I needed you,'' she says again, but opts not to expand on that.

''You got me, kiddo,'' he says. ''What do you need?''

She heaves a sigh. She turns her head into the pillow, mashing her face into the pillowcase with a groan. She yanks her blanket over her face and then almost immediately pulls it away, looking up at him. She rolls onto her back. She sticks her fingers into her mouth, rubbing the soft blanket against her cheek. She looks at the ceiling for a minute, contentedly sucking on her fingers, which is another thing that she had mostly outgrown until the past week. ''No stars,'' she finally mumbles out around her fingers.

''No,'' he agrees. ''Not in here. The stars are in your room.'' He brushes some of the wisps of hair out of her face and then gently takes her hand out of her mouth. She doesn't protest the way she used to. She curls her hand around two of his fingers and peers up at him through her eyelashes. ''Do you want me to come lie down with you in your room?''

''No, no, no, no,'' she tugs at his hand, frowning. She looks alarmed at the prospect of going back to her bedroom. ''No, no, Daddy, here, here. I wanna sleep here.''

''Okay,'' he relents. ''Okay, we'll sleep here.'' He does lie back down, but he keeps an eye on her. She keeps a hold of his hand, pulling it to her chest with both hands, clutching at it tightly. He can't help but ask, ''Did you have a bad dream?''

She shakes her head. ''No. I just want to be with you. I like being with you.''

He can't argue with that, but he doesn't think that's the only reason she's in here tonight. ''I like being with you too, honeybee.''

Mary Beatrice has her mother's eyes, her mother's nose, and right now, she has her mother's sadness. He would recognize it anywhere. He used to worry, sometimes, that he knew her sadness better than he knew her joy. That was such a stupid thing to worry about. Now that it's over and there's nothing left but past tense, he can look back and see that his wife's sadness was a miniscule part of her. When he thinks of her now, he tries his best to think of her smiling and laughing. She had an incredible laugh and the most gorgeous smile he's ever seen. He wishes he had taken the time to appreciate those things more. He would give anything for one more laugh.

He looks down at Mary, lying there in her My Little Pony pajamas, still holding onto his hand. Well, he thinks, almost anything.

He decides it's best not to push her too hard for answers. She seems content to just lie there in the quiet, wide awake and comfortable with him. When she reluctantly lets go of his hand to play with her blanket, running her fingers over the fabric, he tries rubbing her belly, but he probably doesn't have the same soft touch Laurel did.

After about five minutes of silence, she speaks up. ''Daddy?''

''Hmm?''

Her small hands twitch and she lets go of her blanket. I am, she signs, and then stops. There is a lengthy pause before she somewhat clumsily signs a single word. Lonely.

I am lonely.

His heart sinks into his stomach, dropping down as a sickening horror creeps up into his throat. So am I, he doesn't say.

''I want Mommy,'' she says.

''I know. I want her too.''

She scoots closer to him, letting him wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. She keeps her blanket tucked under her arm and curls into his side. Slowly, almost like she's nervous to do it, she reaches out one of her tiny hands and lays it flat on his chest, above his heart.

''Not so lonely now,'' he says, just to say something. His voice sounds hoarse and unconvincing. ''Are we?''

There is no answer to that question.

She grabs onto his shirt, pulls herself up, and drapes herself over him with her good ear pressed to his chest. Her small fist clenches and unclenches around the fabric of his shirt. She used to do this all the time. Listen for heartbeats. She hasn't done it in awhile. She grew out of it. Or maybe she just grew into the confidence that her parents would always be here whether she was listening or not. Guess she's not that confident anymore.

''My ear heard Mommy's name,'' she whispers, after a minute or two.

He looks down at her. ''When? Today?''

She nods against his chest. ''Grandma said her name a lot. But there's no Mommy,'' she informs him, wistful. ''I looked. But no Mommy. She's not here.''

''No,'' he says. ''No, she's not.''

Mary raises her head. She props her chin up on his chest and looks at him curiously. ''Why?'

''She...'' He really doesn't want to answer that question. ''She went to Heaven.'' It's not a satisfactory answer for either of them. He's not even sure it's the right thing to say. People keep shoving all these articles at him about how to help your child cope with the loss of a parent and most of them say that you shouldn't lie. That you should use words like ''death'' and ''died.'' Don't tell them that their lost parent just went to sleep because it could make them afraid of going to sleep. Don't tell them that their parent was sick because it might make them think they're going to die every time they get sick.

Listen, all the articles say. Comfort. Put emotions into words.

How the fuck is he supposed to do any of that? What does that even mean? He is listening the best he can, but he doesn't know how to comfort her and he certainly doesn't know how to put these emotions into words. Does anyone know how to put these emotions into words?

The bottom line of most of these articles seems to be that children are people. They deserve the truth. They understand far more than they're given credit for. That's the problem. He doesn't want her to understand. He doesn't want her to have to go through this. How is he supposed to be okay with telling her that her mother is dead when he can't even bring himself to say the words out loud?

He is a grown man who has been through more than his fair share of grief and loss. He has lost so many people that he's lost count of the ashes and he still can't say these words out loud. If he doesn't say it then maybe it's not true. If he doesn't say it then maybe she'll come home.

He is still waiting for her to come home.

Mary, seemingly sensing that this conversation is not heading in the direction she wanted it to go in, pulls away from him. He's almost startled by how cold he feels without her. She sits up, sitting cross legged on the bed, blanket pulled into her lap. ''When's she coming back?''

He doesn't think she's ever looked this solemn before. He can understand why. The routine she's been thriving under has been thrown off. She wants normal back. Mom wakes her up in the mornings. Dad makes Mom avocado toast with a poached egg - under protest, grumbling about marrying a hipster millennial the entire time, trying to slip some bacon onto the plate - and says, ''Don't forget your contact lenses.'' Mom makes a pot of coffee for everyone that he throws out as soon as she leaves because he doesn't like the way she makes coffee but doesn't want to tell her that. Speech therapy once a week (cut down from twice a week) with her speech therapist and every night with Mom. Physical therapy every other Tuesday and balance exercises with Dad every weekday afternoon. Sign language practice on the weekends with both Mom and Dad. Honey and peanut butter toast or oatmeal with blueberries most mornings. Sometimes bacon and scrambled eggs that she puts both syrup and ketchup on, much to his dismay and horror. That is the life that Mary lives. She was happy in that life.

She lives with eyes on her parents at all times. She exists in the space between two people who love and adore her, who coddle her maybe a bit too much, and who want nothing more than to do right by her, to give her everything. That is her life. That's what she wants back.

Who can blame her? All he's been thinking about for the past week now is how badly he wants to go back to complaining about Laurel's damn avocado toast on weekday mornings and watching Mary try to mimic Laurel's yoga poses in the backyard on Saturday and Sunday mornings. They worked hard for that life. It was a good one. A real good one.

He heaves himself up, propping himself up against the headboard. He looks at Mary closely.

Today, they buried her mother. Put her in a box in the ground and left her there. He tried to explain to Mary what a funeral is and he's told her a few times that Mom is gone, but he knows she doesn't get it. She doesn't want to.

Mary did...surprisingly okay during today's chaos. She didn't like the informal wake her grandmother threw together because she doesn't do well with crowds and because she had missed her nap but before that, she was fine. He hadn't wanted to bring her to the funeral at all. She's three. He wanted to spare her. But she had handled the whole thing with a surprising amount of courage and poise. There was a moment when she saw the casket where she pointed at it and asked, very loudly, ''What's that?'' That was about it. She didn't fidget. She didn't cry. She wasn't scared. She just sat there next to him calmly, looking at the blown up picture of her mom. She did better than most of the adults around her.

''She's...'' He clears his throat. ''She's not coming back, Mary.'' He doesn't want to be telling her this. He doesn't want her to have to know these things, but this is the unfairness of their new life. As much as he hates it, those condescending articles are right.

Mary takes this news well. She laughs at him. ''Don't be silly!'' She swats at him playfully. Like the idea of her mother not coming home is so ridiculous that it shouldn't even be entertained as a real possibility.

''Mary,'' he sighs. ''Your mom,'' he says, as gently as possible. ''She died,'' he tells her, and all the air leaves his lungs. ''She can't come back.''

She shakes her head, steadfast in her denial. ''She comes back.''

''She can't come back,'' he says again. It's all he can think of to say. He has nothing else to give her.

Mary, for a moment, looks like she's going to fight him on that, but she doesn't. She doesn't understand the finality of death. He doesn't think she understands much about death at all, despite being surrounded by it. She knows that Uncle Tommy died when she was a baby, but despite the picture of him in her room that she'll loudly explain to anyone who walks into her room, she doesn't remember him so his loss doesn't ache. She knows that Auntie Sara died, but Auntie Sara came back. She knows that Nana Bea went to Heaven, but honestly, she was far more impacted by Laurel's grief than Nana Bea's death. Despite all the gloominess that sometimes surrounds her life, this is the first time she has really had to feel it.

He would like to say he can't imagine how that feels, but he can. He knows exactly how it feels. There is no gentle way to feel pain. Not even when you're a kid. You can't sugarcoat grief so it's easier to swallow. You can't make it something more palatable. There is no way to soften the blow of loss. Grief is... Grief just is.

Dean watches his little girl's face fall as she is forced to come to the realization that there is no way out of this. It's something painfully familiar. There are a lot of things that he can't remember about the immediate days after the fire that stole his mother from him. He remembers the night of. He remembers the heat, the frantic sound of his father's voice, the weight of his baby brother in his arms. He remembers coughing for weeks after. He remembers the silence. Always the silence.

Most of the other details have been washed away by time. One thing he has never been able to forget is when he asked when his mom was coming home. It was a few days after the fire, they were staying with Mike and Kate Guenther, and Dean just wanted to go home. Kate was the one he asked. His mom was the one he always went to when he was scared, she was the safe space, the one he always fell back to. Something about Kate must have reminded him of that. She hadn't known what to say to him. He can understand that now. What are you supposed to say when your husband's coworker's kid comes up to you and asks, ''When's my mom coming back?''

She handled it as well as she could have, he thinks. She sat him down in the kitchen and told him that she was sorry but that his mom wasn't going to be coming home because she had passed away. She said that his mom was with the angels now, but she would be looking down on him and Sammy, keeping them safe, watching over them. She kept asking if he was okay, if he understood, but he couldn't speak, couldn't make his voice work because he was so scared without his mom. He nodded, even though he wasn't okay, and he didn't understand, and who was going to look after him and Sammy if Mom didn't come home?

He didn't speak again for weeks. He didn't want to know the answers to anymore questions.

Mary hasn't yet arrived at that place. ''But,'' her voice is a shaky sounding squeak. ''Why?''

''I...'' He struggles to come up with a good answer to that question. ''That's just - That's the way it is when someone dies. It's just what happens.''

She looks, suddenly, very panicked. ''Are you gonna die?''

''No.'' Even he's surprised by the conviction in his voice when he says that. He can't remember the last time he had conviction. ''No,'' he says it again, softer this time. ''No, I'm with you, Mary. I'm staying right here with you. Always. You and me.'' He offers her a poor imitation of a smile. ''We're a team, right?''

She doesn't answer. She buries her face in the soft fabric of her blanket that her mother made her and ducks her head so he can't see her eyes. She looks scared. He gets that. He's scared too. Their entire world has changed.

He's aware that she seems to have inherited her parents' tendency to feel everything just a little too much. She's a sensitive kid. She takes everything to heart. Up until now, that's only been a minor issue. She's an amazing little girl. She is happy more than she is sad, she laughs more than she cries, and she loves more than she hates. She's too young to understand the shitstorm that is, occasionally, their lives. She is not too young to understand this. This is Laurel. This is her mom. Mary worshipped the ground Laurel walked on. She was awed by everything her mom did. Now she just has an empty spot where her mother used to be and a hollowed out shell for a dad. She has been left behind. They have both been left behind.

He swallows painfully. ''Mary.''

''But Mommy wakes me up,'' she says, raising her head to show him her wide, scared eyes.

''I know.'' He blinks, stubbornly refusing to break down in front of her. ''Do you think it would be okay if I wake you up from now on?''

She looks like she's trying her hardest not to cry. ''Okay,'' she says, voice small. ''Is - '' She stops. She looks around the room like she's searching for any leftover trace of her mother. ''Is Heaven…nice?''

''...Yes.''

''Is she happy?''

''I hope so.''

''I was happy,'' she whispers. ''When she's not - When she's not in Heaven.''

His throat constricts and he can feel that familiar tightness in his chest and that aching pressure behind his eyes. There are so many things people don't tell you about loss. Just like there are so many things people don't tell you about parenting. Dean knows how to lose parents, how to lose friends, even how to lose his brother, but he doesn't know how to lose his wife. How to do any of this without her. Half of him is just gone now.

He knows how to be Mary's dad. He has changed diapers, potty trained her, cleaned up all the bodily fluids, all the spilled milk and spilled legos, played with her, taught her, comforted her. He knows how to help her through a vertigo attack, through colds and ear infections and strep throat. He knows sign language, speech therapy, physical therapy, and everything else. He has answered every question she has ever had. But he doesn't know how to do this. He can't help her, can't comfort her, can't answer her questions.

''I don't like this,'' Mary declares, wobbly. She shakes her head. ''I need Mommy.'' She shakes her head again, more adamantly this time, and then she starts crying. ''I don't like this.''

Nothing he says will make this better so he just lifts her up into his lap and gives her a hug. She lets go of her blanket and winds her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shirt. ''I don't like this either,'' he admits, barely able to choke it out around the rocks in his throat. He can feel her tears leaking through his t-shirt and he can feel her tiny body shuddering with sobs.

This might be one of the worst moments of his entire life. And he has had a screwed up life. It's just that he feels like he's choking on this loss. It's horrifying to him that Mary is feeling the same kind of hurt. That she has to suffer like this at three years old. He never ever wanted this for her. She was supposed to have better. She was supposed to have a happy childhood.

''I want Mommy,'' Mary cries out. ''I want her to come back.''

''I know.'' He rubs her back. ''So do I.''

She keeps crying, sobbing bitterly into his shirt, and he holds her close, periodically rubbing her back, trying to come up with something to say. She sniffles and when she's calmed down enough to speak, she mumbles into his neck, ''Can we go with her?''

''No,'' he tries to say it as evenly as possible. ''We have to stay here.''

''Why?''

''We...'' He takes in a few breaths. ''We're not finished.''

''Mommy's finished?''

He struggles to swallow down the lump in his throat, sliding his eyes heavenwards briefly. ''I... I guess so.''

Mary settles down for a few minutes, snuggling into his chest. She still doesn't seem all that interested in sleeping but she quiets down, her nervous twitchy fingers playing with the neckline of his shirt. She rubs at her eyes and when she stuffs her fingers into her mouth again, he doesn't stop her. For now, it's something that comforts her. He's not going to take that away from her. He sits there with her for awhile in the quiet darkness, patiently waiting for her to wind down.

Not that it really matters. He doesn't think he's going to be getting any sleep tonight and they don't have any plans for tomorrow so they could probably just lie around in bed all day and rest. Except that's not what he wants for her. That's too depressing. He can't rest anyway. There is no rest in this grief. He heard Donna talking to Jody about asking him if they could take Mary to the zoo tomorrow. Maybe that's what he'll do. They'll sleep in tomorrow and go to the zoo with Jody and Donna in the afternoon. Try to keep up with some kind of illusion of normalcy. He really doesn't want to go to the zoo tomorrow, but…

Laurel would have taken her to the zoo.

He looks over at Laurel's vanity. He hasn't touched it. Her robe is still draped over the back of the chair where she left it. Her makeup is still strewn about on top of the table from when she put it on that morning. There are photographs tucked into the mirror. Her rings are scattered on the tabletop. There is a necklace with a broken clasp pushed off to the side. On the bedside table, there is a half-empty glass of water and a pair of glasses. There are contact lenses in the bathroom, lotions and oils and soaps, shampoo and conditioner still taking up space. He bought her a birthday gift. It's sitting at the bottom of the drawer, all wrapped up, ready to be opened. He doesn't know what to do with it now. This whole house is untouched. Still waiting for her. Just like the people in it. If Laurel walked in right now, she could pick up right where she left off and it would be like nothing happened.

But she won't.

This thing, this horrible thing - It happened. There is no going back. Somehow, they have to find a way to live in this house without her. Somehow, they have to go on.

The crossroads was a giant waste of time, Crowley wouldn't help, Death refused to bargain with him, and no angels will answer his prayers. No one will help him. No one will help her. All of the usual Winchester tricks for cheating death have stopped working. His luck has abandoned him. Abandoned her.

He closes his eyes, breathing slowly. This is not what he signed up for all those years ago when she begged him to stay with her while his shoulder healed and he agreed, even though he knew it was going to end badly. This is what he was afraid of.

He's been wondering lately what would have happened if he had just left that day in the summer of 2010 when she said ''take what you need and I'll give you what I can.'' If he had left her standing there in that parking garage and limped back to a life full of cheap beer, grief, and driving aimlessly around the country, hopping from ghost towns to all night diners to cemeteries in the dead of night, searching for something he would never find. He wonders what would have become of them.

Where would he be now? Where would she be? Would she still be here? Would she have found someone else? Or would she have died alone?

That's not what happened. Not in this lifetime.

In this life, he was tired, she was warm, and she was offering him something he couldn't bring himself to pass up. So he went home with her, he fell in love, and that was that. He stayed. For the rest of her life, he stayed with her, right by her side. He's trying to work out, these days, if that was the best decision he ever made, or the worst.

In his arms, Mary shifts a little. She wipes her slobbery fingers on his shirt and clenches the fabric in her tiny fist for a moment before pulling back. ''We can lay down now,'' she decides, crawling off his lap. She lies back down on the bed, rolling onto her side. She pats his pillow. ''Lay down, Daddy. Night night time.''

He lies down next to her, carefully keeping an eye on her. She appears to have bounced back quickly but he still signs a careful, Are you okay?

She nods, wriggling closer to him and throwing her blanket over him. She smiles at him and then puts her fingers back in her mouth yet again. He smiles back. It's weak and wobbly, but it's a smile.

If he could go back to that day in the parking garage or that night on the fire escape or that weekend in Seattle or even that morning he woke up and heard her singing that Buddy Holly song in the kitchen, the very moment he knew, what would he do? If he could go back to the first time he ever saw her, the day she poured him a coffee or that night when she hit him with her purse because she thought he was a mugger, what would he change? Would he go back and warn himself of the unhappy ending? Say ''heads up, man, Laurel dies at the end, better off skipping this story?'' Or would he make the same choices and take the pain?

The answer is simple, really.

He would do it all over again. Laurel gave him Mary. Everything he has now, he has because of her. She gave him all of it. She gave him the world. He should have thanked her for that. He should have thanked her for everything.

''Daddy?'' Mary takes her fingers out of her mouth and looks over at him. ''Why?'

''Why what?''

''Why's Mommy finished?''

He is quiet for a long time, floored by the question. Now that he can't answer. I mean, he can but she's probably not going to understand ''because our life is a shit sandwich.'' ''I don't know,'' is all he can manage to mumble out.

She frowns at that. ''You know,'' she says, as if the alternative is unacceptable. How could there ever be something Daddy doesn't know? ''Daddy, you know,'' she insists. ''You gotta.''

''I don't,'' he insists. ''I'm sorry, I...'' The lump in his throat seems to be attempting to claw it's way out. ''I want to have all the answers for you. You deserve to have that, but I don't - I don't know why this happened. I don't know how we...'' He shifts himself back into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard. ''I don't know what to do now.'' He doesn't know if he's talking to Mary or to Laurel. ''I'm sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry. We wanted better for you. We didn't want this. We didn't want any of this.'' He tries as hard as he can to hide the shakiness, to quell the emotion, but he fails miserably. Much to his horror, he is damn near a blubbering mess by the time he's finished, and she's looking at him in concern.

She spends less than ten seconds staring up at her father melting down in front of her with this frightened look on her face, and then it passes. The apprehension fades away, replaced by something else, something that stirs up memories of her mother, and then she's sitting up and climbing back into his lap. ''It's okay, Daddy,'' she tells him. ''It's okay.'' She wipes at the tears on his cheeks with her tiny hands. ''Don't be sad.'' She leans in close to him, placing both hands on his face and resting her forehead against his. ''Don't be sad,'' she repeats. ''I love you.'' She pulls away, but only to hug him, laying her head on his shoulder and rubbing his back the same way he usually rubs hers. ''Don't worry. I won't leave.''

He chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. He clutches her tighter, practically holding on for dear life. ''I'm glad you're here,'' he gets out. ''I'm so glad you're here.''

It's the same thing he told her the night she was born when Laurel put her in his arms for the first time. Was that really three years ago? It feels like it was just yesterday. He remembers every second of that night. All that excitement and fear and adrenaline. All that love. How hard Laurel fought to bring their daughter into this world and how intensely she loved her from the very first second. How exhausted and terrified but complete she looked when she finally had her baby in her arms. He remembers that.

Mary won't. Mary won't remember any of the things Laurel did for her. She will remember her mother the same way he remembers his; in past tense. She'll only know her through the stories he tells her, the pictures in the frames, the blurred memories in the back of her head that she'll try so desperately to remember. That's all she'll have from now on. That's not enough. It wasn't enough for him.

''Mary.'' He fights to regain some semblance of control and composure. Gently, he pulls her away from her and meets her eyes. ''I love you,'' he says. ''Do you know that?''

She nods enthusiastically. ''You're Daddy.''

''I know I don't...say it much.''

She frowns and tilts her head to the side, confused. ''You say it lots.''

''Yeah?'' He manages an unconvincing laugh. ''You think so?''

She nods again, reaching out to pat his hand soothingly. ''You love me,'' she says. ''I love you. We love Mommy. And Auntie Thea and Uncle Sammy and Uncle Cas and Auntie Sara and Grandpa. We love each other,'' she nods, sounding firm on this. ''We're family.''

''You're right,'' he says. ''We are. I just wanted to make sure you know how much I love you. Those words aren't always easy for me to say.''

That's an understatement. Love is something easy to feel. It just pours in. The words have been hard to get out for a long time. He used to be able to say it back when he was a kid and he knows his mom said it a lot, but his father... John wasn't interested in telling his boys he loved them. He kept them alive. Guess he thought that was enough. Some hang ups you learn.

He thinks he can count on one hand all the times he told Laurel that he loved her. He tries to say it to Mary, to make an effort, but with Laurel it was mostly an unspoken thing. She said it all the time, so easily and freely, but he couldn't. She never seemed to have an issue with it. She never even brought it up. Even when they were going to counseling. She understood. Still, he can't help but think that he should have said it more. She knew, he's sure of that, but he should have said it more.

''You could sign it,'' Mary suggests. ''Like this.'' She demonstrates how to sign 'I love you' and then looks at him expectantly. He acquiesces obediently, signing the words back to her, much to her delight. ''Yay!'' She cheers, throwing her hands up. ''Good job, Daddy!'' She gives him another big hug, wrapping her arms around him and he can't help but laugh. ''Now you don't say it,'' she says, pulling away but keeping her arms wound around his neck. ''You just sign it.''

''Of course,'' he says. ''Why didn't I think of that? Pumpkin, you're a genius.''

She grins and giggles quietly, leaning in close to him to bury her face in the hollow of his throat. She draws away after a few minutes to meet his eyes. ''Are you still sad?''

He opens his mouth to say no and assure her that he could never be sad with her, but then he stops. ''Yes,'' he answers honestly. ''I'm still sad. Are you still sad?''

She thinks about it for a second and then nods her head. ''I miss Mommy.''

''I do too,'' he nods. ''I think we're going to have to be sad for a little bit,'' he tells her. ''And that's okay. It's okay to be sad and it's okay to miss her. But we'll be happy again, Mary. I promise. That's what your mom would've wanted for us.'' He tries to make it sound as genuine as possible. He's going to do everything in his power to make sure that their daughter has a good life, that she grows up happy and healthy, that she thrives, even with the empty space next to her. But his own life...

Just the idea of one day being happy in a life without her makes his skin crawl with guilt. Maybe it just takes time but right now the very concept of happiness feels like a betrayal.

When Mary lays her head on his shoulder once again, he scoots back so he can lean against the headboard and lets her drape herself over his chest. ''You know,'' he starts, after a second. ''Your mom... She loved you too. She loved you so much. She fought to get back to you. I need you to know that. She loved you more than anyone. She would have done anything to be able to stay here with us.''

She takes her fingers out of her mouth and looks up at him seriously. ''But she didn't.''

''No'' he agrees quietly. ''She...'' He pauses, letting out a breath. ''She got really hurt,'' he explains. ''The doctors at the hospital tried to help her but her body couldn't get better.''

She blinks a couple of times and then drops her head back down onto his chest. ''Oh.''

''Are you okay?''

She doesn't answer, wiping her nose on his shirt. She reaches for her blanket with her free hand and he grabs it for her, draping it over her. She tugs it up to her face, absently rubbing the soft fabric against her cheek.

''Mary,'' he says softly. ''I don't want you to worry about that happening to me, okay? Or you. It won't. I promise I won't leave you.'' He wants to make that as clear as he can. He doesn't want her to be scared of losing him the way she lost her mom. He knows she has to be thinking about that. She's been through something traumatic. Especially for someone her age. This loss is bigger than her. He doesn't expect her to just get over it. This is going to be something she carries with her for the rest of her life. It's not something he can carry for her, and he knows that. He just wants to be able to lighten the load. Make sure she knows that he's here and he always will be. Everything his own father didn't do for him.

She's quiet for a minute and then says, simply, ''Okay.'' Then, in a whisper, ''Can I have some water?''

''You want a glass of water?''

She nods.

''I can do that,'' he says, leaping at the chance to be able to do something useful.

She climbs off him so he can get up, crawling back to Laurel's side of the bed.

''I'll be right back,'' he promises.

She starts to nod but almost immediately freezes. There's this bright flicker of fear in her eyes and then she starts shaking her head. ''No, no, no, Daddy.'' She grabs at his hand, pulling herself up to her feet on the bed. ''I... I come with you.'' She sounds panicked, like she doesn't want to ever let him out of her sight again. ''Okay? Okay?''

''Okay,'' he soothes, scooping her up. ''Let's go get some water.'' She clings to him so tightly it's like she's afraid he's going to drop her. It's not entirely unusual. Mary is a stage five clinger. She's been a Velcro baby since the day she was born. He may not have to sit on the floor beside her crib with his hand through the bars anymore but she still can't fall asleep without someone touching her. He used to not be able to shower or even go to the bathroom alone. There are still days where she literally follows him from room to room. That's nothing new. It's the fear on her face that's different. He knows he can't make that go away and that, unfortunately, fear is a normal part of grief but it's such a shitty feeling to see that look on his baby girl's face and not be able to fix it.

Mary is quiet as he makes his way down the hall to the kitchen to get her water. She dictates which sippy cup she wants (the Mulan one and NOT the Beauty & the Beast one) but other than that, she doesn't say much, resting her head on his shoulder, still sucking away on her fingers.

In the light of the kitchen, he can see that she looks tired. It's yet another way she's like her mom. They both tend to get pale and clammy when they're tired. Not that Mary's going to admit she's tired. She seems adamant that she's not. She won't let him put her down. Not even to fill up her sippy cup. He's gotten good at doing things one handed over the past three years so it's not that much of a hindrance but she's just clinging to him so tightly.

He can't blame her for being exhausted. Today was miserable. And long. Really long. It took a lot out of all of them. He's worried that tonight maybe wasn't the best time to have that conversation. All he did was answer her questions but he doesn't want to fuck this up. He's terrified of messing this up. Filling her full of all this scary shit that she doesn't know how to handle. She's just...so little. She never even had a chance to have a happy, griefless childhood.

Dean hands her the sippy cup full of water and she reluctantly unwinds an arm from around his neck to take it from him. ''Thank you,'' she whispers, taking a small sip.

He smiles softly, smoothing her messy hair back. ''You need anything else?''

She shrugs and then takes another sip before deciding, ''I don't want Sharkie to be lonely.''

''Good idea,'' he says seriously. ''Let's go get Sharkie.''

He doesn't bother trying to get her to sleep in her own bed. He puts her down on the ground in her room, much to her annoyance, and helps her gather up whatever she wants - a few stuffed animals, her comforter, a few books. According to the sanctimonious articles, letting her camp out in his room is enabling a bad habit and he should stick to their normal routine. He really doesn't give a shit right now. Fuck those articles. His kid just lost her mother. She can bed share until she's thirty five for all he cares. Anything he can do to help her, he will do it.

Sleep does not come easily for Mary tonight. It's painful to watch her struggle to settle because it's so clear that she is beyond tired, but she's just not allowing herself to fall asleep. He tries everything he can to help her. Lots of cuddles, he reads the books she brings in twice, takes her to the bathroom no less than four times (even though she only goes twice), they sing the alphabet song, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Wheels On the Bus, he rubs her back, he even tries rubbing her belly the way Laurel usually does, but Mary resists sleep until the last second. She finally passes out at around four in the morning, flopped over on her stomach with him rubbing her back and Sharkie tucked protectively in the crook of her arm.

Dean, however, does not get any sleep. He keeps rubbing her back for a good ten minutes even after she's asleep before drawing his hand back. She stirs and makes the tiniest whimpering noise in her sleep before opening her eyes and rasping out, ''Daddy?''

''I'm right here.'' He instinctively takes a hold of her hand, rubbing circles on the back of it with his thumb. ''I'm right here, Mary. You're okay.''

She drops back into slumber quite quickly and he lets out a breath. And that is why he hasn't gotten up. He keeps thinking that he might as well give up on sleep and go have a shower and make some coffee, maybe make some breakfast for the girls so they'll have something to eat when they wake up, but he knows he's not going to be able to leave the room. He might be able to get away with it once she's in a deeper sleep, but not now. He stays in bed with her for over two hours, watching her sleep and listening to her breathing. It's not the worst. He thinks the night would have been unbearable without her here. The pain is still there, right on top of his chest, but the burden of grief is somehow less when she's here.

Finally, at about six in the morning, he decides to chance it and get out of bed. He moves as slowly as he can, pausing each time he feels like he jostles the bed too much. Mary, thankfully, doesn't stir. He tip toes out of the bedroom and, as quietly as he can, makes his way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

He manages to get the coffee brewing just fine. It's when he's standing in front of the open fridge, staring at all the leftover casseroles and deli trays from the wake and trying to decide if he's hungry, that he hears it. The kitchen door swings open. He tenses up and closes his eyes, holding his breath.

Oh, crap.

He cringes and then turns his head to the doorway.

There's his little insomniac. Mary is standing there, blanket trailing behind her, with this look of sheer betrayal on her face.

He sighs and closes the fridge. ''Mary - ''

''You left,'' she accuses. ''You said you wouldn't leave.''

''I...'' He blinks. ''Honey, I just went to make some coffee.''

She ignores that flimsy excuse, stomping farther into the kitchen with a scowl. She crawls into the breakfast nook, tugging her blanket into her lap. She looks out of it, rubbing at her eyes groggily and sniffling.

Dean glances longingly at the coffee, and then takes a seat across from her. ''Mary,'' he says, possibly too quiet for her to hear. ''Mary Bea.'' He reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

She blinks, rubs at her nose, and then crumples and starts weeping. At first, she tries to hide it by rubbing at her eyes but she's too tired. She lays her head down on the table and pulls her blanket over her head, letting out these miserable, gulping sobs.

He doesn't know if she's crying because she's upset he left her alone in the bedroom or just because she's that overtired. He's going to guess, since she's only had two hours of sleep, it's the latter. Either way, the sound of her heartbroken sobs is like a knife to the heart. With any other kid, his first idea would be to get them in the car and let them sleep it off on a long drive. That shit ain't gonna fly with Mary Bea. She'll just puke and scream her head off. Some fresh air, though, might not be the worst idea.

''All right.'' He gets to his feet and scoops both her and her blanket into his arms. ''Come on, honeybee. Let's go watch the sunrise.'' The weather in Star City in early April isn't freezing but it's not warm either so he gets her bundled up in a sweater and lets her put a hat on. She whines and protests when he makes her put on socks but other than that, she doesn't ask any questions. She just keeps a tight grip on both him and the precious horse blanket that her mother lovingly and painstakingly made for her.

He makes sure to grab a cup of coffee for himself and some fresh water for her and then they step out onto the back porch. Outside, the sky is just beginning to lighten. It's chilly but calm and quiet, aside from the birds that are already chirping away in the apple tree. Mary is so tired that she pretty much settles instantly once he's got her up in his lap with her blanket draped over her. He leans in close to murmur in her good ear, ''You okay?''

She nods, takes the hat that she insisted on wearing off her head, and snuggles into his chest. He looks down at her, watching her gaze sleepily follow the birds as they fly back and forth between the apple tree in their backyard and the lemon tree in the Denton's backyard. It doesn't take long for her to give in to sleep. Less than twenty minutes after stepping foot outside, she's fast asleep, curled into his chest, wrapped in one of her mom's sweaters that still smells like her, leaving Dean to his coffee and the sunrise.

This is not the first time he and Mary have watched the sunrise together. She is not generally an early riser but she is notoriously hard to get to sleep. Fresh air usually manages to do the trick. Normally, though, this was Laurel's thing. He's taken the morning shift before, sat in this very spot with a restless toddler, but most of the time, this was Laurel's thing. He did the nights. She was the morning person. Even after she became the Black Canary and started having more and more late nights, she was still a morning person. He'll have to take over now. He'll have to do it all.

He looks at the black birds in the apple tree, watching them land on the branches and then fly back up into the sky. He looks up at the sky, the faint streaks of pinkish orange and the calm glow settling over the neighborhood. It's not that beautiful. Sunrises lose their cool factor when you've lost someone. They just become yet another reminder that you're about to be forced to go through another miserable day without your loved one. He takes a sip of his coffee. At least the coffee in this house will always be strong enough now. He closes his eyes briefly, and then looks down at his daughter.

That night in the hospital, Laurel kept telling him to go home and get some rest. ''I'll be fine,'' she told him. ''I'm just going to sleep. You should try to get some sleep too. There's nothing you can do here.''

He flat out refused. Kept telling her there was no way in hell he was leaving her alone. Nothing she said to him could make him move. One of the last things he said to her was a promise. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' he said, ''until we can leave this place together.''

It was not a promise he could keep. It was out of his hands. But he can keep the promise he made Mary and he can keep the promise he made Laurel while he was sitting next to her in the silence she left behind, holding her hand.

He will not leave their girl alone here.

That's what Laurel would have wanted. It's the one thing he knows for sure. She would have wanted him to stay for Mary. She would have wanted them to be together. He doesn't want to disappoint her. He wants to do what she would have done. Make the choices she would have made. The ones his father should have made, but didn't. He wants to do what's best for Mary. He wants to be able to at least give her pieces of her mom in the decisions he makes. He doesn't want to be his father. All he can do is hope that he's not letting Mary or Laurel down with the choices he makes from here on out.

He and Laurel couldn't walk out of that hospital together, but he and Mary can walk this life together. In this brand new life of overwhelming absence and sorrow, that will have to be enough.

.

.

.

November, 2016

The drive to the bunker is the second longest drive of his life.

They live too far away from downtown. It's such a ridiculously mundane thing to think about given the situation but it's easier to drum up frustration for the length of the drive and the red lights he keeps running than it is to acknowledge that his wife is dying.

Again.

He is trying his best to stay calm for Laurel because he knows she's terrified and in a lot of pain but he can't do this again. It's selfish to be thinking that when she's the one this is happening to but he can't. He watched her die once. He refuses to do it again.

Laurel vomits twice more on the way there, still mostly blood, and then she starts to drift. He can tell she's getting foggy because he keeps trying to keep her talking, saying her name, asking her questions, and her answers are quickly becoming incoherent. For the first ten minutes or so, she is completely aware of what's happening. She writhes in pain, desperately trying to find a comfortable position to sit in, curled up in a ball, leaning forward to white knuckle the dashboard, and finally just tiredly slumped against the door, clutching the blanket he draped around her shoulders. She cries out every time the car goes over a bump, holding her side like she's trying to keep her insides from falling out.

However, her body doesn't have an unlimited amount of strength, especially not under this much stress. Not to mention the dehydration and the blood loss. Shock sets in rapidly and she gets quieter and quieter, cries and moans dying down to soft whimpers until she can no longer verbalize how she's feeling.

By the time the elevator doors open to the bunker, she is limp and non-responsive in his arms and all he keeps thinking is what if the drive cost her too much time?

Sara, standing with John and Felicity over by the bank of computers, is the first one to see them when the doors open and he watches the expression on her face go from confused and mildly concerned to horrified as soon as she lays eyes on her sister.

''Oh my god!'' Felicity is the one who voices their seemingly collective terror as Dean carefully places Laurel on the stretcher they've got set up. ''Oh god, Laurel.'' Instantly, without a second of hesitation, she grabs onto Laurel's hand, holding onto her friend tightly with both hands. She looks at Dean with wide eyes. ''I thought you were just coming in for IV fluids.''

''Fluids would be good,'' Dean says, surprised by how scarily calm his voice sounds. ''Oxygen would be better.'' He looks down at Laurel, ghost white and sweating profusely. He reaches out to touch her, cupping her face briefly before bringing his fingers to her neck to check her pulse. It's there, but it's weak and thready. He is dimly aware of Sara asking why she's covered in blood and what's happening but he's too focused on Laurel to answer.

When he touches her face, she makes this barely audible moaning noise and even though it looks like it takes every ounce of her energy, she manages to open her eyes. Sort of. Her eyes are barely open and she looks so out of it that he's not sure if she's really seeing him but he still plasters on his best comforting smile for her because that's his job. He tunes out the fifteen different questions coming at him from all different directions and leans down to brush hair out of her face. ''Hey there, pretty bird.'' He takes her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. ''I'm right here with you. Are you still with me?''

She doesn't answer. With how shallow and wheezy her breathing is, he's not sure she can. He glances up, catching sight of John hauling over an oxygen kit. ''Laur.'' He looks back down at her, instantly tightening his grip on her hand when he sees her head loll to the size and the glazed over look in her eyes. ''Hey, hey, hey, baby, I need you to stay with me. I know you're tired but I need you here. John's going to put an oxygen mask on your face,'' he says gently. ''We need to get you breathing better, okay? You know the drill. We've been here before. Don't be scared.''

She attempts a tiny nod just as John places the mask over her face. Despite the explanation and the nod of what seemed like consent, she still fusses and there's a spark of fear in her eyes when the mask goes over her nose and mouth. Her body jerks and Dean instinctively presses the hand that isn't holding hers to her shoulder to gently but firmly hold her down. ''I know,'' he soothes. ''I know it's scary. You're okay. I'm right here. Sara's right here.'' There's a bone deep kind of ache that comes along with seeing the fear in her eyes and hearing her frightened little sob from behind the mask, but at least she's still here enough to feel the fear.

''Deep breaths, Laurel,'' John coaches softly. ''Through your nose not your mouth.''

''You've got this,'' Sara's voice pipes up. She leans in close to her sister, nearly crowding Dean out of the way. ''You've done this before,'' she whispers, stroking Laurel's hair. ''You're a pro at oxygen masks.''

Laurel struggles with the mask for a minute or two but eventually does get in a few breaths and then a few more. Sara seems to have snapped out of whatever shock she was in because she starts murmuring encouragements, telling Laurel what a great job she's doing and coaching her through breathing.

Dean keeps his hand in Laurel's and stays rooted to his spot, right next to her, where she can see him. He doesn't want to leave her. He wants to stay where she can see him because that's what he does. When she was in the hospital with a ruptured appendix, she kept her eyes closed while she was in the emergency room and they were running tests and loading her up with pain meds. He made a point to be there every time she opened her eyes because he didn't want her to feel scared. When she was in labor, she squeezed her eyes shut tight during every contraction and every time she pushed, and every single time she opened her eyes, he was right there. Even in the hospital that night in April, he made sure that he was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

He doesn't want to leave her when her eyes are closed. He wants to make sure he'll be there when she opens them.

He looks up at John and swallows down a sigh before leaning down to whisper in Laurel's ear. ''I need to talk with John for a minute. I promise I'm not leaving you. I'll be right over there. Sara's here with you. She's not going anywhere.''

She makes a barely audible moan-like nose but nods. He gives her hand a squeeze before touching his hand to Sara's shoulder briefly and then stepping away over to where John and Felicity are waiting to interrogate him.

He doesn't give them a chance. ''Did you send Oliver to get Mattie Moretti?''

Felicity gapes at him incredulously. ''Um... Care to share with the class why Laurel is covered in blood and looks like she's - '' She stops, abruptly, clamping her mouth shut. She can't say the words. ''What's happening? Is she going to be okay?''

''You need to tell us what's going on,'' John orders. ''I need to know if I'm going to help her.''

Dean repeats the question. ''Did you send Oliver to get - ''

''Yes,'' Felicity interjects. She glances between them, nervous. ''He's on his way to the safe house now. What does the Moretti kid have to do with - ''

''Laurel's dehydrated,'' Dean cuts in. ''She's lost a lot of blood, she's in a lot of pain, and she has a fever. I need you to get some fluids in her and get the fever down.''

''Dean.'' John's voice is tense. ''What is this? What's going on?''

''It's the spell.'' He's still surprised by how calm his voice is. He might be in a bit of shock himself.

John and Felicity look at each other. The looks on their faces tell him that they are currently trying to figure out if he has lost his mind, if he's telling the truth, or if they've possibly got a case of Munchausen by Proxy on their hands. ''It's...'' John sighs and rubs at his temple but ultimately decides to believe him. ''All right. What does that mean? How can we help?''

''Dean!''

He spins around at the sound of Sara's panicked shout and his heart plummets. There is a split second where he doesn't quite understand what he's seeing and then he realizes quite swiftly - oh, shit, Laurel's seizing. He takes off running, reaching her side seconds before John. To her credit, Sara has not frozen up the way she did that first day. She's already ripped the oxygen mask off her sister's face to keep her from injuring herself.

''Get her on her side,'' Dean advises, maneuvering his wife's tense, twitching body onto her side with help from John. ''Keep your hands away from her mouth.''

With a seizure, there's not much he can do for her but wait it out and try to let her know that he's here with her. He can't even hold her hand. The sound of it is the worst part. People don't tell you that. Watching her body jerk and twitch uncontrollably, muscles stiffened up and rigid is a wrenching experience, but the gurgling sound is worse. It's all an instant flashback to April 6th. For a long time, this was the last image he had of her alive. This is where she left him. He doesn't want it to be the last image of her he has again.

The seizure lasts one minute and forty-six seconds. He knows that because John times it. Could be worse. The moment it's over, the very second her body goes boneless, Dean all but lurches forward to grab her hand. They wouldn't let him do this in April. They wouldn't let him get to her. ''Laurel,'' he tries. ''Honey, I'm right here. You're okay.'' The only sign she gives him that she's still with him is a weak squeeze. ''I know that was miserable,'' he murmurs. ''But you made it through. You did so good.''

If she was out of it before, she's completely lost in a fog now.

''It's the fever,'' Sara says. ''It has to be. She is burning up.'' She looks up, eyes landing on Felicity. ''Felicity, we need damp washcloths. Not too hot and not too cold.''

''Does anyone have any ibuprofen?'' John asks. ''Felicity?'' No answer. ''Felicity.''

She jumps, tearing her distressed gaze away from Laurel. ''Oh, um, yes. I - I have Motrin.''

''Get it,'' he orders shortly. ''And get the Tylenol from the bathroom too,'' he adds before turning his focused gaze back to Dean. ''How dehydrated is she? When's the last time she had any water?''

''She's thrown up everything in her system,'' Dean says with a shake of his head. ''She's got nothing left.''

''Then she needs fluids,'' John says. ''When did she last throw up? I think we have some Zofran. Might make her more comfortable.''

''Whoa, wait,'' Sara looks back and forth between John and Dean. ''Is it the best idea to be pumping an addict in recovery full of drugs?''

''Zofran is fine,'' says Dean. ''Her doctor prescribed it to her after - '' He stops, biting down on his tongue. After she was released from the hospital in February of 2014. It was to help with the prolonged nausea Laurel was dealing with from detoxing. That's not information any of these people have been privy to. He looks down at Laurel. There's blood bubbling on her lips again. ''Zofran is fine,'' he says again. ''It should help.'' Once John and Sara have both reluctantly moved away to gather up supplies, Dean gently - and as quickly as possible - checks to make sure that she didn't bite through her tongue or hurt herself in any way during the seizure before wiping the blood away with the edge of the blanket.

Laurel looks bad. He can tell by the way she keeps weakly squeezing his hand that she's still awake and at least somewhat aware of what's going on, but she doesn't look good. She must be completely wiped out. Her body has been put through hell. Not just tonight but every day since she got back. Tonight is the worst of it and he can't imagine the level of pain she must be feeling, but he knows how sick she's been feeling these past couple of weeks. She just kept shrugging it off. Slogged through normal life even though her body has literally been breaking down.

She's been in pain this whole time and she's still been chasing after Mary, comforting everyone else, laughing at his dumb jokes. She took down four men yesterday afternoon. He can't fathom the amount of strength that takes. But she's always been the strong one in this relationship. He could never compare.

He places the oxygen mask back over her mouth and nose, bending down to kiss her sweaty forehead. ''I know it hurts, but you're doing amazing right now,'' he encourages. ''I just need you to keep being strong. You can do that, right, Canary?''

She cracks her eyes open to look at him. He swears, for a brief second, she actually manages to smirk at him. She relaxes, closing her eyes again and mumbling something from behind the mask that sounds suspiciously like, ''Kiss ass.''

He laughs, bringing her hand up so he can kiss the back of it. ''Always.'' He listens to her breaths behind the oxygen mask, wheezing and desperate but still strong enough to be comforting. ''Try to get some rest,'' he advises.

He waits until Felicity has rushed back with a few damp towels before he ducks away to catch John alone. ''Do you have anything down here for sedation?''

There is a lengthy pause before John says, ''Nothing she can have.''

''Okay, well, what do you have?'' Dean asks. ''She's exhausted,'' he gestures over to her. ''Her body's too worn out to go through another seizure. She needs to get some sleep.'' He doesn't love the option he's proposing. He would rather not dose his recovering addict wife.

''All we have here is midazolam. It's a - ''

''Benzo. I know. Can you safely administer it?''

''I'm not a doctor.''

''But you have it.''

John pinches his lips together. ''Look, I can't give Laurel a benzodiazepine,'' he says. ''Not without her consent.''

''Fair enough,'' Dean says, and then spins on his heel and goes back to his wife. He's harsher than he needs to be when he tells Felicity he's taking over and shoos her away, but he figures he can apologize later. She doesn't like him anyway. It's not like he's ruining any illusions she had about him being a good guy.

Laurel looks... Not better, but not worse. The oxygen seems to be helping at least a little. She still looks like she's in pain, lying on her side and grimacing, but she's breathing easier. He drags over a chair and takes a seat next to her, picking up the damp washcloths Felicity left behind. Laurel forces open her eyes to look at him when he drapes one of them over her neck and he gives her the best smile he can muster. ''Hi, gorgeous.''

Even from behind the oxygen mask, she lets out a quiet snort.

''Yeah, yeah,'' he smirks, moving another damp cloth to her forehead. ''I know. I'm a kiss ass.'' He scoots the chair closer and lifts up her shirt to check on her scar. So far there's been no change. Still alarmingly red and swollen, it's possible she's bleeding internally, and it must hurt like a bitch, but it hasn't burst open yet. He needs to find some way to help her before it does. He lowers her shirt and reaches out to lay a hand on her neck, subtly checking her pulse once more. ''How are you feeling?''

All she does is shake her head.

''Listen, Laur.'' He takes her hand in his again, leaning in close to her to give them more privacy. ''Your body's been through a lot tonight. I'm sure you must be tired. And I know how hard it is to rest when you're in this much pain. So how about we help you out?''

He can tell just by the look in her eyes that she understands what he's suggesting. Weakly, she reaches up to remove the oxygen mask. ''Sedation?''

''Not for long,'' he says.

''With - With what?''

''Midazolam.'' Judging by the look on her face, she knows exactly what that is. ''We're talking about the lowest dose possible,'' he hurries to add. ''Just enough to give your body a break.''

She sniffles and puts the mask back over her mouth and nose, closing her eyes.

''This is not a relapse,'' he says lowly, firmly. ''You'll be monitored. Someone will be by your side the entire time you're out. We'll figure out the rest from there.''

She pulls down the mask again but doesn't open her eyes to look at him. ''Will I...'' She swallows. ''Will I even wake up?''

His instinct is to tell her that she will. He wants to be able to scoff and tell her, incredulously, that of course she will, why would she ever think otherwise? He can't do that. If the spell is already this badly frayed, what's to keep it from completely disintegrating in a matter of minutes? For all he knows, she might have a few days left or she might have less than an hour. There's no way to tell with this. This isn't medical. There are no concrete answers.

''I don't know,'' he admits quietly. ''You won't be in pain anymore.'' It doesn't seem like enough of a comfort. Not when she doesn't want to go. Not when she didn't even know this was something that could happen only hours ago. He should have told her. He should have prepared her for this. ''I'm sorry I didn't tell you,'' he says. ''I should have. It's your body. You had the right to...'' He trails off. ''I didn't think it was going to get this bad so fast. I thought I had time to find a way to fix this.''

She doesn't say anything but she squeezes his hand once more and drags her heavy eyelids open to look at him. She doesn't look angry, but it's hard to tell. Maybe she just doesn't want to die mad at him. She pulls the mask back down again and croaks out a quiet but firm, ''Do it.''

''Are you sure?''

''I'm tired,'' she rasps. ''It hurts.''

He tries not to think too much about that. ''Okay.'' He looks back over at John, managing to catch his eye and give him a quick nod. ''Do you know what we're going to do?'' He lowers his voice so he's talking just to her and leans in even closer. ''When all of this is over, we're gonna move,'' he proposes. ''How does that sound?''

She nods as eagerly as she can.

There's a spark in her eyes. He tries to look at that light for as long as possible. Tries to memorize it. Just in case. He didn't get the chance to do that last time. He wants to remember that light. ''We're getting the hell out of this city,'' he declares, pulling his lips back into a smile. ''We'll buy a farm.''

She looks dubious about that. ''A - A farm?''

''Maybe not a farm,'' he amends. ''But something with a lot of land. An acreage. With a view of the Puget Sound because you love the water. And lots of trees. I mean, I want it full of greenery,'' he emphasizes. ''I want to be surrounded by trees. We're going to live in the woods, baby. With tons of room for your garden and the dog we're eventually going to have to get Mary and maybe even an apple tree. So it feels like home.''

She takes in a few deep breaths and then moves the mask once more. ''And a big backyard,'' she mumbles tiredly. ''For the kids to play in.''

''That...'' The plurality is not lost on him. ''That sounds good. Anything you want. Everything you want. Just name it. I'll get it for you.'' It's a bold promise, one he won't be able to keep, and he knows that. They don't have the money to buy an acreage in the woods with a view of the Sound. They can barely afford their cramped house in a ''cheap'' neighborhood of Star City. But if she makes it through this, if they somehow both get out of this alive and they're free to go back to their lives, then fuck it. He'll get her that fucking house if they have to declare bankruptcy and rob a bank to do it. If she wants a garden, he'll get her a garden. If she likes the apple tree in their backyard, he will make sure they always have an apple tree in the backyard of whatever house they're living in. If she wants more kids, he'll give her more kids. He will raise a whole damn football team if she wants one.

''I just want you,'' she says hoarsely. ''You and Mary. You're all I want.''

''You've got us,'' he assures her.

She smiles. ''I'm glad.''

''You're going to wake up,'' he finally tells her. ''You're going to get some sleep, your body's going to recharge, and then you're going to wake up and keep fighting because that's what we do. We fight.''

''I know,'' she nods. ''I know.''

''I will fix this. I promise.'' It's another big promise he shouldn't be making when he has no idea if he's going to be able to keep it, but how can he not? He has to give her something.

''If you don't,'' she whispers. ''If you can't...'' She licks her dry lips. ''Can you just… Can you make sure Mary knows I tried? Make sure she knows how much I love her.''

''I will.'' He clenches his jaw, bending down to kiss her forehead. ''I swear.''

A single dose of midazolam takes about five minutes to kick in when it's given through an IV. It takes Laurel less than three minutes to drift off. She manages to take the Motrin with a tiny sip of water and they give her a few minutes just to make sure it doesn't come back up before the IV line is prepped. She doesn't look afraid when they're preparing the IV line, doesn't even wince when the needle goes in, but there's a look in her eyes - a familiar glazed over look - that he doesn't like. He knows that her body needs rest but he's not confident with the decision to drug her. It's over and done with and they'll have to deal with the repercussions later, but there is a stab of regret in his gut as he watches her nod off.

The look on Sara's face tells him she's feeling the same pangs of regret and concern.

Alive and relapsing is still alive, as callous as that may sound. They can handle a relapse. It's the alive part they need to work on.

Dean does not let go of Laurel's hand until he's sure she's asleep, waiting patiently until he feels her grip go slack before he lets go.

He turns his attention to Sara. She's standing on Laurel's other side, eerily silent, holding her sister's hand in a death grip. She doesn't say anything for the longest time. Just stares at Laurel's face for a minute or two before she starts fussing with the blanket. She fixes Laurel's hair so it's not caught in the oxygen mask, rests her hand on Laurel's forehead to check her temperature, fixes the washcloths, and then she looks up. Right at him.

Even Dean has to admit that of all the gruesome horror movie bullshit he's seen, the sight of Sara Lance glaring at him is one of the more intimidating sights he's seen in awhile. This girl is all grit and steel and wild protectiveness.

''You,'' her voice is cool and hushed. ''Start. Talking.''

Dean never even has the chance.

''Magic has consequences.''

Sara stills for a brief second and then whirls around to face Cas. He's standing there behind her, eyes on Laurel. He looks tired - probably because they've woken him up in the middle of the night - and he looks worried, but he also looks calm. A steady kind of calm. He takes in the sight before him with a tilted head and then his eyes seek out Dean.

Dean can't take the look in his friend's eyes for too long before he has to look away. They both knew this was going to happen. They both knew the spell was unstable, that it was going to break sooner or later. The difference is that Dean has obsessively, almost hysterically, been trying to ignore that. Cas hasn't. Cas has buried himself under piles of research and lore, made phone call after phone call to witches all over the world trying to find a way out of this, reached out to every single contact the Winchesters have. He is the one who has been trying to save Laurel. The look in his eyes isn't pity. It's sorrow. Dean leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. Still, he's glad he's here. He doesn't have the fortitude to spew out all the necessary exposition for these people. He's been so focused on Laurel that he barely remembered to put on clothes and shoes before they left the house, Thea had to remind him to take his keys, and he straight up forgot a jacket. And he thinks there's a jam stain on this shirt from Mary. …He hopes it's jam.

Cas can handle this part. He can probably do it without being a snappy asshole too. ''The spell used to bring her back was done incorrectly,'' he says plainly. ''It's dissolving.''

''Dissolving,'' Felicity echoes, screwing her face up. ''Witchcraft can dissolve?''

''They meant to bring her back as a shell,'' Cas says. He looks at Laurel, concerned. ''They didn't. They brought her back whole. Laurel's continued existence as Laurel - our Laurel - is accidental. The spell isn't advanced enough to keep both her body and her soul here indefinitely.''

''So, that...'' Sara stops. She looks at Laurel. ''That means - ''

''She'll die,'' Dean says bluntly. ''She'll keep getting weaker and sicker and when the spell eventually splits apart, she'll die.''

He looks away before he can see Sara's reaction. He doesn't need to see it to know. He still remembers that day in May when she showed up on his doorstep, agonized and hysterical, begging him to tell her that what her father had told her was wrong and that Laurel was alive. That was enough for a lifetime. He doesn't need to watch her lose her again. ''She didn't tell me,'' he hears her say. ''She didn't tell me about any of this.''

He leans back in his chair, absently spinning his wedding ring.

Cas is looking at him with that aggravating all-knowing look in his eyes. He doesn't look like he's about to cup his hands over his mouth and yell out I told you so at the top of his lungs, but there is a certain degree of exasperation on his face. He looks like he can feel the guilt rolling off Dean in waves.

Dean sighs heavily. ''She didn't know,'' he says, looking back over to Sara just as she snaps her head up to look at him.

''You didn't tell her?'' She sounds unexpectedly chill with that.

Felicity does not. ''You didn't tell your wife she was dying?!''

''No,'' his response is measured. ''I didn't.''

''I wouldn't have told her either.'' All eyes go to Sara. She shrugs, completely unapologetic. ''I'm not exactly Queen of Healthy Life Choices,'' she admits. ''But... I wouldn't have told her either.'' She looks at Dean and attempts a smile but ultimately fails.

''It's her body,'' Felicity says.

''I'm aware of that,'' is the terse response.

''Doesn't matter now,'' John says. ''What's done is done.'' He turns his attention to Cas. ''What can we do? How do we fix this? There has to be a way to stop the deterioration of the...'' He pauses and gestures awkwardly. ''Spell.'' He seems to have a hard time getting that one out. Team Arrow in general hasn't handled this whole witchcraft thing with a lot of tact. Suppose that's understandable.

Cas is quiet for a moment, looking over at Dean with apology in his eyes for a moment before he says, ''There's not.''

Dean shuts his eyes briefly, jaw clenching. He feels like he should be having a stronger reaction to that but he's... It's not a surprise.

''I'm sorry,'' Cas says. ''I've looked. The only thing I was told could possibly work is if we temporarily extract her soul from her body.''

''No,'' Sara's voice is a fierce snarl. She's already shaking her head, moving to stand in front of Laurel protectively. It's not hard to understand why she's so against the idea. She has never talked about the short period of time she was without her own soul. She apologized profusely to Thea about what she did to her, she asked about the girls she killed, and it has always been clear that whatever she was going through while her body was going on a killing spree scarred her, but she hasn't talked about it. Not with anyone. Sam made an attempt to reach out to her, tell her that he understood and that he was there for her if she ever wanted to talk, but she shut him down. Told him she just wanted to ''forget.'' It's easy to grasp why she would be dead set against her sister having to go through that. ''No, we can't,'' she says. ''We can't do that to her. It's not happening.''

''How...'' Dean frowns. He runs a hand over his face. He can't bring himself to look at Sara. ''How would that even work?''

''I sent the specifications of the spell to Max and Alicia Banes,'' Cas says. ''They told me that if we remove her soul and force the spell to do what it was designed to do, there's a chance it could stabilize her body while we try to find a way to strengthen the spell permanently. But – ''

''We're not taking her soul,'' Sara bursts out.

''We're not,'' Dean assures her.

''It's not a viable option at the moment,'' Cas continues, completely ignoring the interruption. ''Too many unknowns. We have no way to safely remove her soul. I don't know how we would contain her soul to keep it from moving on. I don't know how long she would have to be without her soul, and we have no idea what she would be like. The best case scenario is that she goes catatonic. She would be easy to control but she would need around the clock care. The worst case scenario is - ''

''She ends up feral,'' Sara says. ''Like I was.''

''Sara,'' Dean says. ''It's not happening.''

''With her powers as strong and uncontrolled as they are, she would be a ticking time bomb,'' Cas says. Which is harsh. But not untrue. ''I don't know if we would even be equipped to keep her here. Even if she doesn't go feral or catatonic, there is no guarantee we could hold her. She's smart. And manipulative.''

''Hey,'' Felicity protests, frowning deeply in offense on Laurel's behalf.

''No, he's right,'' Dean says. ''She is. She's a lawyer. It's literally her job.''

''A rogue Black Canary is not something we want,'' Cas confirms. ''She could do a lot of damage without her soul. It's...'' He stops, quite abruptly, and cuts his eyes to Dean.

It's not worth the risk, is what he was going to say.

Dean looks at Cas for a second before looking back to Laurel. She looks small lying there unconscious with an oxygen mask strapped to her face. It's a relief that she's not writhing in pain anymore, but it's a small relief. Cas is right. It's not worth the risk. A tough thing to admit, but that's the truth. Even if removing her soul did help her, it's too dangerous. She would be unpredictable. She would be a threat to the entire city.

She would never give her consent to have her soul removed if she knew she could hurt people. Soul extraction is what this Siobhan chick wants anyway. She wants Laurel to be compliant so she can mold her into a weapon. There is no fucking way he's going to just give her what she wants.

''Then there has to be something else,'' Sara says. ''This can't be - We can't just watch her die.''

''Where's Mattie Moretti?'' Cas asks, jumping in before Dean can say a word.

''Oliver has him,'' says Felicity. ''He's on his way here with him right now.''

Cas gives a curt nod. ''Good. I don't know how much power he has but he's a member of the family that cast the spell. If nothing else, he may know more about this spell than we do.''

Dean's eyes flick upward. ''If we could get a more powerful Moretti here, would that help?''

Cas doesn't answer the question, but he does say, very carefully, ''Do we know where they are?''

That's answer enough. Dean is on his feet in an instant. He doesn't feel as tired anymore. ''Sara,'' he looks over at her. ''Call your father and tell him to get down here as soon as he can.''

''She's not going to want him to see her like this.''

''Sara,'' he locks eyes with her. ''Call your father.'' There may be no love lost between him and his father in law but Quentin missed his chance to say goodbye once. If that happens a second time, it would kill the old man. Dean has no intention of letting that happen.

Sara seems to get the hint because she pales and pinches her lips together, but she still fishes her phone out with shaking hands and dials her father's number.

Dean turns to John. ''When she wakes up, give her the Zofran and fluids. Your Tylenol has codeine in it. Do not give that to her. Just push the fluids, the Motrin, and keep up with the damp towels. Put them on her forehead and her wrists.'' He waits until he gets a brisk nod in response before turning his attention to Felicity. ''Make sure she has a change of clothes for when she wakes up?''

She nods, but the second he starts to turn away, she lunges at him. ''Wait, Dean!'' She grabs onto his wrist. ''Where are you going?''

''She needs a stronger Moretti witch. I'm going to get one.''

Cas frowns deeply at that. ''Dean - ''

''You can't just leave her,'' Felicity insists. ''She needs you here. She's sick. You're her husband.''

''This won't take long.''

''But what if - ''

He doesn't let her finish that sentence. ''You got Queen in your ear?''

She blinks in shock, eyes widening as she steps back and brings a hand up to her ear.

In all honesty, Dean couldn't care less if Oliver's been listening in. That's so far removed from being one of his biggest problems that it doesn't even register. ''He's with Mattie?''

''He... Yes.''

''Good. Patch the kid through to my phone.'' He doesn't wait for a response from her. He turns, catching Sara's eye briefly. ''You two,'' he looks between her and Cas. ''Do not leave her side.'' Then he heads for the elevator.

Mattie said that his mother, grandmother, and sister had a lot of power. Marlene and Hanna, at least, were both at the graveyard the night they brought Laurel back. They know what happened. They know what went wrong. He's hoping that means they know how to fix this. Or stabilize her somehow until they can find a way to fix this. At the very least, he's hoping they can take the pain away.

He makes it all the way to the elevator and then Cas is there, blocking the door from shutting with his foot. ''I'm going with you.''

''No, you're not.''

''You can't go after them alone.''

''I'll be fine. I need you here,'' he says sternly. ''You're the only other person who knows what's happening to her.''

''Dean.''

''Cas, no.'' It comes out sharper than intended. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. ''Okay, look.'' He looks over Cas' shoulder at Laurel. ''We had to give her a benzo to help her sleep,'' he says. ''It was a low dose and she'll probably be fine, but I don't know if she'll...'' He stops. ''I need you to watch her. Don't let them give her another dose. You're the only one I trust with this.''

It may be a line but it is also true. No one else in this room is aware of how bad things got with her or how fragile her sobriety really is. Cas is. He was there during the worst of it. He can take care of her. And if it keeps him out of harm's way in the process, even better. Sometimes he thinks Cas forgets that he's not an angel anymore.

''Like you said,'' Dean says softly. ''She's manipulative. Addicts always are.''

Cas looks at him for a moment, and then he narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side, staring at Dean intently for a moment. Most likely because he is not a moron and knows perfectly well that he's being worked over. But he steps back, away from the elevator doors, and doesn't look like he's going to stop him. ''I hope you know what you're doing.''

''If it makes you feel better, send Sam after me when he gets here.''

''But I don't know where you're going to - ''

The elevator doors close, cutting off the rest of his sentence. A huge relief considering Dean has no idea how to alleviate those particular concerns. He has no idea where he's going. He doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to find the other Morettis. He's hoping Mattie will be able to give him some sort of lead. They've already swept the ''Denton'' family home. He knows for a fact ARGUS did too. Everything seemed completely normal. No clothes missing, dishes in the sink, fridge full of food, mug of cold coffee on the dining room table, even a plate with half-eaten scrambled eggs on the kitchen counter. It looked like they left in a hurry and then just vanished.

If Mattie can't help, they're fucked.

He sighs, closing his eyes and fighting back a grimace. There is Plan B. That was put into motion shortly after Mattie was whisked away to the safe house yesterday. He doesn't love Plan B, but his hand has been forced. It's an unpredictable and dangerous plan, but Laurel was adamant that it was a valid option for tracking down and bringing in the Moretti family. Even with that plan in place, he doesn't have time to sit around and wait for someone else to do his dirty work for him. He needs to find these witches.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he fishes it out, answering with a rough, ''Yeah?''

''Dean?''

''Hey, kid,'' He tries to keep his voice calm and light when talking to Mattie. ''Oliver's not being too much of a pain in the ass, is he?''

There's a long silence on the other end of the line before Mattie audibly lets out a breath and asks, ''How bad is Laurel?''

Dean licks his lips slowly. ''Bad.'' For now, he tries to breeze right past it. ''When's the last time you saw your family?''

''I saw Hanna yesterday morning before Dad and Ricky asked for my help with...'' He trails off. ''It's - It's been a couple days since I saw Mom and Gran. They haven't been at home. They've been with Siobhan.''

''You and your family have been on the run before. What do you do if you get separated?''

''My mom and Gran would do a locator spell.''

''How long would it take you to do one of those?''

''I... I don't know.'' Mattie sounds anxious just thinking about it. ''I've never done one by myself. I don't have any of the ingredients. I don't know if I can remember the words or - ''

''All right,'' Dean cuts in. ''Calm down. Look, is there anywhere specific your family would go? Any kind of protocol you follow? What's familiar to them? Where would they feel safe?''

''Uh...''

Dean bites down on his tongue to keep from rushing Mattie along. Oliver does not. He can hear Dollar Store Robin Hood trying to hurry up and intimidate the kid into spitting out an answer.

''We usually make sure we're on the edge of town,'' Mattie finally says. ''In case we have to get out of dodge. We stay in cheap motels. I mean really cheap, shady, basic places. Cash only, no questions asked motels. And we always check in under my mom's maiden name. Weber.''

Now that is something Dean knows well. He can work with that. He knows cheap motels like he knows the back of his hand. ''Okay, that's good,'' he says. ''That's helpful. Good job.''

''Dean.'' Mattie's voice is hesitant. ''I'm sorry. I don't understand what's happening. I don't know what went wrong. This doesn't make any sense.''

''What are you - ''

''My Gran,'' the kid says. ''She's the one who wrote the spell that brought Laurel back. I have never seen her botch a spell in my entire life. Words do what she wants them to do. None of this makes any sense. It should have done what they wanted it to do. Even if it didn't, there's no way it should be degrading this fast.''

Dean is quiet. There is no comfort in that. It should have done what they wanted it to do. What they wanted was a shell. An empty reanimated body with powers of mass destruction that some random unidentified antagonist could use as a weapon. That spell was a violation, plain and simple. A violation that they committed without any regard for bodily autonomy or consent because they needed the money. Fuck Gran's fucking spell. He's glad the old broad screwed up. This conversation would be going in a very different direction if it had ''worked.''

He is not going to unload any of that onto Mattie Moretti. Not tonight anyway. ''Can you help her?''

Mattie waits a long time before he answers, ''I'll try.''

''Can you put Oliver on the phone?''

There's a shuffling, a rustling sound, and then, ''Dean?''

''You get all that?''

''I did.''

''Have Felicity text me a list of motels and addresses that fit the criteria.''

''This would have been easier to do,'' Oliver gripes, ''if you had taken an earpiece with you. We could've stayed in communi - ''

''You know what? Never mind. I've got my own hacker. I don't need - ''

''I'll get Felicity on it,'' Oliver interrupts, though he sounds like he's talking through clenched teeth. ''You'll have the list shortly. Wait for me before you do anything.''

''Wait for you?'' Dean laughs mockingly. ''The fuck would I do that for?''

''Do you seriously think you can just - ''

''I don't need help from some green idiot with a leather fetish and an asshole for a mouth,'' Dean snaps. ''I was doing this back when you were holed up in your bedroom listening to Rusted Root and getting drunk on your mother's Zima.''

Oliver makes a noise like he's choking on his own tongue and then sighs heavily. ''Dean - ''

''Back off, you walking piece of cardboard,'' Dean says, and then ends the call. Because, really, fuck the Green Arrow.

He pushes out into the cold air, trying his best to refocus. The sun's not up yet, won't be for at least another hour, but he needs to get a move on. This isn't something he wants to do in broad daylight, especially if the situation goes south. Unfortunately, he may not have much of a choice there. The daylight is approaching fast and even with Mattie's help, he has no idea how long it's going to take to find the Morettis. He slides into the driver's seat of the Impala and fumbles with the keys. He gets the key in the ignition but stops before he can turn it.

He's not planning on killing any witches today. He's sure this will end in a fight because these things always end in a fight, but he's not planning on getting blood on his hands right now. He needs these people alive if they're going to help Laurel and if what Mattie said was the truth then Hanna, at least, should be willing to come with him. He doesn't want to hurt them.

Maybe that's the problem people are having with him rushing off to go after the witches. Oliver and his team have made it clear that they think of him as violent and unpredictable, mostly because Oliver seems to really want that to be true and they just follow him. Even his own family have exhibited a new kind of caution around him ever since Darhk. None of these people have a leg to stand on when it comes to excessive violence, but that doesn't stop them from viewing him as some sort of scary loose cannon.

He stands by what he did to Darhk. Some bad guys just need killing. But he is not a monster, and it's starting to bother him how readily people want to buy into the idea that he's some sort of villain.

Dean lets out a breath and curls his fingers around the steering wheel. None of that is important right now. He's just trying to distract himself.

The passenger side door opens and he tries not to jump at the noise, watching as Thea climbs into the car. ''Where are we going?''

He swallows. ''Get out.''

She doesn't even flinch. ''Nope.''

''Where's my kid?''

''She's with Charlie and Nyssa.'' She tilts her head to the side and looks at him. He's not proud of this, but he's having a hard time looking her in the eye. ''Going to let me in on what the hell is happening?''

''Go inside,'' he tells her. ''They'll explain.''

''I'm asking you.'' ''Thea, I need you to get out of the car.''

''Too bad.''

He sighs, leaning his head back against the seat. There's no way he's going to get her out of this car. Thea Queen is, whether she knows it or not, a lot like her mother. He barely even knew Moira Queen. Met her once. He's still perfectly aware that Thea is her mother's daughter. She is a formidable woman. An immovable force. ''I'm going after the witches,'' he says.

She looks alarmed. ''Alone?'' Then she just looks annoyed. ''Uh-uh. No way. You need backup. I'm going with you.''

''Like hell you are,'' he snorts. ''You've never dealt with a witch before. You have no idea what you're doing.''

''And you clearly have no idea what I'm capable of.'' She smiles sweetly. ''Start the car.''

He blinks at her, mouth open like a fish.

She tosses him an impatient look. ''Come on. Let's get this show on the road. Laurel doesn't have time for this.''

He closes his mouth. He narrows his eyes. Well. How do you move an immovable force? ''We get into trouble and I tell you to run, you run. No arguments. Am I making myself clear?''

She gives him a mock salute.

Dean has a feeling he's going to regret this. He turns the ignition anyway.

.

.

.

There are five cheap ass motels on the list that Felicity texts him. Three of them are right on the edge of the Glades. One of them has been converted into a shelter for homeless youth. One of them has closed down. One of them is a drug den. This is made obvious by...everything about it, but especially by the dude out front who, after ascertaining that Dean is not a cop, looks them both up and down and says, cheerfully, ''Say... You look like you could use some heroin!''

To which Thea responds, equally cheerful, ''We're good, but thank you!''

Then she spends the entire drive to the next motel going off about how this country needs to get its shit together when it comes to the concept of safe injection sites.

After they've checked out the second to last motel on the list, she launches into another rant about how she keeps bringing up the worsening opioid crisis to her brother but he keeps shuffling it off the agenda in favor of things like the bike lanes in Orchid Bay (which have caused nothing but problems), the Black Canary statue (which got him sued), and slashing the budget for the Parks Department (which is ironic considering environmental sustainability was such a major part of his campaign platform).

She makes good points and on any other day, it would be entertaining to listen to her drag Mayor McCheese, but he's having trouble paying attention to her right now. He's trying to get all the way across town before the morning commuters start clogging up the roads.

Also, they have to drive right through Orchid Bay to get to the last motel and - fuck, does he ever hate those damn bike lanes.

It's not like she's looking for his input anyway. She's not even talking to him. She's just talking near him. Thea is mad at him. He can read that in her body language, the tone of her voice, and the way she refuses to look him in the eye. He can't blame her. They don't have time to hash it out right now so he lets it be. She's entitled to her anger, and he doesn't mind the quiet.

Nothing is truly quiet in the car, of course.

There is the worryingly fast thudding of his heart in his throat, his ears, his head, and there is the strange buzzing of electricity around his head, which suggests panic. Suggests fear. He and that slithering emotion are old pals by now. Fear has stood next to him for most of his life. This is a dizzying, sickening kind.

He's been thinking a lot about choices.

He doesn't think he often makes the right ones. Maybe it's not in his genetic makeup. Or maybe he's just a fuck up. Whichever. It doesn't matter at this point. Any way you slice it, the choices he makes always seem to end in blood, death, and self-loathing.

Years ago, right after they got married, when Laurel was pregnant, Dean decided to quit drinking. It was a choice that needed to be made. A baby didn't need a drunk for a dad, and Laurel was a mess during her pregnancy. He needed to get his shit together so he could take care of his girls. At first, he just cut back. Stopped day drinking, determinedly made a bottle of whiskey last more than a day or two, stopped at two beers with dinner. He figured he would eventually get to the point where he could stop altogether and it wouldn't be that big of a shock to his system. Then, shortly after Laurel's birthday, he decided that what he was doing was taking far too long and he needed to nut up and quit cold turkey.

One morning, he woke up impatient. He was worried that he wouldn't be clean and sober by the time the baby came, and he was worried that he would never be able to quit for good. So he took all the alcohol in the house and he dumped it down the drain. Laurel told him it was a bad idea. She warned him that withdrawal was going to be hell, that he was going to be sick and miserable, but he persisted. Said it had to be done sooner rather than later and he just wanted to get it over with. He assured her that it would be fine. He would be fine. He could handle the withdrawal. He'd done it before. Which, technically, was a half-truth. He had been through the early stages of withdrawal before, but he had always given in before it could get too bad.

And it got bad.

You cannot possibly begin to imagine how excruciating alcohol withdrawal is when you're so dependent on the shit that you can barely remember your own name without a beer or two in you. You have no idea the horror until you're in the thick of it, collapsed in your own sweat and vomit on the kitchen floor, hallucinating your dead mother. Nothing teaches you what it feels like to be dust the way withdrawal does.

Quitting cold turkey was a bad idea. Laurel was right about that. Dean wound up in the emergency room in the middle of the night, hallucinating, having seizures, and apparently almost choking on his own vomit. He only remembers bits and pieces of that, but it doesn't sound like it was fun.

Laurel wound up with bruises.

It wasn't all that horrible at first. Sure, it sucked but puking, shivering, sweating, and having that shaky desperate voice in the back of his head plead over and over again for just one more drink were all things he could handle. It was when the hallucinations started that things began to spiral out of control. He's been told that a lot of people hallucinate bugs crawling on their skin. He did not hallucinate bugs.

At first, it was vines. They started in the corner of the bedroom and then crawled up the wall to the ceiling and slowly made their way over to him. He watched a creeping, sprawling vine close around Laurel's ankle once but when he tried to warn her, it was gone and she was looking at him like he was a wild animal she had accidentally gotten too close to.

Then it was Laurel herself. He'd answer a question she never asked, hear a laugh that didn't happen, or he'd look over and she would be standing right next to him when she was really in the kitchen making him some dry toast.

Then his mother showed up.

She was in the bathtub. She was underwater. Her eyes were wide open but lifeless and she was staring at him. He thinks, even now, about how strange it was that he hallucinated her in water and not in flames. He freaked when he saw her. At one point, vacillating between begging for a drink to make her go away and asking for Laurel to help her out of the water, he grabbed onto Laurel's wrists and backed her into a wall.

Didn't even realize that he'd done it or that he was holding onto her so tightly he was leaving marks. He doesn't know what he had been thinking in that moment. Obviously he hadn't exactly been rational. He was manic and babbling about his dead mother sitting in their bathtub.

Laurel handled it with a surprising calm. She just said, softly, ''I can't help you if you don't let me go.''

Looking back on it that must have been the point where she called for help. He hadn't wanted her to tell anyone about what was happening. Kept taking her phone away from her every time she brought up calling Sam or Cas but she must have gotten a hold of the phone when his dumb ass was in the bathroom trying to save a dead woman who wasn't really there.

It was also around the same time he looked at her and watched in horror as his wife's voice stopped being her voice and her kind, grounding face melted away, leaving someone else standing in her place. It started with her eyes, he remembers. He looked at her and suddenly the whites of her eyes had blown out and there was an ugly smirk on her face that was not her smirk. And also not her face.

And then there was no more Laurel and he wasn't sure there ever had been.

There was just Alastair.

Alive and breathing, with that familiar cruel tint to his lips, that mocking gleam in his eyes, and a bloodthirsty laugh. He looked so happy to see him. ''C'mere, boy,'' he'd rasped out in this creaky voice, grinning at him with bloody teeth as the apartment shifted and then dropped away, replaced by suffocating heat and meat hooks. ''I'm so glad you found your way home to me. I know how much you've been missin' me, son.''

Dean did not hurt Laurel that night. Just to make that clear. Other than the bruises on her wrists, he did not lay a hand on her. But he could have. He wanted to. He looked at her, thinking she was Alastair, and all he felt was this immeasurable sense of rage and hate. Things could have gone completely sideways. Only reason they didn't is because Tommy got the text Laurel sent him, burst into the apartment at the exact right moment, and startled Dean out of the hallucination. He managed to sweet talk Dean into going to the ER, called a car to come take Laurel to his condo for a few days, and that was that.

He came home after a week away, started AA meetings and therapy (which was Laurel's one request, even though she could have asked for pretty much anything and he would have done it), and none of what happened that night was ever held against him. Hell, less than two months later Tommy whisked them both away to the Merlyn family's Lake Tahoe house for an impromptu ''babymoon.''

He still doesn't understand why. Why she stayed. Why she even allowed him to be part of their child's life after he left bruises on her wrists. But then, he's never been able to understand her immense capacity for forgiveness. Though he's grateful for it.

He has not had a moment of unreality so intense that he couldn't differentiate between Hell and Home since that night. Sure, there have been a couple dark moments over the past seven months where he wondered if it was possible that maybe he had never left Hell at all and there were a few instances of hallucinations because of the sleep deprivation but he mostly just hallucinated Laurel. Grief can do crazy things to a person, that's all it was. He knows he's not in Hell. He knows that this is his life and he knows that it is very real.

The only thing that can heal trauma, can even make it bearable, is time. Putting distance between you and the thing that broke you. These days, there is a lot of distance between Dean and Hell. For the most part, he thinks he's doing all right. Still, sometimes he wonders...

What exactly has Hell done to him? What's he made of now? He's not a demon, but he's not the person he was either. Most of the time, those questions aren't even a blip on his radar. It's hard to have an existential crisis when you're knee deep in the apocalypse. Or when your wife is in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Or when your entire life consists of sippy cups, changing diapers, sign language, and stupid fucking Peppa Pig.

For a long time, he hasn't had a chance to slow down and ask himself these questions. Things are different now. The past seven months have been rough. He feels like a stranger in his bones. He has barely slept. He's been quiet, angry, snappish.

He drove nine hours to Central City on crazed, sleep deprived impulse, cornered Caitlin Snow while she was alone and tried to emotionally manipulate her into letting him in with Dinah by using her dead husband against her.

He nearly fucked his dead wife's doppelganger in some cheap motel, manipulated and gaslighted her into thinking she was safe with him, drugged her, and shot her when she tried to fight back. All to get her back in a pipeline that he's not all that confident she belongs in.

He tortured a man to death without hesitance and without regret. Carved him right up just like Alastair taught him to.

He didn't tell Laurel about the spell. He withheld information from her about her own body and her health.

These don't exactly seem like the choices a good man would make. Either the Pit changed him more than he's been willing to admit until now or he's more like his father than he previously thought. He's not sure which option is worse.

Alastair was right all those years ago when he said you left a part of yourself back in the Pit.

There is no going back. Sometimes he forgets that.

He needs to fix this. That's what has to be done. There are a lot of things he can't fix, but if he can find Marlene, Bernadette, and Hanna and get them to help then he can fix Laurel. He'll do something right for once. He just needs to do something right.

Thea is the one who breaks through the thick silence between them just as they're pulling up to the last motel on the list. It's taken them a lot longer than he thought it would to check the other motels and he's anxious to get back to Laurel. The sky is beginning to lighten at the edges, although there is no real orange glow from the sunrise thanks to the thick clouds hanging overhead.

Dean has just cut the engine and is busy searching the motel on the other side of the street for any obvious signs of the Moretti witches when he hears her speak.

''Why didn't you say anything about the spell deteriorating?'' Her voice is quiet and when he looks over at her, she's not looking at him.

He doesn't think about his answer. Just blurts out, ''I was going to fix it.''

''But you didn't.''

''I didn't think it was going to break down this quickly,'' he says. She seems to be shooting for a calm discussion rather than a shouting match so he does his best to keep his voice even and unaffected. ''I thought I had more time.'' He pockets the keys and gets out of the car, selfishly hoping he can leave this conversation behind, but she follows him.

''That doesn't change the fact that you still should've told her about this,'' she says, as if that's somehow news to him. She closes the passenger side door. ''This is like...like...'' She trails off, struggling. ''I don't even know! Like not telling your wife she has a terminal illness.''

He doesn't react much to that at all. He's not sure if she's hoping that triggers some sort of lightbulb moment or what, but his non-reaction appears to trouble her. He offers her a shrug, but that's about all he's got. ''What do you want me to say?'' He asks. ''Tell me what you need me to do here, and I'll do it.''

Thea draws her lips into a tight line and straightens her shoulders in a frighteningly accurate imitation of her mother. Unlike her mother, she almost instantly deflates. ''I don't know,'' she says, helpless. ''I don't know. I don't want...'' She shakes her head. ''She's going to die, isn't she?'' She doesn't even sound sad. Just exhausted and resigned. ''She's going to die and we're going to watch.''

''No, she's not. We're going to fix this.''

''And if we can't?''

''Then the last thing she'll see is us trying to save her.'' He's not sure if that's good enough. If it brings her any comfort. He's going to go ahead and guess it does not.

He looks over at the motel across the street. Unlike the motels they checked out in the Glades, this one looks unassuming from the outside. It's not particularly rundown looking. It's old but it looks well maintained. There's a maid's cart tucked into the corner of the second floor balcony, the parking lot is well lit, and there are even baskets of flowers hanging from the balcony and next to the door to the front office. They're wilted and dying, but it's the thought that counts.

Even the area of town isn't that bad. It's an older area of Star City, a little weathered, still heavily industrial, most of the places still stubbornly boast Starling City rather than Star City, and nothing is as shiny and chrome as downtown or as Stepford as the suburbs. It's still a good area of town. Not overly dangerous. This was the foundation of this city long before it was a city. Before there was a Star City, before there was even a Starling City, there was just the town of Starling.

Just a small working class town with a couple motels, a corner store, a few residential areas, and the docks. It was a port town. Relied on fishing and logging, then got into importing and exporting, and then there was a tourism boom and it became a hot spot for people who didn't want the hustle and bustle of Seattle but still wanted a feel of the Pacific Northwest. That was before the big corporations took over and the rich took hold and the small port town exploded into a thriving city.

Dean did not grow up here. He didn't learn any of that in school. He learned from Laurel. Back when she was pregnant and they were looking at houses, they looked at a house down here. It was close to the water, a little off the beaten path so there was privacy, with space for a garden, and the price was right. The place was in rougher shape than first thought and they didn't have the time or the money to put into repairing the place with a baby on the way so they passed on the house, but he still remembers the way Laurel babbled during the entire walkthrough about the history of this area. Confused the hell out of the realtor.

''Sorry,'' she'd laughed, when she caught sight of the weird look their realtor was throwing their way. ''My grandfather was a history professor. He specialized in local history. I know way too much about this place.''

It's an odd nervous quirk of hers. Dean smiles lightly, trying to ignore the desperately worried pang in his chest. If Laurel makes it through this, he will never again roll his eyes at her rambles or tease her when random historical facts start spilling out.

''I didn't want her to know.'' He turns to look at Thea. ''She's scared enough as it is,'' he says. ''I didn't want to add to that. I didn't want her to spend the time she has left feeling panicked. I wanted her to spend it with Mary. I wanted her to be happy.''

It's not the whole truth and he suspects Thea knows that, but she softens anyway. ''Dean,'' she says gently. ''You didn't tell her because you didn't want to admit what was happening. I get that you didn't want her to be scared, but that's not why you didn't tell her. You didn't tell her because you didn't want to be scared.''

He has no idea why she says that so tentatively. ''Well, yeah.'' He chuckles lowly. ''No shit, Speedy.''

Does she honestly think he's going to bother to refute that claim? She looks surprised by how easily he accepted it. Maybe it's not hard to grasp why. There's no way she could ever understand. She has been through a lot of loss in her young life but the one thing she has never lost is a spouse.

Do you know what the most frustratingly exhausting part of being a widower is?

It's what's left behind. Or, rather, what is not. It's the space in the bed, the silence of the mornings, the void she left behind, the absence of the damn avocado toast. It's all the places in the world where she is not. It's learning to live in the abyss. Grief is a lot like a hungry wild animal, sitting beside you, waiting to devour you whole, but it's also a lot like a chasm. A gaping hole in your bed and your heart, in the kitchen where she used to keep the avocadoes, the desk in the living room where she used to sit and work. It grows bigger and bigger every day as the distance between you and when she was here stretches out. It's not something you can run from. That's the thing. That's what you learn in grief. There is no running.

After the shock and anger have quieted down, after you've buried her and killed the monster and washed the blood from your hands, all you are left with is an emptiness that cannot love you back.

So, yes. Yes, he was afraid. He has forgotten how to be anything else.

''Every time we think we have something figured out, we always end up getting knocked flat on our asses,'' he says, and then pauses, shaking his head. ''Every fuckin' time.''

Thea visibly deflates.

He looks up at the sky, quickly growing lighter and lighter as the day approaches. He clears his throat and tries to shake off the melancholy. ''We don't have time for this,'' he says, turning away from her. ''We need to get back to Laurel.''

He starts across the street and Thea hurries after him. ''Right, okay,'' she falls into step with him. ''What do you want to do here? Same deal as last time?''

''If there's anyone in the office.'' At first glance, he doesn't think there is. The neon sign displaying the word ''open'' is half burnt out and the front office looks mostly empty from what he can see through the window and the glass door. Then he catches sight of a man shuffling around inside, making his way back over to the front desk. Dean pulls the door open, letting Thea go in ahead of him.

The front desk manager is small and wiry, early thirties, pale, and he's holding a watering can. There's a sad, very dead looking ficus in the corner of the room and an equally dead looking houseplant on the counter. The clerk looks up from halfheartedly watering the plant when they walk in, but only minutely. The blank, tired looking expression on his face never changes. He pokes at a succulent on the counter with the pencil he's pulled from behind his ear. He does not seem at all interested with his new potential customers.

Regardless, Dean puts on his best charming smile and approaches the front desk. ''Morning,'' he greets. ''Long night?''

The man behind the counter offers him a tight lipped smile that does not reach his eyes. ''You have no idea.''

Dean takes a split second to scan the room before he widens his grin, showing off his teeth. ''You and me both, pal.''

''We've been driving all night,'' Thea chimes in. She's plastered this sweet, innocent smile on her face and widened her eyes slightly to make herself look younger. Even her voice is lighter when she talks to him. ''All the way from Manhattan,'' she says, and then giggles. ''Manhattan, Montana that is.'' She rolls her eyes with all the dramatics of a sullen teenager. ''Super boring in comparison but Dad just had to move us there after Mom died. You know how many people live in Manhattan, Montana?''

Dean has no idea where she's going with this, but he has no choice but to roll with it, huffing and muttering under his breath. ''Oh hell. Not this again, Mia.''

''It doesn't even have a Starbucks!''

She is adding way too many details to the lie but she does love her stories. At the last place they went to, they were from Chester, West Virginia - ''home of the world's largest teapot,'' she'd announced proudly to the bemused night clerk - and they were in town to retrieve her little sister, Dixie, who had run off with the local quarterback.

''Mama's already followed her here,'' she'd said, making sure to add an exaggerated (and terrible) Southern twang to her voice. ''But Daddy says she's too soft on Dixie and somebody's gotta put the fear of God into her before she gets herself pregnant. He don't want her to be a knocked up debutante the way Mama was.''

The woman behind the desk at that place looked like she had seen some shit over the years so she was not particularly moved by the story but Dean still put on his best West Virginia and snapped out, ''Hush up, Anna Mae, you ain't helpin' nothin' airin' all our dirty laundry in front of the locals.''

He's about 90% certain Thea's fucking with him at this point. She has to be. In both of these scenarios, he is her father. It feels like an unnecessary addition. Yes, he understands that he is technically old enough to be her father but he doesn't feel that needs to be advertised so continuously. He gets the feeling this is how she's choosing to punish him.

''Anyway,'' he says, giving 'Mia' one last Dad Look before turning back to the clerk. ''Hate to bother you so early in the morning,'' he pauses to glance at the guy's name tag, ''Chad, but, uh, we're headed to Spokane for a family reunion and we've hit a bit of a snag.''

Thea looks up from picking at her nails. ''Uhhmmm,'' she drawls out, tossing a sour look in his direction. ''That's, like, an understatement?'' She rolls her eyes again and adds on a scoff this time. ''The problem is that we were supposed to pick up my grandmother and aunt from the airport here on our way to Spokane but we were late because someone got all pissy and threw the directions out the window. While we were on the highway.''

''I did not throw the directions out the window,'' he protests. ''I told you. It was an accident.''

''My aunt said they'd find a place to stay for the night but - ''

''My sister's shit with directions.'' He shakes his head. ''Always has been. It's a problem.''

Thea nods in confirmation. ''Once, when I was thirteen, she almost drove me and my cousin into a lake.''

''Pretty sure the directions she sent us are bogus,'' Dean says. ''We think she might've gotten the area of town right, but the address is wrong and this is the third place we've checked around here - ''

''Name,'' Chad drones. His expression has not wavered once during their little skit. He's still got that vacant and disinterested look on his face. Suppose their performance hasn't moved him either. Or maybe he's just had a painfully long night here at the Bull's Eye motel.

''Weber,'' Dean says. ''Last name's Weber.''

''I'll check the books,'' Chad says, and then turns and ambles away.

Dean looks over at Thea with an arched eyebrow. ''You had way too much fun with that.''

She snickers.

He goes on, asking, ''Can't you just say you're my sister?''

''No,'' she shrugs. ''That wouldn't make your eye twitch like it does when I say you're my dad.''

He shakes his head but can't help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He takes a minute to look around the office. It's a small space. Front desk, little bell on the counter, jukebox in the corner behind the desk playing Take Me Home, Country Roads, fluorescent lights, neglected plants and far too many succulents, a table holding some pamphlets and takeout menus, and a doorway that must lead to a back office, which is where Chad has disappeared to. Everything in the space seems weirdly outdated. The curtains in the window are giving off some serious 80's vibes, the wood paneling and the flooring looks straight out of the 70's, the desktop computer looks at least ten to fifteen years old, and the most recent takeout menu is from 2011.

Dean peruses the pamphlets on the shelf, flipping through them listlessly until one particular flyer catches his eye. He stops abruptly and tugs the piece of paper out. He recognizes this flyer. He had almost forgotten about it.

It's for CNRI.

The flyer is dated January, 2011. The very beginning. CNRI was a hastily put together start up company in 2011. It was funded mostly by the scraps Laurel and Joanna could pull together and donors, specifically the two big donations that buoyed them in the first few months - one from Joanna's Senator uncle, the other from a shell corporation that everyone ''knew'' (but didn't officially know) was owned by Moira Queen. They advertised everywhere during those early days. Flyers, business cards, print ads, online ads, buses, billboards, even a commercial.

He puts the flyer back on the shelf, tucked behind the old takeout menus for Big Belly Burgers and Mario's Pizza.

2011 was a lifetime ago, wasn't it?

He looks around the time capsule of an office. He narrows his eyes slightly as the John Denver song ends, leaving them in silence. The stillness of motel front offices have always been a comforting constant in his life. It's like coming home. The closest he ever got to it anyway. This one is not comforting. This one is giving him the creeps.

Why would an office manager need to go into a back room to check the records of guests staying at the motel?

He closes his eyes and then blows out a breath.

''Um, hey, quick question,'' Thea says, just as he's turning around. He can tell by the look on her face that she's caught on.

He doesn't even let her finish. ''They're here,'' he says, eyeing the doorway the front desk manager just escaped through. He is really off his game tonight. It should not have taken him this long to figure this crap out. He draws his weapon, keeping the gun pointed at the ground as he moves behind the desk. He takes a quick glance at the messy desk and then looks at the floor. Somehow he doesn't think those droplets of blood are part of the forest green and mustard yellow vinyl flooring.

''Aw, crap,'' Thea sighs out from beside him, staring down at the blood on the floor in exasperation. ''You know,'' she props her hands up on her hips. ''I'm supposed to be retired.''

''Yeah.'' Dean looks over at the window, peering out into the parking lot. ''So am I.'' There is no sign of movement in the mostly empty parking lot. No sign of Chad. If that's even his real name. ''Check for any log of recent check ins.'' He waits until she nods before turning the doorknob and stepping into the back hallway.

Nothing immediately jumps out at him. That's a plus. In the back, there is a hallway with three doors. One to the left, one to the right, and one in the back that leads out to the alleyway beside the motel. That door is wide open. Dean keeps his gun at the ready as he follows the drops of blood into a tiny bathroom off to the right. The second he opens that bathroom door he knows what he can expect to find in the room across the hall.

The bathroom, a relatively small space with just a sink and a toilet is a bloody mess. It's a crime scene. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, splattered on the mirror, even some on the ceiling. The worst of it is the sink. What was once, from the looks of it, a fairly clean white porcelain sink is now red with blood. It's not just blood either. There are clumps of hair and skin and what looks like possibly skull fragments and brain matter on the ledge of the sink.

He looks at the blood-splattered mirror once before turning away to the door across the hall. There's a bloody smeared handprint on the doorknob and the door isn't shut all the way. There's a strange glow emanating from what appears to be a darkened room. He trudges across the hall to nudge the door open with his shoulder.

Sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood is, presumably, the real motel manager. He checks for a pulse, just in case, but isn't surprised when there's nothing. Half of the guy's skull has been caved in and the body is cold and stiff. He's been dead for awhile.

Dean looks up at the various screens on the table. Each one of them is displaying nothing but snow. He leans in closer to read the words scribbled on the pieces of tape. Front entrance, parking lot #1, parking lot #2, back lot, alley. Security cameras. All of them disabled. He tucks his gun back into the waistband of his jeans and rubs at his face tiredly. This just keeps getting more and more complicated, doesn't it? He really thought they were making some progress last night. They knew who brought her back. They knew why. They had a name for the other piece of the puzzle. All they had to do was find Siobhan.

Now they've got whatever the fuck this is.

One step forward, two steps back.

He takes one last look at the body and then heads back to Thea. He'll call it in on the way out, after they've wiped their prints from the place. ''There's a body in the back room.''

She looks up from the computer. ''A body?''

''The front desk clerk,'' he says. ''The real one.''

''Where's the other guy?''

''Far as I can tell, he bolted out the back.''

Thea grabs what looks like a log book from the desk, shaking off what looks like crumbs before thumbing through it. ''You think there's any possibility that this could be unrelated? You know just your garden variety Star City crap? Just a coincidence?''

He presses the back of his hand to the half drank mug of coffee that's sitting on the desk. Cold. ''No such thing.''

She sighs. ''Yeah, I figured.'' She tosses the book back down. ''There's no record of any Webers, Morettis, or Dentons checking in. There's no records of any recent check ins actually,'' she says. ''Someone wiped the system clean. On the bright side,'' she perks up a little, crossing her arms. ''This means we're on the right track. I mean...'' She winces. ''Guess it's not so bright for the dead guy but for us - ''

He looks over her shoulder for a second. Just one second. He catches sight of a flash of movement through the window and his body's already moving before his brain even has a chance to catch up. He reacts on pure instinct, throwing his body into Thea's and bringing her to the ground behind the desk just as there is a familiar explosion of noise. A shotgun blast. Shattering glass. He keeps his body over Thea's even though they're well protected by the desk. There's a hazy sense of false calm and quiet after the initial blast, and then the sound of the assailant reloading. Or at least trying to.

''See?'' She's hissing, backing up against the desk as soon as he lets go of her. ''I told you we were on the right track.''

''Sshh.'' He holds up a hand to silence her. Theoretically, he could reach for his gun and start shooting but a shootout is not exactly what he wants right now and he doesn't even know where this other person is. There's a clattering sound from what sounds like right outside the door, like the guy has fumbled the reload and the shells have gone falling to the ground. He listens to the slow sound of the approaching footsteps and just as the guy's shadow falls over them, Thea attacks.

Without so much as a warning, she climbs over Dean, kicks the rolling desk chair out from behind the desk and Probably Not Really Chad has no time to retreat. He tumbles over the chair, landing hard on his chest with a wheezing groan and the gun goes flying. He attempts to grab at Thea's ankle when she gets to her feet but misses. Dean launches himself to his feet and tears the chair away. Chad has a quicker recovery than anticipated. He moves fast, surprisingly so, and manages to haul himself to his feet and whip out a knife before Dean has a chance to grab him by the scruff of his neck.

Unfortunately for him, his intelligence does not exactly match his speed and agility. He attacks like a moron, slashing wildly, with the kind of movements that tell Dean that this kid has never held a knife before now. His dead eyed expression still has not once changed. Dean catches his wrist, twists it until the knife drops, and spins him around, pinning him to his body in a choke hold. Chad attempts to struggle and claw and he does seem to have some weird strength to him, but even then, he's a small dude. It's easy to physically overpower him.

''All right,'' Dean snaps out as Chad continues to squirm like a pissed off cat in a bath. ''Calm down. Solid A for effort, buddy, but you're built like a limp green bean from the 40 year old can we found squirreled away under my wife's grandfather's bed after he died.''

A few feet away, Thea has successfully retrieved the gun from the ground. She does not look impressed by either the green bean comparison or the fact that she's holding a gun. ''Never trust a guy named Chad,'' she laments under her breath. ''Hey.'' She approaches the wriggling string bean and slaps him lightly on the cheek to get his attention. ''These?'' She holds up the double barrel sawed off. ''Not for civilians. You couldn't even use it properly. You could have seriously hurt yourself.''

''Pretty sure this guy's soulless,'' Dean interjects. He swings the guy around and throws him into the chair, nearly sending it toppling over. ''Don't think he's gonna be absorbing your lecture.''

She frowns, tilting her head to the side. ''How can you tell?''

''His face, mostly,'' Dean shrugs. ''He's not spittin' mad that he just got taken down by an office chair from Staples.'' He takes the shotgun from her hands, checks to make sure it's unloaded, and then places it on the desk. He looks closer at the man in the chair. He hasn't tried to stand up and attack. He hasn't spoken. It's unnatural. He stares up at them calmly and blankly. He doesn't look angry or scared. He just looks like he's waiting for something. This isn't just soullessness. This is brainwashing.

Dean bends down to give Chad a quick onceover, assessing him for any visible marks or tattoos. Seems like a strange pick for a soldier. He's scrawny, almost to the point of looking emaciated. No muscle or heft to him whatsoever. He looks older than he most likely is, and he does not look like he's at all healthy. There's a bluish tinge to his skin, his eyes have a familiar hollowed out look to them, and his face is gaunt. He's got a serious case of meth mouth, sores on his lips, what looks like burns on his fingers, and when Dean lifts the guy's sleeves up, his arms are full of track marks.

This man is a heroin addict. An active user judging by how fresh some of these track marks look. Dean looks at the man's dull blue eyes, searching for any spark of life. Nothing. He pauses and then gently tugs Chad's jacket back to look at the tag sewn into the collar of the well-worn jacket he's wearing. Dean looks at the dirty white tag with the blue lettering, and closes his eyes, releasing a sigh.

After the undertaking, Laurel, Joanna, and some of their team members had stuck around the wreckage of CNRI for over a month. They salvaged what they could before what was left was torn down, went back and forth on whether or not attempting a rebuild was financially feasible, dealt with insurance adjusters and devastated, scared clients, and eventually, they sold the lot. The biggest reason for the sale was practicality. The place was a money pit. They couldn't afford to rebuild and they couldn't afford to let the empty lot sit there. The other reason was that Laurel did not want to be anywhere near that place ever again.

Laurel loves the Glades. It was her first home. Before her grandparents' house, before the Lance family townhouse, there was the cramped apartment in the Glades where Dinah and Quentin lived in as a bright-eyed young couple. Laurel and Sara were both born there. Took their first steps there. Said their first words there. Oliver can talk about ''his city'' all he wants, but the Glades is all Laurel's. She has made that clear time and time again. She will always do whatever she can for the people who live in that community because it's her community. But she did not want anything to do with the place where Tommy died. She wanted to rebuild CNRI. She just couldn't do it there.

They didn't get a lot of money out of the sale. It was a small piece of land in the middle of an area of town that had just experienced a devastating act of domestic terrorism. Not to mention, they accepted the first offer they were given. Most of the money from the sale went toward student loans and the medical bills Laurel had from the night of the Undertaking.

A nonprofit organization bought the place. Homelessness has been on the rise in the Glades since the Undertaking. That is an unfortunate reality. A lot of people lost their homes. A lot of already low income people lost their jobs. A lot of people were hurt in the quake - both physically and mentally - and could no longer hold down jobs and couldn't afford to seek help. The earth may have stopped shaking four years ago but what Malcolm Merlyn did that night is still actively unraveling people's lives. The nonprofit organization that bought the spot where CNRI used to be built a homeless shelter. They've built two more in the years since. Masked vigilantes are not the only people trying to make a difference in this city. This particular homeless shelter has made a habit of providing each person who walks through their doors with a fleece blanket, a new pair of shoes, and a new jacket. A jacket that has a white tag with blue lettering sewn into the back with the address and phone number of the shelter on it.

Dean fixes Chad's coat, tucking the tag back in and pulling down his sleeves before drawing away and standing up straight. He rubs at his jaw, fighting back a grimace, and then, suddenly, feels anger flare in his gut. You don't grab an active heroin user off the street and brainwash the poor sucker because it's easy or convenient and you certainly don't do it for strength. You do it to send a message.

If he has to go back to his wife, to the Black Canary, and tell her that vulnerable people are being snatched off the streets of her community and being turned into soulless soldiers, she is going to flip her shit.

''Okay,'' he says softly. ''You can speak, right?''

A nod and then, ''Yes.''

''Do you have a name? I'm guessing it's not really Chad.''

The guy shrugs. ''I don't remember.''

That's grim. Dean plucks the knife off the floor and drops it on the desk next to the unloaded gun, both of them out of Chad's reach.

''You don't remember who you were before this?'' Thea asks.

Chad looks right at her and says, deadpan, ''I was no one.''

She flinches, but tries to pretend she doesn't. She looks fidgety, standing there with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. Not hard to see how brainwashing might bring up some bad memories for her. ''Why aren't you attacking us?''

''Not part of my orders.''

Dean asks, ''What are your orders?''

''I can't let anyone get past the front office,'' comes the droning reply. ''I have to keep the area clear.''

''So if we try to leave?''

''I'll have to kill you.''

Dean leans back against the desk, watching Chad carefully. ''You were sent to this motel,'' he says. ''Why?''

Chad looks up at him, serious. ''Marlene Moretti tried to run,'' he says. ''That's no good. Can't have that. She doesn't like loose ends.''

Dean shares a glance with Thea. ''Does she have a name?''

''She's got lots of names,'' says Chad.

''Is one of them Siobhan?''

A nod.

''But that's not her real name, is it?''

That, unsurprisingly, is where Chad clams up.

Dean cocks his head to the side. ''You find Marlene Moretti?''

Chad blinks, then shrugs and says, ''I don't answer to you.''

''That's interesting,'' Dean says, ''because you sure have been so far.''

Chad remains impassive.

''You were sent here to tie up loose ends,'' says Dean. ''Did you?'' Nothing. ''What happened to Marlene?'' Still nothing. ''What about Hanna? Or Bernadette?'' He leans down to look into Chad's empty eyes. ''Did you kill an eighteen-year old girl and an old woman? Is that the dirty work she sent you here to do?''

Chad says, again, ''I don't answer to you.''

Dean sighs and straightens up. This is a giant waste of time. He looks at the soulless brainwashed dude sitting in the chair. There's no real way of knowing where his soul is, if they can get it back, or even if it's possible to break the brainwashing. ''Thea,'' he says. ''I need you to go wait outside.''

''What?'' She furrows her brow. ''If I try to leave, he'll attack.''

''That's true,'' Chad confirms. ''I will.''

''He won't get very far.''

She narrows her eyes. ''You want me to leave so you can kill him.''

No use in lying. ''Yes.''

''Dean, he's a person.''

''Not anymore,'' he states bluntly. ''He doesn't have a soul and he's been brainwashed to kill.''

Immediately, he recognizes that that was the exact wrong thing to say to her.

''I was brainwashed to kill,'' she reminds him with a glare. ''Should I have been killed?''

He bristles. ''That was different.''

She laughs hollowly. ''No, it really wasn't. I killed someone,'' she says. ''I killed your family. You didn't put me down like a dog.''

He brings a hand to his forehead in exasperation. ''Thea -

''Sara killed multiple people when she was soulless,'' she continues. ''Should we have given up on her?''

''It's not the same thing,'' he insists because - really, it's not. Thea was drugged and temporarily brainwashed into murdering Sara. It was fucked up, a disgusting violation of both women, and if Dean ever sees Malcolm Merlyn, he's going to do what Oliver has refused to do for years and put a bullet through the asshole's skull just on principle, but it was not the same. Sara's soul was misplaced, but it was still within reach. This is not the same thing. This is not like what happened to Thea or what happened to Sara or even what happened to Sam. This poor fucker's soul could be blown to smithereens for all they know. He's an empty shell. It sucks for him, but letting him go will only put other people in danger. He's been programmed to do whatever this woman tells him to do. There's no telling what he could wind up doing or who he could wind up hurting.

Thea doesn't see it that way. She looks at Chad, crouching down in front of him. ''Did you want to kill that man?''

Chad looks deeply confused by the concept of wanting. ''I want what she wants.''

''What if we can help you?'' She proposes. ''We can get your soul back.''

''Whoa, wait, Thea - ''

''We can free you.''

Chad shakes his head. ''Don't you get it? I am free. That's what she does. She frees you.'' He locks eyes with her. ''She could do it to you too. She could free you.''

Thea looks profoundly disturbed by that statement, rising back to her feet and taking a step back.

Dean has officially run out of patience. He grabs the unloaded shotgun from the table, twirls it in his hand to grip the barrel of the gun, and in one swift movement, he strikes Chad across the head. Chad instantly slumps back against the chair, a small trickle of blood running down his left temple. ''What?'' Dean shrugs when Thea sends him a disapproving look. ''I didn't kill him.'' He drops the gun back down on the desk and leans into Chad's space to pat him down, checking his pockets and eventually producing a key on a comically large keychain from his inside jacket pocket. He's going to hope it's a master key. He has a nasty feeling they're not going to like what they find if they go searching through all these rooms, but they need to know what happened to Marlene and Hanna Moretti and Bernadette Weber. At the very least, Mattie deserves answers about what happened to them.

''Come on.'' He nudges the chair with Chad's prone form on it back behind the front desk. ''We need to get a move on. Keep your eyes open,'' he adds. ''If the Wicked Witch of the Pacific Northwest sent one of her flying monkeys here, she could've sent more. Or worse. We don't know what's out there.''

''That's true,'' says a sly voice from behind them. ''You have no idea what's out there.''

Dean whirls around, eyes landing on the woman standing in the doorway to the back hallway. Marlene Moretti. Except...

As long as he has known Marlene (or Sylvia as he knew her) the woman has not once had a single hair out of place. Her appearance is something she prides herself on. Her hair and makeup are always impeccable; she favors crisp, perfectly tailored dresses, and heels. Always heels. He thinks the only time he has ever seen her without her heels are the few times he's seen her pulling weeds in the front yard or when he's caught her on her way back from a jog. Her look is something that's important to her.

She looks different right now. Her hair is disheveled, her makeup is smudged and her mascara is running, her feet are bare, and there is blood splattered onto her pale blue dress. A lot of it. That alone is enough to tell him that she has had a bad night. Then there are her eyes.

They're completely white.

Dean freezes when he sees her, memories of Alastair and Lilith flashing through his head. They're both dead, they have to be, but if this is a white-eyed demon, they're fucked.

Thea tenses when she sees Marlene, but tries not to let her nerves show. ''That…'' She takes a few steps back. ''That's a nasty case of cataracts you've got going on there, Marlene.''

Dean hurries to grab her hand and yank her behind him roughly, ignoring her startled gasp and the sharp look she sends him. ''That's not Marlene.''

The thing wearing Marlene's body like a cheap suit grins and snaps her fingers together. ''Well, give the boy a Kewpie doll,'' it says with a wide, bloody grin. ''Maybe you're not as dumb as you look.''

''Wow,'' Thea bites out. ''Are all monsters as pleasant as you are?''

Dean throws his hand out to keep her from moving out behind him and hisses out a warning of, ''Stop it.''

She moves to grip his arm but thankfully doesn't try to push it away. She does ask, nodding toward Marlene's ruined dress, ''Whose blood is that?''

A smile uncharacteristic of Marlene Moretti stretches across her face. ''Wouldn't you like to know.''

''Thea,'' he says. ''I need you to get out of here.''

Predictably, she protests. ''No.'' She shakes her head. ''No way.''

''We had a deal,'' he reminds her. He moves his hand down, slowly grabbing a hold of her hand. ''I tell you to run, you run.'' He feels her stiffen beside him when he slips the master key to the rooms into the palm of her hand. ''I'm telling you to run.''

''Oh, please do,'' Not Marlene says. ''Run on home to big sister, sweetheart. Don't worry about a thing,'' she winks. ''I'll be sure to leave the body somewhere she can find it.''

Thea bristles, but Dean sees her close her fist around the key. She meets his eye, hesitant. She looks back over at the bloody thing grinning at her, tightening her lips. ''Are you really going to just let me leave?''

It laughs a little. ''I'm not interested in you, Thumper.''

Thea glares, but it lacks any real heat. ''You better know what you're doing,'' she whispers in Dean's direction before she backs up, toward the door. He watches impatiently, biting back the urge to tell her to hurry up.

The Marlene imposter waves brightly and as soon as the door closes behind Thea, it looks over at Dean and asks, seriously, ''Do you have a quarter?''

He blinks. ''What?''

''A quarter,'' it repeats. ''Do you have one? It's too quiet in here. It's giving me the heebie jeebies.''

He stares at in disbelief. ''No.''

It frowns, put out. ''You really are useless.'' It shakes Marlene's head at him and then moves over to the unconscious Chad, digging around in his pockets until it finally manages to produce a quarter. ''She's a sweet girl,'' it says conversationally, heading over to the jukebox in the corner. ''Very pretty. Sure likes you.''

He doesn't move from his spot. He doesn't reach for his gun either. ''Sometimes.'' He does risk looking out the window for a split second. He can just see Thea heading up the stairs to the second floor of the motel. He needs to stall long enough for her to check the rooms. He can do that.

''She'd make a wonderful doll,'' the thing says, flipping through the selection of songs. ''So fun to play with.''

He ignores the chill running up his spine. ''You touch her, and I will end you.''

It chooses a song, pressing the button with an audible click before turning to face him, amused. ''Don't be so touchy.'' The opening strings of Frankie Valli's Can't Take My Eyes Off You filters through the old jukebox. The music coming from the ancient looking thing sounds tinny and muffled but the monster still smiles. It curls Marlene's lips up into a surprisingly soft looking smile and does this unnervingly childlike little spin, enough to make the bloody blue dress flare out.

It's extremely unsettling.

''Music,'' it practically purrs out. ''One of the only things you insipid creatures got right.''

Dean raises his eyebrows, mildly stunned. ''Can't disagree with you there,'' he admits. ''You should listen to Led Zeppelin.''

''Led Zeppelin,'' it hums in contemplation. ''I'll remember that.'' It looks at him closely, squinting those inhuman white eyes at him, but it makes no move to attack or even to move closer to him. ''You're not afraid of me,'' it points out, curious. ''You should be. But you're not.''

He laughs humorlessly. ''You think you're the first white-eyed demon I've met?'' He asks, and then scoffs. ''Please. Honey, as far as scary goes, you don't even rank top ten.''

The expression on the thing's stolen face darkens and it scowls. ''You think I'm a demon?'' A huff of indignation. ''How pedestrian. Demons are nothing more than common fools.''

That throws him for a second. He tries not to let it show, mentally running down a list of creatures that have white eyes. ''Then what exactly are you?''

''Stronger than you,'' it says. ''That's what I am. I can kill you with my thumb. You should show me some respect.''

Boldly, he smirks. ''Where's the fun in that?''

''You sure are making a lot of trouble.''

''Ditto.''

It regards him silently for a moment, gliding over to the chair that holds the unconscious Chad. For a second, Dean's concerned that the thing might wake Mr. Soulless up and tell him to attack. It doesn't. It just rests Marlene's hands on the back of the chair and says, casually, ''If you're not careful, she's going to take more than your little bird.''

He refuses to rise to the bait. He nods at the body it's in, raking his eyes over the bloody dress. ''Marlene still alive in there?''

''Marlene is perfectly safe,'' it says. ''She's with the others.''

''The others?''

''They're in my nest,'' it declares proudly, with another bloody smile. ''Do you want to join them? Do you want to see my nest?''

''…I'll pass, thanks.'' He still has no idea who or what this unnamed, unidentified monster is, but one thing has been made glaringly clear during this exchange. ''You're the one taking the souls.''

It sneers, taking Marlene's kind face and twisting it into something cruel. ''And circle gets the square.''

''What happened to Marlene's daughter? Did you take her soul too?''

It doesn't answer the question, not even with a taunt, but he notes that the cocky smirk falters. Over in the corner, the song ends. White-eyed Not Marlene cuts its eyes over to the jukebox when the music stops, seemingly agitated by the silence. It fishes another quarter out of the pencil cup on the desk and rushes back over to the jukebox. Huh, okay. Not a fan of the quiet. He's not sure if that's a characteristic of this particular species of nightmare or if it's just a personality quirk of this specific freak.

When it turns away from him briefly, he looks out the window. As quietly as possible, he shuffles himself away from the window and closer to the monster. ''You got a corporeal body?'' He questions, but doesn't let it answer the question. ''I'm thinkin' not. I'm gonna go ahead and guess Chad over here was your original transport?''

It doesn't look up from carefully going over the selection of songs. ''I don't think his name was Chad,'' it says, before pressing a button. It pauses, listening to the song it picked. It apparently decides the song is acceptable because it leaves the jukebox behind, gliding over to Chad. She checks his pulse and then drags one of Marlene's blood red fingernails down his cheek. ''He was no carnival ride,'' it says. ''Junkies never are. It's like overripe fruit. But he was just a means to an end. I've got a better ride now.'' It places both hands on his cheeks, almost tenderly. ''He's outlived his usefulness,'' it says, and then all tenderness is abruptly replaced by brute force as the thing snaps the poor guy's neck in one swift movement. Then it turns to face Dean and asks, casually, ''What is this? This music?''

''It's... Earth, Wind & Fire,'' he says, clearing his throat. ''Band from the 70's.''

''Oh.'' It nods thoughtfully. ''What genre would you call this?''

''I don't know,'' he says. ''Disco?''

''Disco,'' it muses. ''I'll have to look into that. I don't mind this.''

He bites back a snark-filled recommendation of the Bee Gees. ''Let me get this straight,'' he takes a step toward the thing, trying to avoid looking at the lifeless body slumped in the chair. ''This was Marlene's punishment? She tries to run and gets turned into one of your playthings?''

''Among other things.''

''And this is what you do?'' He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. ''She sends you out when she needs a soul sucked, you deliver her a body, and she does some witchy mind meld and turns them into a sharp object?''

''If you want to simplify it.''

He lets a slow, mocking smile crawl onto his face. ''You're her pet.''

It balks at the suggestion. ''Excuse me?''

''You're her pet,'' he says again, louder this time. ''Instead of cleaning up the mess she made with the Moretti family herself, she sent you here to do it.''

''It's a mutually beneficial partnership,'' it snaps.

He laughs. ''You can go ahead and act like you're hot shit if that makes you feel better, but you're just like him,'' he nods at the body in the chair. ''A mindless attack dog.''

For a moment, it looks like it's going to rage. Anger flickers in its expression, mouth tightening, but it doesn't attack. It looks down at Marlene' hands, flexing her fingers. ''Do you know how long I've been in this body?'' It turns the hands over to inspect the chipped nail polish. ''Long enough to figure out how to handle the curves. This is a strong body. Full of power. She'll last longer than the others. She'll make a good weapon.'' It looks up at him, smiling. ''But so would you.'' It moves in his direction slowly. ''Dean Winchester. I've heard all about you and the things you've done.''

Dean resists the urge to back away. ''Always nice to meet a fan.''

''You're cute,'' it says. ''You and your bluster. It's adorable, really.'' It lowers Marlene's voice into a nasty little contemptuous whisper. ''I could just eat you up.''

He eyes the distance between him and both exits. He could probably make it out the front door but he doesn't want to lead this thing straight to Thea. There's no way in hell he'll make it out the back when it's standing right in front of the exit. That leaves one option: stay and fight. Except he has no idea what this thing is, what its powers are, or what can hurt it. He'd also prefer not to hurt Marlene, if at all possible. ''Thanks for the offer,'' he says, going for a cocky smirk. ''But I'm married.''

The thing snarls at him, lip curling threateningly, and he moves automatically, reaching for his gun. He's fast, but he's not fast enough. He manages to draw the weapon, but the thing in Marlene's body, whatever it is, is unnaturally fast and unnaturally strong. In the span of what seems like a single breath, the creature has crossed the room and slammed him up against the wall. His back hits the wall so hard that it knocks the wind out of him and he drops the gun. He groans, struggling to catch his breath as pain shoots up and down his back.

The thing in Marlene's body grabs his face with one hand, trailing the other down his chest suggestively. He clenches his jaw and tries to turn his head away from the thing but it's too strong. ''I don't think she would mind,'' it whispers. ''If I brought you home instead of Marlene. I don't think she would mind. I bet your body is all kinds of strong. And she really doesn't like you.'' It lets go of his face and moves both hands to his chest, running Marlene's hands all over him.

''You know,'' he tries to chuckle. ''I think I'll skip the nightmares.''

It laughs at him. ''It's funny you think you have a choice.'' It presses Marlene's body into his, which feels so incredibly wrong considering neither he nor Marlene have given any sort of consent here. ''Oh, don't worry,'' the thing says, as if it can read his mind. ''This body is very physically attracted to you. I don't think she would care if I have some fun.'' It giggles, sliding it's hands up to his neck, and then his throat. ''It's not like it would be your first time, would it? You know what it feels like to be consumed,'' it murmurs. ''Invaded.''

He stills, nausea coiling in his gut.

It leans in far too close for comfort, forcing him to look into its empty white eyes. ''Don't look so scared,'' it soothes, stroking his face. ''This won't be like that. This won't be anything like Hell.'' A wolfish grin. ''I'm going to take care of you.'' There's a flicker before his eyes and he watches as Marlene's pretty features warp and distort as it allows him to see its true face. It's humanoid, almost, but grotesque. Pale, mottled skin and large empty, dark voids where the eyes should be. It's features are shadowed by the long dark hooded cloak but he can see its mouth, opening and closing ravenously, lips stretching into something gruesome that might vaguely resemble a smile. This is new. It almost looks like a shtriga but not quite the same thing. Maybe some kind of bastard offshoot.

The whole slip lasts maybe a second, the image of the thing's true face flashing in front of him like an old television set on the fritz, and then he's just left looking at white-eyed Marlene again. It leans in close to him to whisper in his ear, ''Let's see what you and I can do together.''

Before he has a chance to make some quick witted but ill advised comment, the creature has jolted right into his personal space and pressed Marlene's lips against his. His instant reaction is to shove the thing away from him, but he can't. The second Marlene's lips are on his, an uncomfortable, almost painful cold unfurls throughout his entire body and paralyzes him. It spreads quickly, instantly, like a burst, an explosion of ice in his head, his chest, his stomach, from the top of his head all the way down to his toes. The sharp icy ache is followed by a painful tugging sensation from deep inside his body, as if something is being leeched out of him.

He's had better kisses, that's for damn sure.

The breathless agony and cold only lasts for a few seconds, maybe less, and then there's a voice. ''Hey.''

The thing in Marlene's body startles at the sound of the voice, enough to pull away and loosen its grip on him. Dean slumps to the floor, trying to catch his breath. The pain is gone instantly, leaving only a foggy feeling of nausea behind, but his body feels heavy and bogged down, like he's just waking up from a deep sleep.

''Heads up, Bright Eyes,'' Laurel's voice deadpans, and the second the soul sucker whirls around, she strikes. She smashes the dead houseplant from the counter into Marlene's head hard enough for the ceramic vase to crack apart, sending dirt pouring into the thing's eyes and mouth as the body crumples to the ground. ''You should really remember to watch your six when you're in an active combat situation,'' Laurel says, smiling grimly. ''Trust me on that.'' She looks at it for a second, clapping her hands together to get rid of the dirt, and then she turns her attention to Dean.

She looks like she has made a remarkable - and unbelievable - recovery. She still looks unsteady on her feet, but she's breathing easier, there's color in her cheeks, she's changed out of her bloody pajamas, and she's not vomiting blood anymore, but her appearance here still doesn't make any sense. She had a grand mal seizure. Even with the Motrin and fluids, she should not be well enough to be standing let alone fighting. There is an unfamiliar look in her eyes; a hardness, a certain kind of anger mixed with blankness. If it weren't for her slower than usual movements and the rings on her finger, he'd think he was looking at Siren rather than Canary.

''You good?'' She asks him, but doesn't move to help him, body still poised to attack.

''You shouldn't be here,'' is all that comes out of his mouth, frustrated. He doesn't mean to be so short with her but he nearly had his soul sucked out of him and now his sick wife is willingly walking into traps.

She merely raises her eyebrows at him and replies, easily, ''You're welcome.''

On the ground, the monster laughs, still choking on the dirt. ''Look at that,'' it says, pushing itself back into a strange sort of half standing, half crouched position, one hand on Marlene's bleeding head. ''The number one prize just walked right through the door. Bold of you to come here when you know there's a bounty on your head.''

Laurel laughs and says, quite plainly, ''You're not coming anywhere near me.''

It tenses ever so slightly, balling Marlene's hands into fists momentarily before relaxing and standing up straight. ''I didn't realize you were so arrogant.''

''It's not arrogance,'' Laurel responds, eerily calm. ''It's a fact. I'm just being realistic. If you make a move, I will make your ears bleed.''

''But they're not my ears,'' it says. ''They're Marlene's.'' Its focus seems to be entirely on Laurel now.

Dean uses the distraction to his advantage, slowly reaching for his discarded weapon and hauling himself to his feet. He doubts a bullet will do much to this thing, but just in case. If this thing goes after Laurel, he's shooting it.

''You hurt me, you hurt Glinda here,'' the thing crows, gesturing at the body. It seems delighted that it has apparently found a way around Laurel's threat. ''The Black Canary doesn't hurt innocents.''

Much to the surprise of everyone, Laurel's response is easy, instant, and blunt. ''The Black Canary is dead.''

Dean can't help but look over at her, thrown by the coldness of the statement. It's not a Laurel thing to say.

''Marlene is far from innocent,'' Laurel says. ''She made her choices. She gets to live - and die - with the consequences. That's life.''

He squints his eyes at her. Now that is really not a Laurel thing to say. ''Laur,'' he tries softly, tentatively taking a step in her direction.

She doesn't even look at him. ''You're going to leave this place,'' she orders. ''You're going to crawl back to whatever hidey hole you've been cowering in and you're going to do it willingly. Do you want to know why?'' She takes a step toward the monster and then another, and Dean watches with a creeping sense of unease as the thing actually tenses and backs away. ''I have a message for her,'' Laurel says. ''You're going to deliver it for me.''

It looks cautious, but curious. It is no longer smiling. ''I am?''

''Either that or I kill Marlene and send you back to the lion's den empty handed.''

It cocks its head to the side in fascination. ''What's the message?''

''Tell her she was right about me,'' Laurel says simply. ''Everything she said about me earlier - It was all true.''

''Wait,'' Dean tries to move over to her, but she shuffles away from him. ''You spoke to her?''

''I'm everything she said I am,'' Laurel says, ignoring his question. ''But you know what else I am? Still here, bitch.'' She spits that last part out with a fiery determination, a sudden anger burning in her eyes. ''I will not be intimidated by some Elphaba wannabe too cowardly to show me her real face. If she wants me, she is going to have to come for me herself. Tell her to hurry up. I'm tired of waiting around for her lazy ass.'' She doesn't wait for a response, straightening her posture and slowly inching her way over to him. ''We're going to walk out of here now,'' she says, latching onto his wrist. ''If you take one step - ''

''Yeah, yeah, I know,'' it waves off the threat carelessly. ''You'll make my ears bleed.'' It snickers, leaning against the front desk. ''Awfully brave for an insect. You think you're ready to know the truth,'' it says, voice soft. ''To see her true face. But believe me when I say, you're not.'' Despite the seemingly careless tone of voice, it has noticeably tensed up. It's afraid of her. Of Laurel. It's trying to pretend it's not, schooling Marlene's face into a mask of careful indifference, but it's not convincing. It's scared. And when a wild animal is scared...

Laurel turns her back on the thing to walk out the door, still gripping Dean's wrist tightly. He lets her pull him over to the door, but he tries his best to keep his eyes on the monster. He takes his eyes off it once, just once, just for one second, and it's enough. The second he looks back, he catches sight of that familiar glint, and he realizes a little too slow what it is. He thinks Laurel doesn't notice. He thinks she has her back turned, that she doesn't see the knife, but just as he starts to move, to push her out of the way and raise his weapon, she turns around, shoves him to the side, and screams.

He likes to think he has gotten somewhat used to the sound of her Canary Cry by now but this one is sharper, louder, angrier. It explodes out of her, blowing the creature back and destroying the front office. He covers his ears and does his best to duck away from a direct hit, hiding his face from any shattering glass or flying debris. But there's really no time for recovery. The sound dies down and the next thing he knows, Laurel's got both hands gripping his arm and she's pulling him out of the office and into the cold daylight. She doesn't look back once, dragging him along with her, crunching over broken glass. She doesn't seem all that concerned about the monster. She seems more concerned with trying to catch her breath.

''Laurel - ''

''Keep walking,'' she orders shortly.

He lacks her confidence. Chances are, with that kind of concentrated blast, it's at least down but that doesn't mean it's out.

''We need to get to Thea,'' she says. ''I sent her around back. She's safe, Sam's with her, but we need to get her and get out of here.''

He gives her a few seconds, waiting until they have put enough distance between them and the front office, and then he darts in front of her, preventing her from going any further. ''Laur,'' he says. ''Honey...'' He trails off, lost. He moves his hands to her shoulders and down her arms, looking her up and down, searching for any sign of weakness. She was so out of it when he left her. Weak, exhausted, in pain, she'd just had a seizure, and she was sedated. This Laurel in front of him shows little sign of any of that. Her eyes are dulled, maybe with fatigue, her face is pinched slightly like she's uncomfortable, and there's an unusual stiffness to her posture, but that's it. She's moving, she's walking, she's talking, she's saving his ass. She looks fine. She should not be fine. ''What are you doing here?''

''Was that not obvious?'' She smiles. It's a weak smile. ''I'm saving my damsel.'' She doesn't look him in the eye. She hasn't looked him in the eye since she showed up.

''How are you even standing right now?''

''It's a long story.''

''Then shorten it. Are you okay?''

''I'm not the one who was just sexually assaulted by our possessed neighbor,'' she says, crossing her arms. ''What was that thing anyway?'' She's wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, what looks like one of his flannel shirts, and that green canvas jacket of hers that she rarely wears but despite her unexpectedly Winchester-like wardrobe, she still looks like she's shivering under all those layers. When he doesn't respond to her question, she sighs and closes her eyes briefly. ''I'm okay,'' she tells him, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. ''I promise. I'm running on a cocktail of Midazolam, Zofran, Motrin, and a witchy energy boost from Mattie, which is so weird, but I'm good for now.''

Dean is not comforted by any part of that. ''Mattie? What did he - ''

''He gave me some help,'' she says. She pulls something out of her pocket and hands it over to him. It's a small pouch made out of what looks like felt, jingles strangely, and smells overwhelmingly of herbs.

He sniffs at the pouch suspiciously. ''What's in this?''

''Rosemary, lavender, a few drops of eucalyptus oil, and some other stuff. I don't know. Some kind of shell and a feather and a blessed coin. He said he was working with what he had on hand.'' She takes the pouch back from him and slips it into her pocket. ''It's sort of like a hex bag, but it has the opposite affect,'' she says. ''It's temporary. Won't last long. It's all he can do for me. I... I had to get to you.'' There is an earnestness to her voice that hits all the right notes and checks all the right boxes, but there's still something about her right now that is decidedly not Laurel. She's not acting like herself. She doesn't look or sound...right. She's trying, but there's a troubling numbness to her voice and a shadowed look in her eyes that gives her away.

This Laurel - fidgety and awkward, unable to look him in the eye - is not the same Laurel he left behind earlier. Dean swallows hard and looks her up and down once more. A boost of witchcraft energy is one thing. It's not what he's worried about. ''Did you take another dose of Midazolam?''

She doesn't seem surprised or bothered that he's asking. ''No.'' She says it easily and firmly. She looks him right in the eye when she says it. She doesn't flinch.

He doesn't believe her.

She could be telling the truth. After all, it would fit the numbness and the hollow look in her eyes, even the fidgeting, but she would be more...sluggish. Quicker to anger and overly defensive. He knows what her behavior changes look like when she's on something. He knows what his wife looks like when she's high on benzos, just like she knows what he looks like when he's drunk. This isn't it.

But he still doesn't believe her.

Sobriety is a fragile thing. Addicts say what they need to say in order to stay sick.

''You don't believe me,'' she says quietly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She looks surprisingly unbothered by this. ''It's okay,'' she shrugs. ''I wouldn't believe me either.''

He clears his throat and looks off to the left, to the front office. Everything is quiet. No trace of the monster. He doesn't want to have this talk here. Not here and not now. ''Thanks for the save,'' he finally says, looking back at her. ''You come here alone? How did you get here?'' No answer. ''Do I get to know what's going on, Laur?''

She blinks a few times and then says, ''I didn't.''

He flinches. ''I shouldn't have kept that from you.''

''I shouldn't have brought it up,'' she says, although her voice is low and sounds dull and tired. ''I can't do this right now,'' she says again, before taking in a deep breath. ''I woke up.'' She takes in another gulp of air, removing her hands from her pockets to absentmindedly scratch at the mark on the back of her hand from where the IV line was placed. ''They gave me fluids and Zofran. They wanted me to rest, but I had to get to you. Sam was heading out to look for you and Thea because he wanted you to have backup. I convinced him to take me with him. I just - I had to get to you.'' She's said that three times now. He wonders if she realizes that.

He takes her hands in his and squeezes softly. ''What aren't you telling me?''

She looks down at his hands holding hers. She remains in his grasp for maybe five seconds before she tugs her hands out of his grip, takes a step away from him, and pointedly looks away. ''I had a dream,'' she says. The expression on her face shifts when she says it. Goes from detached to jittery and anxious in two seconds flat. She shifts from foot to foot. Pushes and pulls at her wedding rings. ''While I was under,'' she clarifies. ''I had a dream.'' She shakes her head, shoulders slumping. ''Except it wasn't a dream.'' She looks back at him. ''It was her. She was in my head. My dad said it was just a nightmare. Just from the stress and the drugs. It wasn't. I know it wasn't. I - I don't know how, but she was in my head.''

Her increasingly skittish behavior is not something that fills him with reassurance. The idea that this mysterious evil witch was poking around in her head is even worse. There is zero comfort in that. Just a sick feeling of complete and utter horror and dismay. Although it does explain her behavior. She's not high, she's terrified. She's never really handled fear great. She hates the helplessness of it. ''What did she say?''

''Oh, she had lots to say,'' she says, lips twisting into a small, hollow sneer. ''She wants what's hers.''

''What's hers,'' he repeats, and then realizes. ''Your scream.''

''She's not going to stop until she gets it,'' she warns. ''Even if she has to kill everyone to do it. That's why I...'' She stops. Licks her lips. ''She threatened you,'' she admits. ''That's why I had to get to you. I had Felicity track your phone.''

''You get a good look at her face?''

''No. She...'' Laurel grimaces and looks, for a flicker of a second, queasy. ''I never saw her real face.'' She shakes her head like she's shaking an image out of her mind and schools her features into an impatient frown. ''Look, we don't have time for this. We can talk about this later.''

When she starts to turn away from him, he impulsively reaches out and grasps her elbow. ''Are we okay?''

She softens. It is the first time she has softened. ''If we're not, we'll get there.'' She sounds sure. Sounds like Laurel. ''We're a team,'' she reminds him. ''That hasn't changed.'' She hesitates briefly, then reaches out and touches his chest, the warmth of her hand radiating through his shirt. She offers him a tiny but sincere smile, and then says, ''Now let's get the hell out of here before this spell wears off and I drop dead.''

She looks in the direction of the front office for about half a second, apparently 100% confident that her Canary Cry has rendered soul sucker in there useless - at least for now - and then she brushes past him and walks away.

He has no choice but to follow her.

The oldest part of the Bull's Eye motel is the back part. The original five rooms that aren't attached to the main building back up onto an undeveloped lot full of trees, empty beer cans, and most likely some used syringes. Based off how dilapidated the back building looks, the rooms go unused most of the time. It's where they find Thea, standing in the open door of one of the rooms with a hand over her mouth and nose. As soon as Dean gets close enough to see that her eyes are literally watering from some foul stench, he is able to discern why.

He recognizes that pungent smell. It's like rotting meat, garbage that's been left to ferment outside on the hottest day of the year, and something cloyingly, sickeningly sweet all at the same time. The putrid scent of death is, unfortunately, a smell he is well acquainted with. On a good day, it was the worst part of his former job.

''Okay, so we've got a good news, bad news situation going on,'' is how Thea greets them.

''Two bodies,'' says Sam, poking his head out of the room. ''A lot of blood. It's Bernadette and - ''

That's all Dean hears. He rushes into the rom, pushing past both of them so he can tear inside the motel room. He stops in his tracks when he sees the body face down on the crusty old carpet. Bernadette. The entire room smells like a combination of musty carpet, blood, and decay. Except the body on the ground can't possibly be producing such a powerful smell of decomposition. Dean pulls the sleeve of his Henley over his hand to cover his nose. The puddle of blood Bernadette's lying in doesn't even look like it's had time to dry yet. He crouches down to check for a pulse. She's cold, although not as cold as the body in the front office, and she's in full rigor mortis, but as far as he can tell, she hasn't been dead for long enough to stink this badly. Twelve hours at the most. ''Two bodies,'' he mutters to himself. He turns his head to look at Sam. ''Where's the other - ''

''Bathroom,'' Sam says. ''You shouldn't - ''

Dean ignores this completely, stomping past Bernadette to get to the bathroom. The only thing on his mind right now is Hanna Moretti. He pushes open the bathroom door, suppressing a gag when the overwhelming stench of decomposition smacks him in the face.

He looks at the body slumped in the bathtub. The throat has been slit from ear to ear. The spray from the carotid artery being sliced open has painted the grimy white tile with splotches of red. This body, given how it looks and the way it smells, has been dead for at least a few days. Long enough to bloat. Long enough for most of the blood to drain out of it, staining the clothes and pooling at the bottom of the tub. It's still gray-ish looking for now, but the skin is so pale, so translucent that it's almost see through. He turns his head to look at Laurel and Thea, pointing a warning finger at them and barking out a harsh, ''Stay there.''

Even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he inches closer to the tub. There is an unsettling look on the corpse's face. It's such a distinct, horrific look that he can see the expression even through all the decay. It's like something caught between horror and surprise. Her eyes are wide open in alarm and her mouth is open like she was trying to scream, either in pain or shock or for help. The way her hands are covered in blood suggests she tried to stem the bleeding and apply pressure to the wound. She wouldn't have had much time to do anything, but she still had time to feel fear, to realize that she was going to die and to attempt to live. Unlike the bedroom with it's overturned chairs and tables, the broken lamp and smashed TV, there is no evidence of a struggle in here.

Someone snuck up from behind her while she was bent over the bathtub - cleaning from the looks of it - slit her throat, and then stood there while she bled out, waiting until she stopped moving before posing her body in the bathtub like a gruesome doll. Or a warning. She never even knew what was happening.

Whoever she is.

''Motel maid, I think,'' Sam says, stopping in the bathroom doorway but keeping his eyes off the body. ''I'm thinking wrong place, wrong time.'' He uses his shirt to wipe Dean's prints off the doorknob.

''No,'' Dean shakes his head. He moves back out into the main room. ''They knew the Morettis were going to come here. This was a warning. Do what you're told or else.'' He looks back down at Bernadette's bludgeoned body. Now they know whose blood was on Marlene's dress. It was her mother's.

Laurel, from her spot in the doorway, says, ''Hanna?''

Dean shakes his head. ''Not here.''

Her shoulders sag in relief.

''That's the good news,'' Thea pipes up. ''She's not here. Which probably means she's alive, right? But why kill Bernadette? Why not just take her soul?''

''She obviously fought back,'' Sam says. ''Maybe the attacker had no choice.''

''Marlene's a powerful witch,'' Dean says. ''Mattie's told us that much. Bernadette was her mother. Makes sense she would be just as powerful. Maybe even more so. If she didn't like what they were doing - ''

''She'd be a threat,'' Laurel says.

''A big one.''

''She wouldn't like that,'' she says, nearly in a whisper. ''She doesn't like loose ends.''

He cuts his eyes to her sharply. That is the exact same thing Chad said earlier. Same words, same authoritative tone of voice, even the same vacant expression.

''How did they not notice the dead body in the bathroom?'' Thea asks, the sound of her voice tearing Dean's attention away from Laurel.

''I don't think there was time for that,'' Sam says. ''Bernadette's still got her coat on. Her purse is right next to her. I think they were attacked as soon as they stepped into the room.''

''Okay.'' Thea perches on the edge of the bed, looking pensive. ''So Marlene decides she doesn't want to be part of this anymore,'' she says. ''Fuck her husband and his brother, her priority is her kids. Except we have Mattie and there's no way she's leaving without her son. She brings her mother and Hanna here to lay low while she comes up with a plan.''

Dean's eyes follow Laurel as she wanders away from him and reluctantly crosses the threshold into the room, winding her arms around herself protectively and staying far away from the body of their former neighbor.

''But Siobhan's one step ahead of them,'' Thea goes on, ''and she's already placed her people here. We can assume Marlene was the first one in the door so she's the one that gets de-souled and possessed. Not Marlene goes after Bernadette, and Hanna... What?''

''Runs,'' Sam says easily. ''Bernadette put up a hell of a fight. Maybe part of that was to give Hanna time to escape.''

''Then she could be anywhere. We're right near the docks. The bus station. If she ran - ''

''She didn't run.''

All eyes go to Laurel. She bends down to pluck something that has been wedged between the wall and the television stand right beside the front door.

Dean recognizes what it is as soon as he sees it. ''Is that - ''

''Part of an insulin pump,'' Laurel confirms. She picks up a small black backpack from behind the open door. She unzips it and fishes out an inhaler. ''Hanna didn't leave here willingly.''

The fake front desk manager. It had to be. Even without that thing in him, he still had his orders. Dante is not a natural witch and with Bernadette dead, Mattie gone, and Marlene possessed, Hanna would be the only born witch left. And this woman has made it clear that she has plans for the Moretti witches. He looks at Thea, still perched on the bed, grimacing from the smell. ''You sure you checked all the rooms?''

She nods, certain. ''Every last one.''

''She has to be here.''

''Whatever's possessing Marlene,'' Laurel says. ''It must have stashed her somewhere when you two showed up.'' She puts the inhaler and the pieces of the broken insulin pump back in the backpack and zips it up. ''What about the laundry room?''

''Checked there,'' says Thea.

Sam asks, ''Did you check that old car in the front lot?''

''The Pontiac?'' Thea shrugs. ''I looked in the windows.''

''Okay,'' he says. ''But did you check in the trunk?''

.

.

.

The Hanna Moretti that Dean has come to know over the years is...well, not Hanna Moretti at all.

He knows Heather Denton. Heather, Hannah, whatever she wants to be called is a short, bubbly blonde with a cherubic face and Bambi eyes. She's eighteen now, although she still seems much younger both in looks and personality. She's always had an unflinching kindness to her, but she's shy. She can be nervous and fidgety. She's never been overly outgoing and extroverted the way her parents and brother are.

They throw their barbeques in the summer, invite people from work and school and the neighborhood, and she sits at the back of the pack with her grandmother, avoiding conversation.

He's never noticed any friends either. Her brother would bring friends home; groups of loud and obnoxious teenagers stomping up the front path, laughing and making the kind of smarmy comments that you only think are clever when you're a teenager and think it's cool to be pretentious. Hanna's never had that. She didn't have any obnoxious friends who trampled her mother's flowers and ate all the frozen pizza in the freezer. In fact, she actively seemed to avoid most people.

She's clearly close with her brother and she was her grandmother's shadow, but she was never gregarious and social. He wonders now if she really is shy or if she's just not as comfortable with the lie they've built.

Every afternoon, she walked home alone from the bus stop two blocks away, head in a book, earbuds in, and every day her grandmother greeted her from the front stoop. Every single day. If Dean happened to look out the window and see her walking by then he knew it was exactly 4:15pm.

There was a dog once. It was a grouchy mean old thing that used to growl and snarl and snap at everyone but Hanna. It was ancient and walked with a limp. Hanna used to sit out on the front stoop with her book during the summer Dean and Laurel moved into the neighborhood. She would sit there for hours with the same book and the dog's head in her lap, scratching behind its ears.

The dog died shortly after Christmas that year and Hanna never sat out on the front stoop again. It took Dean a long time to realize that the reason she sat out on the stoop that summer was because the dog was too old and frail to go for walks but she wanted it to be able to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy its last summer. Hanna is a sweetheart. A little mawkish and perhaps too timid for her own good, but sweet.

He gets the feeling she's been coddled by her family for most of her life. Whether that's because of her health issues or her status as the baby of the family, he doesn't know, but they all always have one eye on her. It's a recognizable set up. It's a tiresome cliché, Dean knows, for a man to automatically compare every young woman he meets to his daughter, but it's hard not to notice the striking similarities between Hanna and Mary.

Dean wants this girl to be okay. She's a liar and a witch, yeah, okay, but above all else, she's a kid. Her eighteenth birthday was in July. She hasn't even graduated high school yet. Her whole life is waiting for her.

Which is why it is so gut wrenching to open up the trunk of that old Pontiac and find her sprawled out in the trunk, motionless. She's ghostly pale, bleeding from the head, there's a piece of duct tape over her mouth, and her wrists and ankles are bound. Other than the head wound, which mostly looks superficial, there aren't any visible marks on her. He doesn't know if she suffocated, if the wound is worse than it looks, or if she had an asthma attack, but she's so pale and still.

''Hanna,'' Laurel's voice murmurs, right before she shoves him out of the way to get to the girl. ''Oh god, Hanna, sweetheart.'' She peels the duct tape off Hanna's mouth and grabs her face in her hands while Dean pulls his pocketknife out to cut away the bindings on the girl's wrists and ankles. ''Wait.'' Laurel's eyes widen slightly as her fingers trail down to Hanna's neck. ''Dean,'' she looks over at him. ''She has a pulse.''

.

.

.

On a sunny morning, Laurel wakes up in her old bedroom at her grandparents' house. This is very strange when you consider the fact that she has not lived in this bedroom since she was twelve and that her grandparents haven't lived in this house since she was twenty-four.

Also, they're dead.

Yet here she is.

1172 Sassafras Drive. Home. This is not a dream. This, she knows. This, she is sure of. She knows dreams. This is something else. Laurel crawls out of bed and looks around the room. Everything is how she remembers it. The walls are painted a soft lilac color. There is an army of stuffed animals on the bed. There are Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls posters plastered on the walls. Wonderwall is playing on the boom box, there are VHS copies of My Girl, Cinderella, and Jumanji on her bookshelf, and she knows that if she opens the bottom drawer of her desk, she'll find VHS copies of Waiting to Exhale and Clueless that her Aunt Natasha smuggled over to her.

She remembers this. She remembers home. She used to love living here. Her grandfather used to think it was hilarious that she, Laurel, lived on Sassafras Drive because sassafras is a type of laurel. He used to call her ''my little sassafras'' and she laughed every time because he laughed every time.

She's missed this place, this room, this home. She's missed it for a long time. Everything here seemed so simple. This was before depression, before panic attacks, before loss and trauma. She associates this place with innocence. She's aware that she has romanticized this time in her life, but when she thinks of the years she spent living at her grandparents' house, she thinks of the kind of innocent happiness that comes along with being a child. She thinks about how she hasn't felt that kind of uncomplicated joy since she was twelve years old.

On the boom box, Wonderwall ends, replaced by Fleetwood Mac. Her mother's favourite. Laurel closes her eyes and wonders, maybe, if the world will shift back to normal when she opens them. She loves this place, but this isn't right. She shouldn't be here. When she opens her eyes, she is still twenty years ago, and Stevie Nicks is still singing about the chain. She looks down at her outfit. She's still wearing her old baggy ripped SCU t-shirt and shorts and she's still covered in blood. Gross, but honestly probably better than her pajamas from 1996.

She looks at her reflection in the mirror on the back of her closet door. A few minutes ago, she was in 2016. The last thing she remembers is agreeing to be sedated, the pinch of the needle, and the feeling of the Midazolam kicking in. Now she's here. Healthy and unburdened.

Slowly, unsure of what exactly is on the other side, Laurel approaches her bedroom door. Nothing jumps out at her when she opens the door. She creeps through the hallway and heads for the staircase. It's when she's inching down the creaky stairs that she hears is. The music is playing in the kitchen too. She can hear it wafting through the house from that old radio Grandma kept in the kitchen. There is a voice singing along. She knows that voice. She's spent so long missing it.

She stops on the stairs, gripping the banister, breath caught in her throat. This isn't real. This can't be real. Her feet move on their own, hurrying down the stairs, body automatically guiding her through her grandparents' house until she reaches the kitchen.

There he is.

He has his back to her, he's still singing along to Fleetwood Mac, he's flipping pancakes, and he's alive. He's alive. Laurel stands frozen in the doorway, staring. She can't decide if she wants him to turn around or if she just wants him to keep singing. Something wells up in her chest and her throat; this primal, visceral thing.

''Tommy?''

He turns around to face her with a smile, and it's him. It's the same smile, the same sparkle in his eyes, same everything. ''Hey,'' he grins at her, that old familiar grin. She doesn't know how she's managed to refrain from bursting into tears. ''You're awake,'' he says, cheerful, happy, at ease. ''Hope you're hungry. I couldn't decide between pancakes and waffles so we're having a big breakfast.'' He laughs, motioning toward the heaping plate of waffles next to the plate of bacon and the pitcher of what looks like freshly squeezed grapefruit juice on the table. She barely notices the waffles or the juice or the smell of freshly brewed coffee or the vase of daisies in the middle of the table.

Tommy laughs again and it's three years ago and they're pulling his body out of the rubble. That was the last time she ever saw his face. Dean and Sam were the ones who pulled the body from the wreckage. He wasn't a priority for the rescue workers that night because he was already gone and resources needed to be saved for people who were still alive. But Dean wouldn't leave without him. Or couldn't. She's not sure which. Tommy didn't look broken. He didn't look dead. He just looked like Tommy. She never saw him again.

He seems to notice the tears welling up in her eyes because the cheerfulness is quickly replaced by concern. He abandons the half cooked pancakes, flipping the stove off and putting the spatula down. ''Laurel?'' He steps over to her and takes her hands in his. ''What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.''

She wants to laugh. She stares down at his hands holding onto hers. ''How,'' her voice cracks. She looks up at him slowly, half expecting him to be gone, fading from her imagination. ''How are you here right now?''

''What?'' He tilts his head to the side, confused. ''What do you mean?''

''You...'' She stops. She looks around the kitchen. Everything looks exactly the same as it did when she was a kid. The same tablecloth on the table, same ancient cookie jar on the counter, trinkets lining the windowsill, hand sewn floral curtains that the bright sunlight shines through in the mornings. Even the plates set out for breakfast are those same ones with the ugly green and blue pattern on them. The kitchen is wildly dated, but it's home to her, from the blue tea towels to the magnets on the fridge.

Tommy has never been in this kitchen.

He wouldn't know where anything is. Nevertheless, here he is, making breakfast, bringing out those little salt and pepper shakers shaped like Santa and Mrs. Claus that Grandma always put out, even when it wasn't Christmas, the creamer shaped like a cow, working the ancient coffee maker that nobody but Grandpa could ever work. Tommy exists here like it's somehow his. Like this is his home. It's not right. It's not factual.

''You can't be here,'' she says.

''I can't?'' He seems amused by that. He gets this teasing look on his face like this is all a big joke that she's forgotten she's in on. ''I'd let you make breakfast, but we both know that's not a good idea.''

''Tommy,'' she whispers. She doesn't want to say it and have all this collapse around her. ''You died.''

He doesn't look shocked by this. He softens and she watches the smile slip off his face. ''Laurel,'' he squeezes her hands in reassurance. ''Where do you think you are right now?''

She doesn't understand at first. She has been dead before. She knows what it looks like. She knows where she'll go. The afterlife, her afterlife, is sunshine and a lake, an old farmhouse with a veranda, a big garden for her to tend to, and Henry. It's not this. But then she thinks...

It would make sense if it was. It would make sense for her Heaven to be Grandma and Grandpa's house on Sassafras Drive with the floral curtains, the Spice Girls poster, the salt and pepper shakers, Fleetwood Mac, and Tommy. It would make sense if it all came back to him. ''I'm...'' Reluctantly, she pulls away from him. She looks around the comforting nostalgia of the kitchen. She thinks of how safe and loved she felt in this home. Then she thinks of Mary. ''No.'' She shakes her head. ''No, I can't be. I just came back. I just came home.''

Tommy says, ''I'm sorry.'' He doesn't say anything more.

''That's it then? I'm dead again?''

''You're with me.''

She wants him to say something else. She wants him to tell her that this is a dream. That she'll wake up. That she can go home. She loves Tommy. She always will. He made her life so much more just by being in it and it's less now that he's gone. There will always be an empty place at her table for him. But she has a child. She has a family. She already left them once.

Tommy inches his way into her personal space until he is close enough that she can feel the heat coming off his body. ''Haven't you missed me?''

''Of course I've missed you,'' she murmurs. ''You have no idea how much.'' She leans into him, resting her forehead against his. She tries to be okay. If this is the afterlife, she tries to find the peace that should be here. She feels guilty for thinking it but this feels so wrong somehow. ''I can't leave,'' she whispers shakily, pulling away. ''I'm not ready.''

''I know how you feel,'' he says. ''I wasn't ready either. I understand how hard it is to leave them. But everything's going to be okay.'' He smiles at her again, that same boyish smile she remembers, and he wraps his arms around her in a hug. For a second, she melts. She closes her eyes and allows herself to relax into his embrace because it's Tommy. It's been so long. Above all else, he was her best friend and she's missed him. He carried pieces of her that no one else can touch. He knew things about her that she's never even told Dean.

When you love someone, they take a part of you with them when they go. She has been an incomplete puzzle for years now. ''You'll be safe here with me,'' Tommy tells her. ''We can be happy. There's no hurt here. There's no pain. We can just have this.''

It would be so easy to give into that. It would be so easy to stay.

''Tommy,'' she murmurs, but can't bring herself to pull away. ''I - I have a family.''

He is the one who ends up drawing away, placing his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes. ''They'll be okay,'' he says. ''They'll survive.'' It sounds...oddly callous for Tommy.

''I can't,'' she insists. ''I have to get back. I'm sorry. I love you.'' She smiles weakly. She can't describe how it feels to say that to him. Those three words have weighed her down for years. That was the last thing he said to her and she never had a chance to say it back. He knew, she knows he knew, but it feels good to say it. To make sure he hears it. ''I love you so much,'' she says. ''But I can't stay here. You know that. I have to get back to Mary. I... I don't want to die.''

He looks at her for a second, expression unreadable. Then he huffs and steps away from her. It's not the expected reaction. It feels wrong. She feels like Tommy would be proud of her for saying that with such conviction. He's not. He looks almost irritated. ''Don't you?''

''What?''

He looks unconcerned with the hurt he's caused. ''Don't look so confused. You wanted to die before, didn't you?'' He says it so easily. He says it like it means nothing. ''Don't lie to me,'' he warns. His voice is so uncharacteristically harsh that she reflexively flinches. ''I know you. I know what you've done.''

''What I've...'' She looks around the kitchen. She knows every inch of this place. Except she doesn't. She looks back at him and instantly feels her hurt and her growing terror turn cold. She doesn't know every inch of him either. ''You're not Tommy.''

His lips pull back into a grin. It is not Tommy's grin. ''No. But you knew that already. You just wanted me to be him.'' His entire body language just seems to fall away. He seems taller somehow. Tommy was never this intimidating. This person may have his face, but this is not Tommy. Just like this is not her grandparents' kitchen. And not the afterlife.

She squares her shoulders. ''I'm not really dead, am I?''

A laugh. It sounds cruel. It doesn't fit with the man she loved. ''You're sleeping.''

''So this is a dream?''

''This is...'' There's a pause and then the person wearing Tommy's face smiles that fake looking smile again. ''A meeting. I thought it was about time we had a chat.''

Oh.

It's her.

Laurel doesn't say anything. Not because she has nothing to say but because she's too angry. She can feel that clawing in her throat, that pang in her chest. If she opens her mouth, she will scream. She watches the witch casually move around the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down at the table like nothing's wrong.

''I've been calling you,'' the witch says, still wearing Tommy's face, still smiling his smile.

Laurel clenches her fists. ''Calling me,'' she echoes flatly.

''You and I,'' the witch says, ''We have a connection. Can't you feel that?'' She gestures to the other seat at the table, but Laurel doesn't move. ''Come on,'' the witch prods. ''You can't tell me you haven't noticed. That little nagging tug inside? That bone deep ache? That's me, sweetheart.''

Laurel unclenches her fists slowly. ''The nightmares,'' she whispers. ''That was you?'' Her only confirmation is a smile. ''Why? Why are we connected?'' The only thing she gets in return is a shrug. She narrows her eyes. ''Who are you?'

''A friend,'' is the answer given.

She can't help the short burst of incredulous laughter that rips from her throat. ''A friend,'' she says. ''This is how you treat your friends?''

''I gave you life,'' the witch snaps.

''I woke up underground,'' Laurel spits out. ''I had to claw my way out of my grave. I have scars on my hands from my own fucking casket slicing through my hands.''

''You're being dramatic.''

''Fuck you.''

Tommy's lips split into a wide grin.

Laurel has to look away. She crosses her arms and tries to distance herself from this whole thing. ''Is Siobhan your real name?''

''I've had a lot of names over the years,'' the witch says, taking a sip of the imaginary coffee. ''You can call me that, if you'd like. I was going by Elle before this. I've also gone by Alice and Katherine in the past. And Dorothy. I'll tell you, that one was not my favourite. You can call me whatever you want,'' the witch shrugs. ''Take your pick. Names don't matter all that much to me.''

''What's your real name? Actually, better question: What's your real face? Are you ever going to show me?''

The expression the witch puts on Tommy's face is strangely gentle. Almost pitying in a way. ''You're not ready for that.''

Laurel laughs again. She's going for mocking this time. ''Please,'' she sneers. ''Don't be patronizing. This isn't about shielding me. This is about protecting yourself.''

Tommy's face darkens into something she's never seen before on his face and never wants to see again. ''You want me to look like someone else? That's fine. I can change it up.'' The witch smiles, perfectly pleasant, and Laurel watches as Tommy's face wobbles and twists unnaturally, shifting into someone else.

She tries not to react. She tries to keep it together, but she can't help the automatic reaction. Her mouth opens and she takes a step back, immediately darting her eyes away from the person sitting in front of her.

''Is this better?'' Her grandmother's voice asks her. ''Does this hurt less?''

Laurel doesn't answer.

''Sit down,'' Grandma's voice orders, stern, no room for argument.

Laurel, programmed to respond to that voice without question, sits down. She ignores the nausea gnawing away in her stomach. Out of spite and bitterness, she looks right at the witch across from her. She thinks her hands might be shaking, she knows her cheeks are burning, and it hurts beyond words to have to look at her beloved grandmother's face like this, but she is not going to cower. If this Hocus Pocus reject expects her to be afraid then she is going to be disappointed.

Fear is earned.

In her life, Laurel has been beaten, abused, kidnapped, degraded, mocked, bullied, talked down to, and finally, murdered. She was thrown away like yesterday's trash. This twisted psychological warfare is nothing.

''That's better. Now,'' the witch says calmly. ''Let's talk about this like adults.''

''Talk about what?''

''This spell,'' she says. ''It's draining you. My fault.'' She raises Grandma's hands in apology. ''I never should've trusted that family of idiots to get the job done. Bernadette Weber was one of the most powerful witches of her time. I expected better from her.'' She takes another sip of the coffee. ''But it doesn't matter now. It's already done. The only thing that matters is that I can fix it.''

Laurel chews on the inside of her cheek. ''How?''

''By giving you your freedom.''

''What does that mean?''

''Right now, the spell is doing something it wasn't designed to do,'' the witch explains. ''It wasn't meant to sustain your soul. It was only meant to sustain your body. If I can get it to do what it was meant to do, you'll feel better.'' Her impression of Grandma is far better than her impression of Tommy. She has her body language, her voice, her expressions, even her mannerisms. It's so hard not to fall into the trap. ''You won't be sick anymore. You'll be stronger. You'll be amazing, Star.''

''Don't,'' Laurel snarls out. ''Don't call me that. You're not her.'' She glares, digging her fingers into her arms. ''You want to take my soul.''

The witch does not disagree. ''I want to help you find peace.''

Laurel wants to laugh at that, but she doesn't have the energy anymore. ''Why would you care about my peace?''

''I don't like loose ends,'' the witch says. There's an edge to what she says that doesn't fit with Grandma's voice. ''You won't be like the others,'' she tries, as if that is somehow a selling point. ''I want you to have more than that. You deserve more than that.'' It sounds sincere, but that might just be the face she's using. ''I can give you peace. I can give you an entire lifetime of happiness. Uncomplicated and unending joy while your soul rests. I can give you Tommy.''

Laurel is almost offended, to be honest. The only thing she's being offered here is a false reality. A fake happy ending. How could anyone think she'd want that? How could anyone think that would be enough to make her want to sign her body over to some as of yet unidentified witch? She drops her gaze down to the table, reaching one hand up to rub at the back of her neck uncomfortably.

''Of course, it doesn't have to be Tommy,'' the witch adds on, as if she can sense Laurel's hesitance. ''Maybe you'd rather be with someone else,'' she says, and just like that, Grandma is gone. ''I can give you that,'' Dean's voice says. ''A whole lifetime together, Laur.''

She presses her lips together so tightly it hurts at the sound of the nickname. She refuses to look up.

''You and me,'' his voice says. ''We'll live the life we were supposed to have before all this. We'll grow old together.''

The real Dean is out there in the real world, waiting for her to wake up. He wants to live in a house in the woods with her. He wants to live near the water just because he knows she likes it. He wants to raise their daughter with her. Have more kids. Give her a garden. Maybe get a dog. He wants to grow old with her. This illusion of Dean cannot give her anything she wants. What she wants is to go home. That's her life. She doesn't want anything else.

She looks up at the fake Dean. ''None of it would be real,'' she says. ''Why would I accept that?''

''Reality is overrated.''

''What about Mary? I'm just supposed to leave her behind?''

''Mary will be fine,'' the witch says. Her impression of Dean leaves something to be desired. ''She has her father, doesn't she? He's been her primary parent for her entire life. Think of this as a win/win. You get to live a happy life. Mary gets to be with a parent who can actually care for her.''

''I'm her mother.''

''Sure.'' A slow, very cold smile stretches across Dean's face. It doesn't look anything like him. Doesn't sound much like him either. ''But not much of one, are you?'' The witch pauses for a moment to look Laurel over. Then she switches tactics. ''I think you're a lot more like your mother than you realize.''

Laurel stares back, unimpressed.

''You knew,'' the witch says. ''You always knew that you were going to be a terrible mother, but you brought that little girl into the world anyway. Because you were lonely. Because you knew Dean was going to leave you and you needed something to force him to stay with you.''

''What?'' Laurel can't help but rear back at that. ''No,'' she says, adamant. ''No, that's not why I - ''

''You were right,'' the witch smirks. ''What kind of a mother are you now? You're just some barely there ghost, haunting their lives, complicating things, getting in the way, either too busy or too broken or too sick to be a parent.''

''That's - That's not true.''

''Isn't it?''

Laurel looks away from her grandmother's face and moves her gaze to the salt and pepper shakers on the table. Or tries to. She looks at the spot where they were sitting only moments ago, and there's nothing. No vintage salt and pepper shakers. No cow shaped dish for the coffee cream. All the food that was on the table is gone. The coffee cup the witch was just drinking from has disappeared. The table is empty. She looks up at the witch, into Dean's vacant eyes.

''Look at the choices you've made,'' his voice says. ''You put yourself in harm's way knowing you had a daughter at home. You made enemies. You created a dangerous life for her.'' It's not him, she knows it's not him, it's so clear that it's not him, but this is still his voice throwing her greatest fears back at her. It's hard to ignore that. ''And you chased that danger right to your grave,'' says the witch. ''Whether you want to accept it or not, the truth is that Black Canary was the choice you made to leave them.'' The witch stands up, towering over her in Dean's body. ''Did you ever truly stop wanting to die?'' The witch circles Laurel slowly, staring down at her in disgust. ''Or was this whole delusion of heroism thing just you committing suicide so slowly that no one noticed?''

Laurel slouches farther down in her seat. On the counter top, that decrepit toaster that Grandpa refused to get rid of until it caught on fire blinks in and out of existence and then disappears altogether. There is a laugh from behind her, her husband's laugh, and then the witch leans in closer to her from behind. So close that Laurel can smell that familiar coconut shampoo. Dean does not use coconut shampoo.

But Sara does.

Her shoulder slump.

''Let's talk about your stint as the Black Canary,'' her sister whispers in her ear. ''Remind me again how long you lasted. A year, was it?'' About fifteen months, actually. ''One year before you got skewered. Another thing you did to yourself. God, how pathetic.'' Sara - no, no it's not Sara - laughs. ''In the end, your misplaced arrogance was what killed you. You ever think about it?''

Yes. All the time.

''You think you were some kind of hero?'' The witch who is not Sara drifts into Laurel's line of vision. ''What difference did you make to this broken city? You and your ridiculous little mask and your sad little suit. You really thought you meant something?'' She scoffs. ''You didn't. Think you proved that last April, didn't you? You walked into that prison with nothing but your self-righteous recklessness and your shitty combat skills and all you got was dead.''

''Are we nearing your point?'' Laurel meets Not Sara's eyes and holds her cool gaze. ''Or do you just like to hear yourself talk?''

The witch laughs. She seems to get a real kick out of that one. ''You were asking for it,'' she says. ''Do you know that? What you were - What you are is a failed experiment. Might as well start over. Wipe the slate clean. This world is not for you. So let me give you a better one.''

''While you do what with my body?'' Laurel manages to muster up her own harsh smirk. ''This isn't about my peace. You want the Canary Cry.''

''I want,'' the witch hisses, ''what's mine.''

''I am not yours.'' Laurel rises to her feet. She ignores the way the table and chairs flicker in and out. ''How do you know all this about me?''

The witch somehow looks surprised at that. Like she expected Laurel to have it all figured out by now. ''I've been watching you,'' she admits. ''I've been behind you every step of the way for a long time.'' She says this almost as if it is a kindness. ''I knew what would happen to you one day. I knew we could help each other.''

Laurel cocks her head to the side. She looks at her sister's face. She tries to look past the surface, beyond the eyes she knows, to the person underneath the mask. All she sees is Sara. ''Why are you doing this? Why go to all this trouble? You're making an army of soulless people. You're bound and determined to get my scream. Why? What do you need all this for?''

''This is a dangerous world, Laurel,'' the witch says with a chuckle. ''Every woman needs a good security system.''

''Oh, bullshit.'' Laurel rolls her eyes. ''You need me for something.''

It's the wrong thing to say.

The other woman, leaning casually against the kitchen counter, glowers. She looks impatient. She looks over at the floral curtains slowly fading out of existence. She's quiet for a long time.

There is a creeping feeling of dread tickling the back of Laurel's neck, sending shivers down her spine, making her heart drop into her stomach. The air around her seems to be thinning, growing colder and colder somehow, until she can see her breath in little smoky wisps in front of her. Something tickles at her bare feet and when she looks down, there is grass growing out of the floor. She looks up, watching her grandparents' kitchen slowly begin to fade away. A harsh, freezing cold wind is whipping through her hair and she can no longer smell coffee and bacon. And then she's not in the kitchen anymore.

She's outside, in the dark, alone in the graveyard they put her in. She whirls around when she feels something brush past her, but there's nothing there. Just her own grave. Untouched and intact. It's a cruel little trick. Putting her here. Although fairly unoriginal.

''I've known people like you before,'' the witch says from behind her.

Laurel sighs heavily. She turns around and finds herself staring at...herself. She looks at the mirror image of herself for a moment, looking at the bloodstained and ripped blue dress, the dirt streaked hair, the bloody, wounded fingers, the pale skin and dark circles under her eyes. She's not shocked by this trick. This is how she imagines herself all the time. This image is hard to shake. She's been home for two weeks and she still hasn't been able to get away from this night. ''People like me?''

''People so broken and so hollow inside that they can't tell up from down, right from wrong, dead from alive. So fucked up that you can't even see all the destruction you've caused or how much better things would be without you.'' The witch is clearly expecting more of a reaction from that, but she's not going to get one.

If she wanted a reaction, she should've chosen a different face. Laurel has heard all of this before from her own voice. She has chronic depression, probably some super low self-esteem, and she had a nervous breakdown. She's said and thought a lot of nasty things about herself.

''You numb yourself with drugs and alcohol because you can't take the pain and you don't even care about how it affects your family,'' the witch sneers. ''Do you think Dean enjoys being your caretaker? You think he likes having to scrape your sorry ass off the floor? You think he likes having some useless lump for a wife? Do you honestly think he doesn't feel resentful sometimes? You're a drain, and you know it.'' The witch inches closer. ''You act like you're okay, but you're not. You know you're not, you know you never will be because you can't be. It's not how you're wired.'' She twists Laurel's face up into something cruel and sadistic.

The things she's saying are probably supposed to sting more. They're probably supposed to be breaking her. All Laurel can think is that she hopes she doesn't look like this wicked when she's talking. She hopes she's not this much of a patronizing asshole.

''All that pain,'' her own voice coos out, ''and it's turned you selfish. All you care about is yourself. What's good for you. How to fix your hurt. How to make yourself feel better. How to feel, even for a second, like you matter because deep down, you know you don't.''

Laurel stares at her doppelganger. ''Do you think you're telling me something I don't know? Do you think giving my depression a voice is going to – what? Make me give in?''

''You keep making these selfish choices,'' the witch shakes her head. ''You keep hurting everyone around you, pulling them into your brokenness, dragging them under the water with you because you're scared to be alone. How is that fair? What a burden you must be to them. Even now. You know Dean is going to do everything he can to save you. No matter the cost. You know that and you could stop him, you could save him, but you don't want to die so you're just going to let him bury himself. You're going to let him do all the work and walk into dangerous situations and eventually, honey,'' a bloodthirsty smile crosses her lips, ''he's going to walk straight into me. Is that what you want?''

''If you touch him - ''

''What? What will you do?'' The other her taunts. ''Listen,'' she leans in close. ''Here's a piece of friendly advice: Do the right thing. Turn yourself over. Don't let me hurt him. Stop me, Dinah Laurel. The Black Canary is dead,'' she says, nodding to the grave. ''Let her rest. You're not a hero. Not a martyr or a saint. You're sick. You've always been sick. Sooner or later, you have to cut the sickness out before it can spread. The only way to save them is to leave them.''

Laurel offers up a rueful smile. She ignores the shiver running down the back of her neck. ''All this just to get me to turn myself over to you?'' She licks her lips. ''I'm flattered. Really.'' She looks back at her grave. There is a smiling picture of herself on the headstone. She looks happy. ''What if I'm not as weak as you think I am?''

''Oh,'' the witch laughs. ''I'm not worried about that. You will come to me eventually.''

''How can you be so sure?''

The witch smiles once again, almost serenely. She doesn't answer the question but she takes the last step forward, reaching one hand out to grasp onto Laurel's arm. She leans in close, her breath unnaturally cold against Laurel's neck, and she whispers, over the strange sound of buzzing that starts quiet and then begins to grow louder and louder with every breath the witch takes, ''I'll be seeing you, Canary,'' and then the buzzing noise grows deafening, everything goes white -

- and Laurel wakes up.

.

.

.

There is still blood on the bedroom floor.

That is all Laurel can think when she steps into her unnervingly quiet and empty house. Her blood is still splattered all over her bedroom floor. She should clean that up before Mary gets home. It's not something anyone needs to see. Except her hands are already red and raw from scrubbing blood and she's so tired. She feels like she could sleep for a thousand years and still feel exhausted upon waking. She's going to assume that means whatever Mattie did to her is wearing off. Not unexpected. A witchy Red Bull seems like way too easy of a fix for this particular issue.

The house is calm when she steps inside. Nobody runs to greet her, the television isn't on, there's no music playing, she can't hear their crappy washing machine thumping away from all the way on the other side of the house. The quiet is out of the realm of normalcy for her family. It's uncomfortable. She has forgotten how to live in quiet.

Sam is the one who winds up taking her and Thea home. He doesn't stay long. Just long enough to drop them off and ask her no less than four times if she's sure she's okay. He'd stay longer, he says, but...

She assures him she understands and ushers him out the door because he has things to do. He's going to go burn a body. After Dean rushed Hanna off to the hospital, everyone was left scrambling to come up with a way to handle this. Eventually it was decided that all traces of the Moretti family needed to be wiped from the Bull's Eye motel. It was a big production. Fingerprints were wiped, security cameras were lifted, and Bernadette's body was moved. The motel maid, the real front desk manager, and the soulless man - They have families. People who love them and presumably would want to know what happened to them. Their deaths need to be called in.

Nobody liked what they had to do today. Her father was incredibly bitter about it. John seemed sickened by it. She can understand their reactions. They're honest men. She thinks, on a better day, she would have felt sick over it too. She mostly just felt tired today. She felt surprisingly desensitized. She never expected to be down on her knees in some sketchy motel, scrubbing her neighbor's blood while her brother in law cut up the carpet and rolled the body of her dead neighbor in it, but that's what happened today. That's her life. Not what she thought her life would be like, but none of this is what she thought her life would be like.

Life rarely happens the way you think it's going to.

Four years ago, in November of 2012, her biggest hurdle was that she had a two week old daughter who never slept, she couldn't figure out breastfeeding, and her hormones were out of control.

Now she's cleaning up other people's blood, she has some kind of destructive superpower, she had some kind of weird dream that wasn't a dream where her apparent arch nemesis tried to fuck with her head, and she's recently come back from the dead via witchcraft after being brutally murdered.

Also, she's dying.

Definitely didn't see any of that coming.

She wishes she could go back to four years ago. She'd much rather be dealing with a crying infant and engorged breasts. At least there's a light at the end of that tunnel.

After Sam leaves, she's mostly on her own. Thea keeps looking at her nervously like she's afraid she's going to drop dead at any moment - which, to be fair, is not an entirely unfounded concern - but she's also busy fielding phone calls, trying to stay updated about the current situation, and trying to get a hold of Dean.

Laurel is able to slip away pretty quick, ducking down the hall to the laundry room. She methodically fills up a bucket with warm soapy water and grabs a sponge.

It's a strange feeling to be actively dying.

Last time this happened, she was drugged. Death didn't really register the way it should have. She knew. Somewhere deep down, she knew. She just wasn't really capable of feeling much other than a quiet longing and fear that was buried underneath sedatives and painkillers. Actually, come to think of it, she's drugged this time too, isn't she? And she honestly doesn't feel as much as she should. She feels like she should be feeling...more. More pain, more anguish, more fear. Just more. She mostly feels numb. Maybe a little feverish. And she's majorly craving a Xanax. Or three.

Laurel hauls the bucket of water down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She sets the bucket of water down on the ground and then proceeds to stare at the splatter of blood on the ground. She doesn't think she has the energy to clean that up right now.

With a heavy sigh, she sinks onto the edge of the bed and looks down at her hands. They're trembling. They've been trembling ever since the motel. She looks over at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She doesn't look good. Her face is still bruised from the fight yesterday afternoon and she's sickly and sallow looking. Haunted, would be one way to describe it.

If she lies down and tries to rest, will she wake up? Will she get to see her daughter again? She feels like those thoughts are overdramatic. She is not going to die. Someone will figure out something. She should be thinking positively. It's just so hard not to let her mind go there.

The last time she saw her daughter was last night. Mary wet the bed. She was so embarrassed and so upsettingly mad at herself. She kept saying, ''I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I promise.'' Laurel kept assuring her it was no big deal and Dean kept telling her that no one was mad and that everything was okay, but Mary was so upset that she just cried. Laurel stayed with her until she fell asleep. Sang Sea of Love and rubbed her belly. She figured she would gently reiterate that accidents happen today. Now she might not get the chance.

She looks away from her frail reflection. She frowns down at her shaking hands. Nothing is finished here. She's not finished. She feels like she's barely done anything since she came back. She hasn't spent enough time with her father. Her relationship with her mother is in tatters. She and Sara haven't had any real meaningful conversations because they've both been tiptoeing around each other, half afraid to even look at each other in case the other disappeared. She and Dean have been quietly inching toward possibly talking about having another baby - and they also have a brand new issue to deal with his lying. She promised Mary she wouldn't leave. She promised her that yesterday.

She looks at the pictures on top of the dresser. The photographs tucked into the vanity mirror. She's always done her best to keep this house inundated with pictures. She wanted Mary to be able to look back and remember. Now she can't help but notice that she's not in a lot of them. In this room, there's a picture of her and Mary on her nightstand and a picture of her, Sara, and all their cousins from when she was about seven years old on the vanity, half hidden by a picture of Dean and Mary, but that's about it. She doesn't even have wedding pictures the way other people have wedding pictures. They didn't have a photographer. There's only about three pictures in existence. One of them is of Laurel, taken after the ceremony. She still had on that flower crown that Iris made her and she had put her big cable knit cardigan on over her wedding dress. And she was laughing. She doesn't remember what she was laughing about, but Dean snapped a picture of her on his phone. It's still his favourite picture of her. It's also the picture they put on her gravestone.

It's in Mary's room now. Framed and on her dresser. It didn't used to be, not back in April. Dean must have put it in there sometime after...

It's good that Mary has that picture.

She still wishes there were more of her and Mary together. Parents don't think about that. They're so busy capturing pictures of their child that they forget to think about what their kids will have left when they're gone. Mary will not have much. A few pictures but not enough, memories that will dull around the edges with time, and an uncontrollable scream inside of her that may or may not be triggered at some point in her life.

In the end, that's really all Laurel will leave behind for her daughter. Doesn't seem like much.

She rises to her unsteady feet. She searches through the drawers of her vanity, then moves to her dresser, and then her nightstand. She manages to scrounge up a yellow legal pad and a pen. She sits down at her vanity and scratches the words Dear Mary at the top of the page. Then she stops. What can she say? What is there to say beyond I love you more than words can say?

Mary is four years old. Her entire life is laid out before her, and there is a chance Laurel could miss all of it. Even if she survives this, she could still die at any moment. She used to think about that from time to time. She had a will. She planned out all the logistics. But she never thought about the emotional repercussions of her death. About what Mary would go through. She never thought about all the things she would miss. She didn't want to. Now she can't stop.

It's November. If she dies, she'll miss Christmas. Sara's birthday. New Year's. Dean and Thea's birthdays. She'll miss first days of school, birthdays, graduations, weddings, scraped knees, heartbreaks, grandchildren. Everything. All of it.

How does she fit everything she won't be around to say into one measly little letter?

Laurel puts the pen down and stares at the yellow paper until her eyes blur. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. She's not going to die anyway. She's just getting herself worked up for nothing. There are other things she should be doing right now. She should call Dean for an update on Hanna's condition. Figure out what the hell that soul sucking thing in Marlene's body is.

There's a soft by forceful knock on the door and Laurel jumps, turning her head just as Nyssa pokes her head into the room. Laurel quickly flips the notepad over and attempts a smile. ''Hi,'' she greets. ''You guys bring Mary home?''

''I did,'' Nyssa says, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. ''Charlie is...'' She pauses, blinking. ''Helping Sam.''

Oh, right. The body burning. ''That's...'' Sounds like a fun family activity. ''Very selfless of her.'' She clears her throat. ''Um, how was Mary? Did she sleep much after Thea dropped her off?''

Nyssa lips turn up into a half amused, half annoyed smirk. ''Not a wink.''

''Oh,'' Laurel nods. ''Wonderful.''

''She's had a morning,'' Nyssa says. ''We ordered room service and she cried because her bacon was touching her pancakes. Then she cried because we told her Aida was sleeping and couldn't play with her. She did like the Jacuzzi in our hotel room,'' she says. ''And the robes.''

''Yes, she likes luxury,'' Laurel says, and then deadpans, ''She gets that from her father.''

''But then she cried because we made her get dressed instead of bringing her home naked.''

''Well, who doesn't prefer to be naked really?''

''Charlie bought her a book of stickers,'' Nyssa tells her. ''She seems quite taken with them. She's currently calm.''

Laurel chuckles. ''She does love stickers.''

Nyssa doesn't say anything else but her gaze darts around the room and when she spots the blood on the floor, she stills.

Shit.

Laurel gets to her feet as fast as she can - which is not very fast at this particular moment in time - and rushes to block the blood. ''I - I meant to clean that up,'' she says. She bends down to grab the sponge from where it's fallen to the ground and has to bite back a hiss of pain when a searing pain practically bowls her over. It's right where her scar is. She does try to hide it, but given that her current companion is Nyssa, attempting to hide anything is futile.

''Laurel,'' Nyssa snaps out, voice firm and commanding as always. She steals the sponge and none too gently pushes her down to sit on the bed. ''You should be resting. I will clean this up.'' She frowns over her shoulder at the bucket of soapy water. ''Cleaning up blood takes more than soap and water,'' she points out. ''You need bleach.''

''Oh,'' Laurel says tonelessly. ''Right. I knew that.'' It's not like she's just spent hours scrubbing blood or anything. She rubs at her side absently and then shakes her head with a frown. ''Rest won't help me,'' she mumbles. She lifts her eyes to look up at Nyssa. She looks so strangely cautious standing there with her hands clasped in front of her, looking at her with a mixture of sadness and trepidation. ''You know.''

''I've been informed of the ongoing situation,'' Nyssa says crisply. She doesn't push any further. Doesn't ask any questions. She doesn't expect anything. It's a relief.

Laurel cocks her head to the side and looks at her for a moment, trying to study the look on the other woman's face. As usual, Nyssa remains inscrutable. ''Can I ask you a question?''

Nyssa arches an eyebrow. ''Always.''

''Do you know how I died?''

The question appears to catch Nyssa off guard. There is a split second of anguish in her eyes before she hardens her features and says, ''I do.''

Laurel nods thoughtfully. She hadn't meant to ask that question so abruptly. She hadn't even meant to bring this up right now. There's a good chance she probably wouldn't have ever brought it up. But she's running on borrowed time, you see. ''Do you think...'' She pauses. ''If I'd had more training - ''

''It would not have mattered,'' says Nyssa. She doesn't look surprised by the question, but she does look mildly annoyed that such a question is necessary. ''What happened to you had nothing to do with your training. He used magic. He could have taken any one of you.''

''But he chose me,'' Laurel says. She has thought about that a lot since coming back. The fact that Damien Darhk picked her. Deliberately chose her to slaughter. How do you not think about that? A megalomaniac douchebag chose her to be his victim. She was marked for death the second he stepped into town, the moment he chose her father to manipulate and blackmail, and she didn't even know it. She spent months dying and she didn't even realize it. It's hard not to wonder if there was something about her that made her an easy target. Especially after everything that's happened today. ''It was always going to be me. From the very beginning.''

''Yes,'' Nyssa says simply. ''It was. That does not mean it was about you. He wanted - ''

''To punish my father and Oliver,'' Laurel says. ''I know. I spent my last night on earth being dehumanized and turned into a pawn in some game where the rules kept changing.'' She laughs, even though it's not funny, because how can she not? It's an utterly ridiculous scenario. Being murdered for literally no reason other than to make the men in her life feel bad about it. Except it's not that ridiculous. It's her reality. ''I know that it's not my fault,'' she says lowly. ''I know that. It's just sometimes I wonder.''

''If you could have stopped him?''

''If maybe Oliver's right.''

Nyssa seems to find that concept extremely amusing. ''One thing I have learned about Oliver Queen in the time we've spent together over the years is that he is rarely right. He may try, but he is not the most luminescent candle on the candelabra.''

Laurel lets out a small, stunned laugh. ''I suppose that's one way to put it. I guess I'm…'' She shrugs. ''I'm still trying to make sense of everything. Maybe I just want there to be a reason for what happened. And you have to admit, if someone with Oliver's training or Sara's training had been in my position that night...'' She runs a hand through her hair in a fruitless attempt to fluff up her limp hair. ''I don't know. What if he knew I was the weakest? Maybe I made a mistake.''

Nyssa narrows her eyes. She doesn't seem to like where this is headed. ''With what?''

''With this. With all of this.'' Laurel will admit that she doesn't think she would have been thinking any of this yesterday, but yesterday seems like it was another lifetime ago. Before that witch brought all those nasty little insecurities right back to the forefront of her mind. ''Becoming Black Canary. Maybe I wasn't cut out for it.''

''Laurel,'' Nyssa's voice is hard and sharp. She sounds exasperated and her expression has darkened considerably. ''I trained you.''

Laurel snaps her jaw shut, slightly intimidated by the harsh fervor in Nyssa's voice.

''Your husband trained you,'' Nyssa continues. ''Ted Grant trained you. Are you suggesting we are all somehow inferior to Oliver Queen?''

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

''You have been taking self-defense classes since you were fourteen.''

''I know that.''

''You have a background in gymnastics.''

''I don't understand what you're - ''

''You're fit. Healthy. Young. You have training. You have firsthand knowledge of the violence this city is clogged with. You have been trained by experts in their fields. You were ready,'' Nyssa says fiercely. ''There will always be room for improvement and I admit that you do not always move as fluidly as you could - I believe due to the restrictions of your suit. Leather is an unforgiving fabric. You should have known that. …But you were more than ready.'' She looks completely and utterly incensed that Laurel is even bothering to question herself. ''I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for what you've been through, but I will not sit here and listen to you question not only yourself but my capabilities as a teacher.''

''I wasn't questioning your - ''

Nyssa doesn't let her finish. ''Has Oliver said something to you?''

''No. He didn't say anything to me.'' Laurel doesn't offer more of an explanation. She's not sure how to explain that a witch infiltrated her mind. She gets the feeling Nyssa would not be overly shocked to hear such an outlandish tale because Nyssa has undoubtedly seen some shit, but she doesn't want to talk about it. Not with Nyssa, not with Dean, not with anyone. This is hers to unravel right now. She's aware that it was an attempt to get under her skin, to lower her defenses and illuminate her vulnerabilities, but aside from that was it a warning or an introduction? This witch wants to turn her inside out and ruin her so bad that Laurel willingly turns herself over to her. But that's not all this was. The purpose of today's invasion seemed to be to size Laurel up. Determine her worth. Figure out what kind of threat she poses.

She's worried about the impression she gave. She's worried she came off as weak.

''You are the Black Canary,'' Nyssa says. ''You have already made that decision. Whether you like it or not, your life changed the moment you put that mask on and you don't get to change it back. You have to work with what you've made now, Laurel. And if you are asking,'' she adds on, voice suddenly soft. ''No, you were not killed because you were the weakest. You were not asking for it.''

Laurel looks up sharply at the sound of the phrase.

''You didn't ask for any of this,'' Nyssa says. ''I hope one day you can believe that.''

Laurel chews on her lip. She can feel her ears heating up the way they do when a panic attack is imminent and she's having some minor heart palpitations. She can't afford to have a panic attack right now. It's a waste of time that she might not be able to get back. She slips off the bed and sits on the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest to try to keep herself from spinning out completely. ''If this had happened a couple years ago, I don't think I would've minded,'' she admits quietly. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jacket. ''I think I even would've welcomed it.'' It's not as hard to admit that as it used to be. Not when it's just her and Nyssa. Nyssa is unwavering. That's her thing. She doesn't falter. When the words slip through Laurel's lips, Nyssa doesn't move to comfort her nor does she look shocked or judgmental. ''But now... I don't want to die.'' She smiles wryly. ''I guess that's progress, right? Too bad it came too late.''

Nyssa is quiet for a moment. She looks deep in thought. ''I was against you when you brought Sara back,'' she finally says, which... Okay. Seems like an abrupt change in topics, but okay. ''I thought your actions to be selfish, ignorant, and cruel.''

Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''Seems kind of harsh to tell me that on my deathbed, but that's fair.''

''The Lazarus Pit makes monsters,'' Nyssa says grimly. ''It comes with risks I was not willing to take back then. I didn't want her to be anything but Sara, my Sara. I was so angry with you.''

Laurel fights the urge to grimace. She would say she tries not to think about what she did in Nanda Parbat but she would be lying. She thinks about it all the time. Nyssa was thrown into a dungeon, Thea was attacked, her father almost put a bullet in Sara, and innocent women were murdered by Sara's hands, which is something Sara still struggles with to this day. All of that happened because of a single choice Laurel made. People died and people suffered because she just couldn't let go. ''You have a right to that anger.''

''Yes,'' Nyssa says, ''I do. But that was not my point. I was angry about what you did to Sara. But... Then I come here and I look at her.'' She pauses, allowing a soft smile to flicker on her lips. ''You brought her home. She now exists in present tense once again. She lives. More than that, she thrives. That is all I have ever wanted for her. You did that.''

That makes it sound far nobler than it actually was. ''You were right the first time. I was selfish. I couldn't live without her.''

''I had thought your loved ones would feel the same about you,'' Nyssa says, with an undeniable sharpness to her voice. ''They all spoke your name with such reverence while you were gone. Imagine my surprise when I learned none of them were willing to bring you back home. Not even Sara.''

''Uh.'' Laurel blinks. ''Thanks for reminding me of that?''

She gets what Nyssa is saying and she'll admit it would have been nice to have been a priority, but she's not going to hold it against anyone. Besides, Dean did try to bring her back. He couldn't. It's not that simple.

Last year, after she brought Sara home, a few days after Sara left town to go find herself, Laurel had this massive panic attack. The worst one she'd had in years. She wound up spending the entire weekend in bed, physically and mentally depleted, and scared that if she got out of bed, she would drink. When she was finally able to verbalize what was wrong, that the weight of what she had done had caught up to her, that she wasn't sure she made the right decision, Dean said, ''I would've done the same thing. Sara would've done the same thing for you.''

Laurel was quiet then. She stayed silent for a long time before she laughed softly, shook her head, and said, with absolute certainty, ''No, she wouldn't have.''

It wasn't Sara's burden to bear. She was not Sara's burden to bear.

''Laurel,'' Nyssa says, voice curiously soft. ''I sought to fix their mistakes.'' When she doesn't get the reaction she'd been preparing for, she asks, carefully, ''Do you understand what I'm saying?''

Laurel hasn't moved. She feels like she should be scrambling to her feet and staring wide-eyed, but she literally cannot move. It's like her body has just clammed up. Her mouth doesn't work either. Her heart is in her throat. She couldn't possibly speak. Of course she understands what she's saying. She just doesn't know what to do with it.

''There have always been rumors of another Lazarus Pit,'' Nyssa reveals. She sounds startlingly unruffled by this. ''Several of them, in fact. For the past few months, Charlie and I have been searching for them.'' There is no hint of apprehension in her voice. No regret, no hesitance. Just a calm sense of what sounds like complete certainty. ''For you.''

''For...'' Laurel still can't make sense of this. Charlie, sure. Makes sense she would go looking. She loves Dean, she loves Laurel, she's an ardent fixer, and she is constantly searching for her next quest. But Nyssa? Nyssa, who is morally opposed to the Lazarus Pit? She didn't even want to use it for Sara, her beloved, her supposed soulmate. ''Why?''

''You were my friend.'' It's said easily, as if that one little sentence is enough to explain why she was willing to risk everything to find another magical resurrection koi pond. ''You are my friend. Perhaps I felt I owed you.''

''Nyssa,'' Laurel frowns. ''You don't owe me anything. You know that.''

Nyssa looks unsurprised by that declaration, but uncomfortable nevertheless. She averts her eyes, gaze landing on something behind Laurel. A small smile teases on her lips and then she looks back to Laurel, straightening her posture. ''Then I suppose I am selfish,'' she says, unapologetic. ''I could not live without you.''

Laurel doesn't trust herself to speak. She hadn't been expecting that. She hadn't been expecting any of this. She looks over at the photograph that caught Nyssa's eye. It's the one of her and Mary. They're gardening in the picture. Or Laurel is anyway. Mary is two and standing next to her mom on unsteady legs with her sunhat pulled over her head, extending a hand out to Laurel to offer her the single gardening glove she has in her sticky little hand.

When she stayed with them briefly back in 2015, Nyssa had admired the garden. She used to wake up at a truly ungodly hour and sit out on the back porch to meditate. Occasionally, she joined Laurel for her morning run. Most of the time, Laurel just brought her tea and toast as she was leaving for her run. One morning, a Saturday, Nyssa made a comment about the garden. Complimented Laurel's skills and the patience she must have. Laurel waved it off. ''Oh, it's easy,'' she'd said. ''It doesn't take much. I just like pretty things.''

''Yes,'' Nyssa had said, smirking lightly over the rim of her mug. ''I seem to have a fondness for pretty things myself. They certainly are plentiful in Starling City, aren't they?''

''Nyssa...'' She stops. She truly does not know what to say to her. There aren't words good enough for a situation like this. ''Did you... Did you find another?''

Nyssa falters. ''Not yet,'' she admits. ''But that doesn't mean they don't exist. We've only been searching for them for a short while. Laurel...'' She takes a step closer. ''You are in trouble. I'd like to offer you my help.''

''You - ''

''I know the Lazarus Pit is not the ideal fix,'' Nyssa says. ''But if this spell fails, we can bring you back. I can bring you back. With your permission, of course.''

Laurel licks her lips. The Lazarus Pit is an intimidating prospect. The risks it comes with are...scary. She's watched the after affects destroy Sara and Thea. They were both hurt and traumatized. But they're both alive. It's risky, yes, but it's better than being dead. ''Nyssa - ''

''Take some time,'' Nyssa interrupts with a small smile. ''I don't want you to answer me now. You need to think about this. Discuss the option with Dean. With any luck, we will not have to resort to the use of the Lazarus Pit.''

The door to the bedroom goes unceremoniously crashing open before Laurel can even process what Nyssa's saying, before she can thank her, and Mary, still in her pajamas, with Thea hot on her heels, comes staggering through with the grace of a tiny drunk. ''Mommy!''

The sudden - and needlessly dramatic, to be honest - entrance throws Laurel off and by the time her sluggish, probably fevered brain catches up to what's happening, Nyssa has already stepped in to nudge her out of the way and block the blood from Mary's view.

''Moooo-ooo-mmy,'' it's more of a whiny groan than a greeting. It takes Laurel about a second to realize that her daughter needs a nap. She's bleary eyed, red cheeked, and she has a stormy look on her face. She barely seems interested in the sticker book she's holding but she also doesn't seem all that keen on letting go of it if the visible death grip she's got on it is any indication. She throws herself at Laurel when she sees her, wrapping her arms around her mother's leg and wiping her face on her hip. ''Where were you?'' She asks, exasperated.

''I was - ''

''You didn't wake me up!'' Mary tugs at Laurel's shirt a few times and then just snaps out, ''Pick me up!''

Laurel raises her eyebrows at the tone and does not pick her up. ''Excuse me?''

''Uh, yeah,'' Thea says, clasping her hands in front of her. ''I should warn you. She's in a bit of a mood.''

That is decidedly the wrong thing to say to a child who is in a mood.

Mary's face screws up in offense and she throws Thea a truly withering look before shrieking out a rebuttal of, ''No, I'm not! Don't say that!''

''Mary,'' Laurel admonishes. ''Don't be rude.''

''I'm NOT!''

''Mary - ''

Mary, who is most definitely in a mood, lets out a whine, stomps her foot, and then asks - no, demands, ''Where's my daddy?''

''He's...'' Laurel trails off in a sigh. ''He's not here right now.''

''I want him to be here. I need him to help me.''

''What do you need him for?'' Thea pipes up, still sounding determinedly cheerful. ''Is it something we can help you with?''

''No,'' Mary responds glumly, before shoving her fingers in her mouth and hiding her face in Laurel's shirt.

''All right.'' Laurel lifts Mary up into her arms and throws a tight-lipped smile in Thea's direction when she catches sight of the worried look on the girl's face. She regrets picking Mary up instantly. Every muscle in her body starts screaming at her and just the act of bending over and then straightening up makes her feel like she's going to pass out, but she pushes through it. ''Let's go get changed, how does that sound?''

Mary's only response is a huff and a mumble of, ''Where's Daddy?''

Laurel sighs. She gently waves off Thea and Nyssa when they move to help, quietly assuring them that she's fine before carrying Mary out of the bedroom and into her room next door. She doesn't know how to explain any of this to her daughter. She doesn't want to tell her that Mom might be dying again. She doesn't want her to know that. She doesn't know how to tell her that the friendly neighbors that they taught her to trust are actually not at all trustworthy. ''Do you remember David and Heather from next door?'' She questions, depositing Mary on her bed.

Mary shrugs her shoulders, but doesn't answer. She takes her fingers out of her mouth and drags a teddy bear into her lap. ''There's a doggy across the street,'' she says matter-of-factly. She flips open the sticker book, peels one off, and puts it on the bear's nose. ''When - When you were gone, he pooped on our grass.''

Laurel looks up from rifling through Mary's drawer and looks over her shoulder. ''Did he now?''

Mary plasters another sticker to her bear's head and nods her head up and down. ''Daddy almost stepped in it,'' she adds on, which makes her giggle. ''But he didn't but Uncle Sammy did.'' She erupts into frenzied laughter, covering her face with her hands. She is definitely overtired and loopy. ''And then he said a bad word,'' she laughs out, throwing herself down onto the bed, still giggling.

Laurel can't help the grin that breaks out on her face. She abandons the task of finding Mary something to wear and sits down on the bed. ''Did your dad think it was funny too?''

Mary nods enthusiastically. ''Then Auntie Charlie said we were silly.''

Laurel laughs. ''Well, you are,'' she says, brushing her hand across Mary's cheek gently. ''You're my silly girl.''

''And Daddy,'' Mary chips. ''Daddy's silly too.''

''Right. He's my silly guy.''

Mary clutches the sticker book to her chest. Maybe they should scrap getting dressed and just go back to bed. Laurel could get on board with that. ''Mommy,'' Mary says. ''Where's Daddy? I need him.''

Laurel doesn't answer for a second. She'd been hoping Mary would just kind of move past that one, but she should have known that would never happen. ''What do you need him for?''

Mary thrusts the sticker book at her mother. ''I wanna put stickers on his face.''

Laurel stares at her. ''...Oh.'' Not really sure how to respond to that. ''Do you...want to put stickers on my face?''

Mary does not look especially warm to that idea. ''No.''

''Daddy's helping the kids from next door with something,'' Laurel tries. She smiles brightly and tries to move past it quickly. ''How about we get you dressed, honeybee? What do you want to wear today? What about your Elsa dress?''

It doesn't work.

Mary blinks a few times, seemingly processing, and then she scowls. It's quite the scowl for such a sweet little girl. She sits up, shoving her teddy bear and sticker book away from her. ''Tell him to come back,'' she orders. Not a request. An order.

''Mary - ''

''He's my daddy,'' Mary snarls, with a startling amount of venom. ''They already got a daddy.''

''Yes,'' Laurel agrees. ''They do, but he's...unavailable right now. Your daddy's helping them.''

''I don't want him to help them.''

''Sweetie, we have to help people who need help. It's the right thing to do.''

Mary rolls her eyes, which seems far more fourteen than four.

''He'll be home soon,'' Laurel soothes. ''Hanna - Or, um, Heather - wasn't feeling well so Daddy's at the hospital with her, but he - ''

''Daddy's at the hospital?'' Mary hears nothing else. Her eyes widen in what can only be described as sheer terror, she goes white as a sheet, and she starts shaking like a leaf. It's an unexpected - and alarming - change in demeanor. It's like a switch has been flipped.

''Honeybee - ''

Mary interrupts her to squeak out another breathless, ''Daddy's at the hospital?'' She starts shaking her head frantically, crawling away from Laurel to climb off the bed. ''Oh no,'' she starts mumbling. ''Oh no, oh no, oh no. No hospitals, Mommy. Please, please no hospitals!'' Then she bursts into tears. Not gut wrenching sobs that wrack her whole body, but messy, tumbling cries and whimpers with tears that immediately well up in her eyes and stream down her cheeks. It's an extreme reaction. At first, Laurel can't quite make sense of it, but then Mary starts crying out, ''I don't want him to be at the hospital, I don't want him to be at the hospital'' and then it all clicks into place.

The last time one of her parents was at the hospital, that parent did not come home.

And here Laurel thought her day couldn't possibly get any worse. For about half a second, she freezes. It's not long, but it's enough. Mary bolts for the door and takes off into the hallway. She is surprisingly fast for a kid with the balance of a toddler. She darts down the hallway and into the living room with Laurel close behind her. Mary makes a beeline for the front door, bound and determined to get to her dad, still crying and shrieking about hospitals.

The front door opens before Mary can reach for the doorknob and she stumbles right into Dean's legs. He looks distracted, but the second he lays eyes on Mary, his entire body just seems to wake up. ''Mary?''

She looks up at him, briefly, stunned into silence, and then she collapses to the ground and starts sobbing. It's like her tiny boy just can't stand up under the weight of her fear. ''Don't go back to the hospital,'' she blubbers. ''Don't go back to the hospital.''

He does not look at all surprised by the meltdown. Even Thea, who pokes her head out of the kitchen briefly to see what's going on, does not look surprised by Mary's reaction. Dean's shoulders sag in this somehow well practiced way as if this hospital phobia has been an ongoing battle, and then he scoops Mary up into his arms and lets her cling to him. He rubs her back, murmuring something in her good ear, and she relaxes. For about a second. Just as quickly, she pulls back and puts both hands on his cheeks to make sure he looks at her. ''No hospitals,'' she begs. ''It's bad. It's a bad place. No hospitals.''

''No hospitals,'' he agrees. ''I'm okay, honeybee. No hospitals for me. I'm going to stay right here with you.''

''Mommy...'' Mary pauses to gulp in a few breaths, rubbing at her eyes. ''Mommy said you were at the hospital,'' she cries. ''I don't want you to go away.''

''I'm not going away,'' Dean says firmly. ''I promise. I promise, baby girl.''

She nods, but she's still pouting, laying her head down onto his shoulder, clinging to his neck. She's still crying, although not quite as hard as she was, and she has turned her eyes away from Laurel. Dean keeps rubbing her back, assuring her once more that he's okay before he cuts his eyes to Laurel. His gaze isn't harsh or angry or frustrated. He doesn't even look disapproving.

She still can't help but wince guiltily. ''I... I told her you were at the hospital with the Moretti kids. I didn't know she had a thing about - ''

''It's okay,'' he says quickly, cutting her off before she can say the word. ''I should've mentioned it. I thought she was over it. She doesn't usually react this strongly.''

''Oh.'' She pinches her lips together and looks at Mary. ''I think she's T-I-R-E-D.'' She reaches out to touch Mary's back. She tries not to take it too personally when Mary flinches away from her touch and clings tighter to Dean, staunchly refusing to look at her. ''I'm sorry, Mary,'' Laurel says, but it doesn't do any good.

''She'll be fine,'' Dean assures her. ''She just needs a minute. Maybe we'll go chill out for a bit and read books in bed. Sound good, honeybee?''

Mary shrugs and whines softly, hiding her face in his shoulder.

He leans down to kiss Laurel on the lips gently. ''Just let me get her calmed down and then we should talk.''

She nods, even though she doesn't really want to talk. Before he pulls away from her, he shifts Mary into one arm and takes something out of his inside jacket pocket. It's a small satchel, not unlike the one Mattie gave her, except this one has an unfamiliar symbol stitched onto the side. ''From Hanna,'' he informs her. ''She and Mattie are...'' He pauses and then glances at Mary. ''They're wrecked about Bernadette and Marlene, but they want to help you. They made that clear to me. Hanna has to stay overnight, but she said this should keep you stable until she can get here tomorrow and figure something out.''

He sounds shockingly hopeful about that, but she's hesitant. She has some brand new trust issues, thanks to the family of liars next door. ''You trust them?''

He looks at Mary, still calmly rubbing her back soothingly. ''I don't know,'' he answers quietly. ''I trust them more than I trust their parents. They seem to want to clean up the mess.''

''The mess being me?''

''The mess being the situation you're in,'' he corrects. ''They're all we have right now.''

She tightens her mouth. She doesn't mention the Lazarus Pit. Not right now. Not in front of Mary. She takes in a breath and then accepts the small pouch. She expects it to feel like the one Mattie gave her. She watched him make that. She watched him crumble up the dried herbs and stumble over his Latin. When she touched it, it was like she had just taken a heavy duty painkiller and washed it down with two giant cans of Red Bull. It was uncomfortable because there was this strange sort of pressure on her chest, a weight pressing against her ribcage, a lump in her throat, but it kept her going. It dulled the ache of her old wound, cleared her head enough for her to be able to focus, and strengthened her enough to convince her father and Sara that she was fine enough to go after Dean.

This does not feel anything like that. The second she touches the soft, shimmery fabric of the satchel, it's like all the pressure is released. The weight on her chest is lifted immediately and for the first time since coming home, she can breathe easy. The cold comes next. It starts in her fingertips and then spreads throughout her whole body. It's like being completely stripped of any and all warmth. The exhaustion is last. Quite suddenly, she feels like she can barely keep her eyes open. It's not a bad feeling. It's even kind of pleasant. It's like being instantly relaxed. There is not a drop of tension left in her body.

Dean's hand on her shoulder feels oddly heavy. ''You good?''

Her fingers tighten around the satchel and she manages a quick, jerky nod. ''I'm fine,'' she assures him, leaning up to peck his lips quickly. ''Go get sticker-faced.''

''What?''

Mary, eyes widening, jerks her head up off his shoulder and looks at him. ''I - Daddy.'' She grabs his face in her hands to make him look at her because clearly this is very serious. ''I got stickers. I wanna put 'em on your face.''

He looks at her for a second, blinking, and then says. ''...O..kay?''

So. Not a thing they've done before then. Just a random weird four-year-old thought. Good to know. Little hurtful to be left out.

''Let's go put stickers on my face then,'' he says with a shrug, and doesn't even try to hide his bemusement.

Laurel smiles and manages to keep it on her face until he's gone, heading down the hall with Mary. She pauses, glancing around the unusually empty living room. Moving with caution, she makes her way over to the couch and sinks down onto the cushions, staring down at the bag.

She's not in love with the idea of opening it up, but the material is mostly see through. She can tell that there are dried herbs - one of them is definitely lavender - and a few pieces of what looks like quartz. There are two symbols drawn on the bag in black marker. She doesn't recognize them. Maybe protection symbols? Or healing ones? Probably protection symbols. There's a medallion in the bag too. She can't quite make out the symbol on the medallion but she thinks it might be a triquetra. Which she only knows because she watched Charmed when she was a kid and because it was a popular tattoo choice among drunk college aged women back when she was a drunk college aged women, but she's also aware that it is a real Celtic symbol with a lot of meanings in the Wiccan world. The medallion boasting the triquetra is about the size of a quarter, maybe a little bigger, and it's warm. Hot even. Weirdly so.

Her instinct is to dig deeper. Figure out what these other symbols are. Make sure that this is helping her and not harming her. Gingerly, she opens up the bag a tiny bit, just to take a quick whiff of the herbs, and then she closes it up again.

Maybe it's best not to question it. She feels good. For the first time in forever, she feels good. She feels like she could actually get some rest.

Her eyes find the cabinet in the corner of the room that houses a record player, her grandfather's record collection and a few knick-knacks that sit safely behind the glass doors. She eyes the vintage Mrs. Claus salt shaker. It was her grandmother's. There used to be a Santa Claus pepper shaker to go along with it, but it hasn't been seen in a long time. She remembers that she used to play with the little salt and pepper shakers when she was Mary's age. She can't remember why - it's not like they're that entertaining - but she was a kid and they were cute. Her Aunt Natasha made sure that Mrs. Claus went to Laurel after Grandma died. She lets out a breath and drops her gaze. Now that salt shaker just reminds her of her dream. Or her hallucination. Whatever it was.

If she rests, if she lets herself fall asleep, is that going to happen again? What else can this woman ruin for her? What else can she take away?

You and I, the witch said. We have a connection.

Laurel leans back against the couch, tucks her legs under her, and grabs her grandmother's afghan off the back of the couch to wrap around her shivering body. She looks down at the symbols stitched onto the side of the bag. If they are protection symbols, maybe they'll keep the witch out of her head.

She tries not to think too hard about it. She wants to think about something, anything other than her. But the words keep playing in her head. Over and over again. In surround sound. She sent that monster inhabiting Marlene's body back to the witch with a message; an act of defiance. Still here, bitch. She doesn't regret that. Nevertheless, she'd be lying if she said this unknown woman hadn't gotten under her skin.

She runs her fingers over the mysteriously warm medallion and sighs. She should probably stop feeling sorry for herself, get up off her ass, and go help Dean with Mary, but she is really, really tired.

Laurel curls her fingers around the bag, clutching it close to her body, and closes her eyes for a second. Just one second.

When she forces her eyes open, it is not just one second later, she still can't stop shivering, and someone is draping a cool cloth over her forehead. Groggily, she moves her hand up to swipe it off her face because she's already freezing, but a hand latches onto her wrist. ''Laur,'' Dean's voice whispers. ''Babe, it's just me. It's just me. Your fever's spiked. I'm just trying to get it down.''

She blinks sluggishly, trying to focus her bleary eyes on him. She blinks a few more times and turns her head to the side, realizing quite quickly that she's not on the couch anymore. She's in her bed, with all the blinds closed, and she is sweating bullets.

''I should've warned you,'' he's saying, gently uncurling her fist to tug the little bag of tricks from her hand. ''Hanna said this was pretty potent. It's supposed to slow the deterioration of the spell, but it packs a punch.''

''It's a healing and restoration spell,'' another voice says, and Laurel forces her eyelids open again to look at Cas. He's standing on the other side of the room with a lighter and a bundle of sage in his hands. ''It's supposed to pack a punch,'' he says. ''It's supposed to allow you to rest long enough for your body to regain the strength you need to keep up with the spell.''

''Great,'' she croaks out. ''But I don't have time to be Sleeping Beauty.''

''It's just for today,'' Dean tries, tucking the satchel under her pillow. ''Hanna should be released from the hospital tomorrow.''

Yeah, and then what?

She glances over his shoulder briefly at Cas. He doesn't say anything but his pinched expression tells her he's thinking the same thing. Hanna Moretti is eighteen years old. She may have more power than her brother but she's still just a kid. Laurel doesn't bother trying to get up. She tries to wet her lips but her mouth is bone dry. ''Mary?''

''Fine,'' says Dean.

''I don't want her to be mad at me.''

''She's not mad at you.''

''I mentioned the...'' She swallows painfully. She looks over at her nightstand, staring longingly at the glass of water there. Her throat feels so dry that she can barely talk. ''I scared her.''

''She's fine,'' he says firmly. He smiles, but she notes that it doesn't reach his eyes. Carefully, he helps her sit up enough so that she can take a few much needed gulps of water. ''You look better than you did before,'' he tells her, which feels like a lie. She's drenched in sweat, her entire body is shaking, she can barely keep her eyes open, and she has a fever. ''I'm serious,'' he insists. ''You're doing so much better. The fever's nothing.''

''Fevers are generally a good sign,'' Cas adds on. ''It means your body is fighting.'' He moves closer to her, still holding the now smoldering bundle of sage. ''How do you feel?''

''Okay, I guess,'' she says. ''Tired, really tired, and - and kinda cold, but it's not as bad as it was. I'm not throwing up blood. I'm okay.'' She feels like not vomiting blood is setting the bar pretty low for okay, but that's where they're at. She looks at both Dean and Cas and offers up her best reassuring smile. ''Really, I'm fine.''

This is a lie.

''Glad to hear it,'' Cas says. He glances at Dean for half a second, and then he looks back at her. ''Laurel,'' he says, voice suddenly serious. ''I wanted to apologize for my part in keeping your condition from you.''

She sinks back into the pillows and pulls the blanket up, trying in vain to warm herself up. She can feel Dean tense up at the mention of the lie. ''Oh,'' she mumbles, but doesn't know what else to say. She's not in the shape to be talking about this. ''Thank you for the apology.''

Dean turns his head slightly, not quite enough to make eye contact with Cas but enough for him to hear him. ''Didn't Hanna tell you to cleanse the entire house?''

Cas arches an eyebrow, clearly aware he's being kicked out, but doesn't argue. ''Yes, she did.'' He looks over at Laurel and offers her a small smile. ''Please do your best to get some rest today. We can handle things around here.''

She smiles weakly. ''I'll try.''

Before he leaves, he gives Dean a look that she can't quite decipher. Dean's only response to the look is, ''Don't set my fire alarm off.''

Cas leaves the air thick with tension and smelling of sage. Dean stares after him for a long time and then sighs, shoulders sagging, and turns to look at her. He looks guilty. ''Laurel.''

Immediately, she shakes her head. ''Don't.'' She should be mad about the lie. She is mad about the lie. Huge violation of trust and all. But, honestly, she's currently dying and it's very unpleasant. She feels like she's sweating out her entire body weight, she can't get warm, and she is seconds away from passing out. This is not the time. ''When I don't die,'' she says. ''Remind me about what you did. I'll be mad at you then. I don't want to be mad at you now.''

''I'm looking forward to that,'' he says, completely earnest. ''And I'm sorry. Just gettin' that out there. I was a dumbass. If I could go back - ''

''I know.'' She pauses and rubs her lips together briefly. ''We'll be fine, love,'' she says, and means it. She's not going to give him a pass with this forever and she is angry, but one foolish mistake isn't going to take down their entire marriage. That would be dumb. She looks at him closely. She thinks of her dream. She considers the witch's words to her. She feels, for a brief second, breathless. ''Can I... Can I apologize to you as well?''

He looks dumbfounded. ''Why would you need to apologize to me?''

''It feels like ever since I came back, all you've been doing is taking care of me and worrying about me,'' she says. ''I'm sorry for that.''

''Laurel - ''

''I'm not saying it's my fault,'' she cuts in. ''I'm just sorry you've been going through this. I'm sorry you've been holding onto this all by yourself.'' She rolls onto her side carefully and he grabs the cool cloth from her forehead, dabbing at her sweaty neck and chest briefly before pulling it away. ''I'm sorry for a lot of things. I know that it hasn't always been easy being married to me. I know I can be a burden because I'm sick.'' The words pour out, but they don't make her feel better. ''I just wanted to apologize to you for that.''

Dean looks completely confused as to why on earth she's saying all of this. ''Apology not accepted.''

''...What?''

''Don't want it, don't need it, didn't ask for it,'' he says shortly. ''I'm not enabling your self-hatred. We've had this discussion before.'' He doesn't say it unkindly, but there's no room for argument. He's also not wrong. They have had this discussion before. Many times. ''I don't need you to pity me for being married to you and I don't need your apologies,'' he says. ''I wouldn't trade what we have for anything. I'm sorry for a lot of things, but I'm not sorry for the life we have together. You're not a burden. You've never been a burden.''

He sounds so...honest. He believes every word he's saying. ''Okay,'' she whispers. ''Then I rescind the apology.''

''You're damn straight you do.''

''Dean.'' She grabs onto his hand when he starts to get up, holding on tightly. He looks down at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something. She wants to tell him so many things. She wants to ask him if he really believes Hanna will be able to help her, she wants to tell him about Nyssa's offer to use the Lazarus Pit, she wants to tell him that everything will be okay, but she clams up. She can't get the words out. She just keeps thinking about the witch.

Laurel does not believe she's going to die. That's the truth. The mere possibility of dying scares the shit out of her, which she supposes is a good thing, and she knows her family is worried, but her death is not the endgame here. That's not what she was brought back for. Far too much thought and planning went into her resurrection. The witch will not let her die. Death is not the greatest enemy in this fight. That would be too easy. Siobhan, or whatever her name is, is not going to stop coming. She made that clear. She is going to throw everything she has at them until she gets exactly what she wants and what she planned for all this time. Laurel has no idea how to stop her. The only thing she can think of is running. If she packs a bag and hauls ass out of this city, away from Mary and Dean and everyone she loves, at least they'll be out of the line of fire. At least they won't have to see whatever becomes of her.

The only way to save them is to leave them, she remembers.

She can't tell Dean that. She can't tell Dean any of that.

''Nothing,'' she says. ''Just… You know I love you, right?''

''I know,'' he says, lips curling into a smile. ''And, you know, ditto and all that.''

She snorts and lets a tired but genuine grin break out on her lips.

''Get some sleep, pretty bird,'' he tells her. ''We'll all still be here when you wake up.''

''Hey,'' she says, grabbing at his hand one last time. ''That house in the woods you promised me,'' she reminds him. ''I'm gonna hold you to that.''

He leans down to kiss her forehead, squeezing her hand gently. ''You better,'' he says, and then she closes her eyes, and rests.

.

.

.

end part eight