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.

9. Her Body Burns

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Gore, body horror, graphic description of panic attacks (including symptoms such as dissociation and depersonalization), mentions of suicide, and there is a mild to moderate emetophobia warning for the entire chapter.

---

How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

---

.

.

.

Part Nine

Her Body Burns

.

.

.

There is a natural order to things in the Lance family.

Laurel is the calm.

Sara is the storm.

That's the way it is. The way it has always been. Everything about them goes back to this. It's in their bones. Even when they were kids, they fit the patterns that were made for them.

Laurel was a honeymoon baby. Neither planned nor unplanned, but certainly welcome and so very loved right from the start. She was born on her due date. Not a day before, not a day after, but the exact day. It was a sunny day in April, nine months after their parents' wedding. She came when she was expected to come and she didn't make a fuss. She was ready. She popped right out into the world, calm and collected, ready to conquer the world. She was happily cooing away within minutes of her birth, seemingly so content to be there.

Sara was an ''oops, the condom broke'' baby. Not necessarily unwelcome, but a wrench thrown in the carefully made plans her mother had laid out after Laurel was born. She was born, unexpectedly, on Christmas Day. Nearly an entire month before her due date during a rare Pacific Northwest snowstorm. She came out fast and she came out furious, at home in Mom and Dad's bedroom in that apartment in the Glades before either the midwife or the ambulance she called arrived. She screamed at the top of her tiny lungs, wriggling and wailing, small and sickly, scared and angry at the coldness of the world around her.

That was who they were from the start.

Laurel was the good one. She was kindhearted, responsible, and sensible. She listened when she was told to listen. She said please and thank you. She was a good daughter, a good friend, a good girlfriend, and a good sister. She did her homework on time. She got good grades. She didn't break hearts. She never deviated much from the path she was supposed to take. She got her law degree. She got married. She had a daughter of her own. She did everything she was supposed to do and she did it all with a steady hand and effortless grace.

Sara was the chaotic one. She never did anything she was supposed to do. She fought with people, both physically and verbally. She skipped classes, she ditched every extracurricular her mother tried to put her in from gymnastics to ballet to soccer. She cheated on her homework or didn't turn it in at all. She stole boyfriends and girlfriends and tubes of lipstick and candy bars from the 7/11 near their old apartment and even a pair of earrings once. She was mean, bratty, and callous because she knew she could get away with it. She barely graduated high school, was well on her way to flunking out of college, and then she got on that damn boat with Oliver and their dumbass choice ruined lives.

Laurel became a lawyer.

Sara became an assassin.

It seems so cut and dry when you lay it all out like that. Light and dark, day and night, good and bad, the calm and the storm. But a story is just a story in the end. It's just words. There are things you miss between the lines.

Sara knows that now. She missed it when she was younger. She was too caught up in playing her role; too distracted by her own pain and pleasure and self-pity to notice anyone else's. She never saw what was right in front of her.

It's interesting. What you choose not to see. What you forget. How a story becomes a story.

She slices the stem off another strawberry and adds the piece of fruit to the bowl in front of her. They're not great strawberries. It's November. They're not in season. Peak strawberry season is April through June. Laurel missed strawberry season this year. Maybe she shouldn't have bothered with strawberries in November. She hemmed and hawed over them in the produce section at the grocery store, staring down at the package in her hand for a solid three minutes, debating if she should waste money she didn't have on fruit that was most likely mediocre at best. In the end, she shrugged and added the strawberries to her basket next to the carton of milk and the oatmeal Dean sent her out to buy and the pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream she grabbed on impulse. It's Laurel's favourite ice cream. Strawberries are Laurel's favourite fruit.

She finishes off the rest of the strawberries, salvaging what she can from them and adding every good piece to the bowl. Her fingers are stained red by the time she's finished. She's not even sure if Laurel will be in the mood to eat right now. Last time she checked on her, Laurel was awake but barely, shivering under the covers. She said her head hurt. She said she was craving a cigarette.

''Isn't that strange?'' She'd croaked out with a laugh. ''I can't remember the last time I had a cigarette.''

Sara hadn't said anything in response to that. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know Laurel had ever smoked at all.

There are a lot of things she doesn't know about her sister.

She used to think she knew everything there was to know about her. Laurel wore her heart on her sleeve. She was an unzipped, bare presence; so irritatingly earnest, full of the kind of naked vulnerability that Sara has always run from. She used to think her sister was an open book written in a language she was fluent in.

She was wrong.

Laurel is not an open book. She's more like a dark hallway in a haunted house. You think the halls are empty but they're actually full of ghosts. Sara can't put her finger on the exact moment it all clicked into place for her, but she does remember the moment the unraveling began.

After she came home, after she and Laurel started repairing their relationship, she moved in with Laurel and Dean. It was never going to be permanent, though she knew Laurel hoped it would be, but she wanted to be with her sister. She wanted to know her niece. She wanted to wake up in the morning and see Laurel every day, the way she used to when they were kids, the way it was meant to be, the way it should've always been. She wanted to go home.

She hadn't realized how much things had changed. She knew she wasn't coming back to the life she had left behind. She just hadn't realized how different things were. She knew when she moved in that Laurel was in recovery, that her sobriety was a new thing, and that she had been having a rough time over the past year. Sara had been at that disastrous dinner in February. She knew things had not been good.

When she moved into the house in early March of 2014, she had mistakenly thought that Laurel was all better. Clean and sober and ready to take care of her little sister.

Sara had not yet understood fragility. She does now, but it took time. Understanding is a delicate, often horrifying, thing. It's like unlearning everything you thought you knew. Rewriting a story. Laurel was never, as is turns out, the calm to Sara's storm. She was just the eye of the tornado; the eerie silence and the false tranquility of the devastating force of destruction.

One night, a few days after moving into the guest bedroom, Sara couldn't sleep. Dean and Laurel's cozy house in suburbs was too...peaceful. Too homey and warm and safe and nice. She had forgotten what that felt like. She wasn't used to it. She felt like a kid again, lying wide awake in bed because she was too excited to sleep.

She got out of bed, intent on stretching her legs and maybe getting a glass of water. She crept out of her room and moved silently through the shadows of the darkened house. She managed to avoid every single creaky floorboard and made it all the way to the kitchen door before she stopped in her tracks. Someone was in the kitchen. There was something inside of her telling her to turn around and go back to bed, but she didn't. As quietly as possible, she pushed open the door a crack and peeked in, staying half hidden behind the corner.

In the darkened kitchen, Laurel was sitting on the ground. She had her knees drawn up to her chest like she was trying to make herself appear as small as possible. She was crying. ''I'm sorry,'' she whimpered. ''I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore.''

Her husband - the guy Sara, at the time, wasn't so sure she liked - was standing at the kitchen sink. He looked, in the shadows of the room, exhausted. Maybe even exasperated. On first glance, she thought he was getting a glass of water but when she looked closer, she realized he was pouring something out into the sink. It was a bottle of vodka.

''I know you don't,'' he said, with a gentleness that Sara had not been expecting. ''I've been there.'' He finished dumping the bottle out in the sink, turned the tap on to rinse out the sink, and then sat down on the floor with his wife. ''It won't be like this forever.''

''I'm not having a panic attack,'' Laurel mumbled, wiping at her eyes. ''You don't need to say that.''

''That's not why I'm saying it. I'm saying it because it's true. It won't be like this forever. I need you to know that,'' he said firmly. ''The cravings - ''

''It's not - I don't think... I can't do this,'' Laurel sputtered out, and then released a heavy, tired sigh. ''I'm sorry. I tried. I thought I could. I just - I need something. I don't know why. I don't know. I can't sleep.''

''I know,'' he said. ''I know it hurts. It's a craving. It feels like shit. You need to give yourself some grace here. You're eighteen days sober. You're still in the thick of it.''

''It hurts too much to do this,'' she declared with a resigned shake of her head. ''I can't do it. I'm sorry.'' She dissolved then. Just broke down into a mess of gulping sobs, covering her face with her hands.

''Well.'' He paused, and then drew away from her. What he said next was not as gentle. ''That sucks for our kid then.''

She pulled her hands away from her face to stare at him, betrayed. ''Don't do that. Don't you dare use our child to guilt trip me into staying sober.''

He sighed in response, running a hand through his hair. ''I'm sorry,'' he said. ''Look, maybe we should revisit the idea of inpatient treatment. This is the third time this has happened this week, Laur.''

That was the moment Sara realized what she was seeing. She feels terrible about it now, but in that moment, her first reaction had been to feel repulsed. Not by Laurel, but by what was happening to her. For all the shit she has seen, all the gore and the darkness and the death, she is not all that well versed in addiction. She missed most of it with her dad. Sure, when she was growing up, he would have a drink or two with dinner or after a rough shift, but he never drank to excess. Even with Laurel, Sara saw very little of it firsthand and it wasn't something they talked about. It was brought up once, the night Sara moved in with them. She asked Laurel how she was doing, if she was going to her meetings, and then she asked her how it had happened. How it spiraled so far out of control.

Laurel told her, bluntly, ''I'm an addict, Sara.'' She said that as if that was all she needed to say. She said that addicts will do anything to stay locked in their sickness because the sickness is the only thing that feels safe to them. ''But,'' she'd added. ''I don't want to stay there anymore. I have a daughter. I wanted to come back to her.''

That was as far as the conversation went. Laurel hadn't wanted to talk about it and Sara hadn't wanted to know more. She told herself it was in the past. She told herself that Laurel had healed.

It's not that simple.

She still cannot adequately put into words how disturbing it was to see Laurel sobbing on the kitchen floor, physically sick because she needed a drink so badly. How horrifying it was to listen to the better Lance sister plead and whimper for a drink. Laurel is supposed to be stronger than that.

It was jarring to listen to her cry, lash out in anger, spit out a desperate, pathetic, ''I need a drink or I need my meds, Dean, but I need something. I have to have something. I can't do this. I'm in pain. You can't just leave me alone here in pain.''

It was the first time Sara had ever seen Laurel as fragile. Someone to be protected rather than someone who did the protecting.

Dean, to his credit, had not flinched or buckled under the weight of Laurel's manic desperation. He'd just said, sternly but not unkindly, ''I'm not leaving you alone. I'm right here. I'm staying right here. I promise I will sit on this floor with you until this passes.''

''But I can't do it,'' she moaned. ''Please, please don't make me do this.''

''Sweetheart, you are doing this. Eighteen days, Laurel,'' he said. ''You made it to eighteen days. I know how fucking awful it is, but you did it. Now we just need to get you to nineteen days, then to twenty, and you'll have that thirty day chip before you know it. I know you want that chip.''

''I want a drink,'' she'd muttered. ''Or... If I had an Ambien - ''

''If you slip now, you'll have to go back to the hospital for detox. And you know what they'll recommend.''

''But - ''

''Listen to me. You tried to kill yourself less than a month ago,'' he said. ''Do you really think there's anything in this house that you can take?''

That was, as overdramatic as it may sound, the moment the bottom dropped out for Sara. As soon as she heard those words, ones she never thought she would have to hear, she turned around, went back to the guest room, and stayed there. She didn't want to hear anymore. She didn't get much sleep either. She just sat there, going over what she had heard, trying to make sense of it.

It sounds clichéd and maybe even selfish, but she hasn't been able to look at Laurel the same ever since. She knows that's unfair. She just hadn't wanted to face the painful reality that she might one day have to exist without her. She thought if she could protect her, shield her, tiptoe around certain things, then maybe she could keep her. She hadn't wanted to lose her sister.

And then she did.

When she came home last May and her father told her that Laurel was gone, it was like the world had ended and all that had been left behind were the wastelands. She came home so excited to tell Laurel about everything she had done, and instead of the two of them going out for sushi, she had to stand at a cold grave. It was the worst feeling. It never left either.

Grief doesn't just dissipate. It turns into other things. It manifests. Over the past seven months, Sara has circled around every stage of grief but she's never been able to move forward. It's just this constant hurt. An unrelenting loneliness. A continuous guilt and unending anger. It has been utterly miserable to be here without her.

So, somewhere along the way, she started clinging to that night in the dark as an excuse. She's tried to shift her memories of Laurel into this weak, frail, sick person so she can make herself believe that it's better this way. Laurel isn't suffering anymore, she would tell herself. She's not in pain. She's free. That's what she deserves.

Then Laurel came home.

Now all Sara feels is guilty. She almost let her go. She came this close to it. She cried and screamed and ached and raged, but she left her in the ground. She didn't try to save her. She didn't take the waverider and go back to that night. She didn't stop anything. She didn't do what Laurel did. She didn't do anything at all. She just went numb. She shut down and convinced herself that Laurel was so sick she was better off dead.

In May, she stood in her sister's house next to her sister's husband and looked at her sister's little girl. Mary looks so much like Laurel. It's her eyes. She has her eyes. She has her nose. She has her sadness. She even has her warmth. Her incredible capacity for kindness. It surrounds her the same way it did with Laurel. You can feel it in her fingertips. You can feel it when she smiles at you and when she looks at you with those piercing eyes that seem to know exactly what you're feeling even before you do.

When Sara was with them last spring, Mary was so excited to have her there. She practically glued herself to Sara's side. Sara tried to be happy and she tried to smile and be Cool Auntie Sara but her entire world had just collapsed.

That first night, after dinner, while Dean was clearing the plates of mostly untouched food and Sara was awkwardly not looking anyone else in the eye, Mary leaned over and said, ''Don't be sad.'' She patted Sara's leg and smiled at her. ''Mommy's finished now, but she's happy.''

All Sara had managed in response was a weak smile. Her father burst into tears. She didn't know how to take Mary's words back then, but she's kept them with her over the past seven months.

Mommy's finished now, but she's happy.

She doesn't know what to think now.

Sara doesn't remember what it was like to be dead. She doesn't remember where she went after. She can't recall if there was peace. If she was happy. All she remembers of her death is a...a blankness. Laurel hasn't talked to her about what it was like for her either. All Sara knows is that despite her devastating guilt over her inaction, she can't say she was totally wrong to do nothing. Laurel suffered here. She was in pain. She's in pain now. She was born with so much hurt in her bones that she's never been able to get it out. God knows she's tried. Is it so wrong to want her to have some semblance of peace?

It's not like Sara wants her to be dead. Far from it. She wants her to be alive, to be whole, but she also wants what is best for Laurel. What if what's best is to let her rest? What if she is truly not supposed to be here? Maybe they should allow her the dignity of peace.

And, yes, maybe that sounds dismissive, but that's not what she's going for here. She meant what she said when she said she couldn't do this without her sister. But she's trying for mercy. Maybe that comes with letting go.

Sara has been trying not to think about all that since Laurel came back, but with what happened the other night...

How can she not wonder?

She sighs and swallows hard. She should talk to Laurel about this. They don't do that, is the thing. Not anymore. They used to. Before the boat, they used to talk all the time. They could talk about anything and everything for hours. Things are different now.

She never brought up what she heard that night. Sometimes she thinks she should have. She and Laurel should have been having those big conversations, should have communicated better, but everything was still so fresh and raw back then. Honestly, they still are. As much as it pains her to admit it, she and Laurel don't know each other that well anymore.

Life (and death) keeps pulling them apart. Whenever there is a stroke of luck and they get to be in the same place for any length of time, it's easier to just love each other and ignore the unsteadiness and the empty spaces, all that lost time and the things left unsaid.

They've never had any major conversations about addiction or depression or the League or their parents' divorce. They've never talked about Oliver or the Gambit or why Sara did what she did. They didn't talk about how Laurel got married and had a child and built this entire life without Sara there to build it with her. Laurel doesn't bring up cradling Sara's bloodied, dead body in her arms in some dirty alleyway in the heart of this lost city. Sara doesn't bring up that she never even got a chance to say goodbye when Laurel died or that she has thought, for so long, about what she would have said if she'd gotten that chance. The closest they've come to a meaningful conversation was when Sara found out about their mother's secret.

She needs to fix this. Especially if Laurel's running on borrowed time. There are things she needs her to know. She wants her to know how sorry she is. How much she loves her.

Sara rinses the strawberry juice from her hands and tries to think of something she can put on the tray with the fruit. When they were kids, Dad would make them chicken soup with dumplings whenever they were sick. It was his great-grandmother's recipe. Sara's sure Laurel must have a copy of the recipe around here somewhere, but she doesn't think she'd be able to replicate it and there's no way she has time to make it. Besides, they had soup last night.

Maybe some yogurt? That seems like a light enough snack, right? Yogurt and strawberries. And some tea. Definitely some tea. Something Laurel really likes. To be honest, Sara just wants her to eat something. She's been sleeping for over 24 hours at this point. She hasn't been comatose. She's woken up several times to go to the bathroom or change out of her sweat soaked pajamas and Dean's been making sure she stays hydrated, but she hasn't eaten much aside from what he got her to choke down last night. She needs to eat more than a few bites of an egg sandwich and some tomato rice soup. She needs to eat more than a bowl of not so great strawberries and a cup of plain yogurt for that matter, but this is a start.

Sara gets the kettle boiling, spends too much time rummaging through the impressively large variety of tea that has accumulated in this house before eventually just going with the disgusting lavender chamomile she knows Laurel likes, and grabs a yogurt cup out of the fridge. She loads everything up onto the tray and carefully makes her way out of the kitchen, nudging the door open with her shoulder.

In the dining room, Nyssa, Cas, and Charlie are all still gathered at the table, surrounded by books and open laptops. Aida, Nyssa's four-legged shadow, has plopped herself down at Nyssa's feet under the table. They haven't moved much in the past day. Nobody has. With Hanna Moretti in the hospital and Laurel safe and at least somewhat stable for the time being, the priority has been trying to determine what's possessing Marlene Moretti and how to get her unpossessed. They haven't exactly made great strides there.

Turns out it's hard to do research and vigilante stuff and other various command central-y things when there's a woman with the magical superflu and a super clingy four year old in the house. Spoiler alert: Kids and sick people take up a lot of your time. Especially this specific kid.

One of the many reasons she's content with being Cool Auntie Sara.

Not much about Charlie, Cas, and Nyssa has changed since the last time she checked on them. She thinks the book in Nyssa's hand might be a different book. Other than that, they're still in the same positions. Sara still stops in her tracks when she pushes through the kitchen door. The most noticeable difference is who has joined them at the table. No offense but he is the last person she expected to be here. She loves the guy but it's not like he's number one on the Christmas card list. But here he is: sitting at the dining room table, flipping through the Winchester Bestiary with a look on his face that's caught somewhere between naively dumbstruck and determinedly serious as he takes it all in.

''Ollie?'' She tries to blink away the shock. ''What are you doing here?''

He looks up from the book with a frown. ''What the hell is a shtriga? Is that - Am I even saying that right?''

''It's a soul eater!''

Both Oliver and Sara jump at the sound of Charlie's triumphant exclamation, which is not great for their reputations.

He furrows his brow at the redhead. ''A shtriga is a soul eater?''

''No.''

''Actually,'' Cas cuts in. ''Yes. A shtriga does consume souls.''

''Right, yes, correct,'' Charlie says. ''But that's not what I was talking about.'' She turns her excited, caffeine addled gaze to Sara. ''The thing that's possessing Marlene. It's a soul eater.''

''You mean it's a shtriga?'' Oliver asks.

''No,'' she shakes her head. ''Shtrigas only eat children's souls.''

Oliver looks appropriately horrified by that, but Charlie doesn't pause to give any additional information.

''I think what's possessing Marlene is a full-fledged soul eater,'' she says. ''Not an offshoot like a shtriga. It eats all of the souls. It...'' She pauses, narrowing her eyes like she's not quite sure how to say this next part. ''It doesn't discriminate? It's a soul eater,'' she declares, sounding 100% certain. ''I'm sure of it.''

Cas makes a humming noise in the back of his throat. He does not sound nearly as confident.

Charlie's shoulders drop as she looks at him. ''You disagree?''

He just shrugs. ''I don't know if I disagree,'' he says. ''I haven't dealt with many soul eaters. They're rare. The behavior of whatever Dean interacted with,'' he says, somewhat carefully, ''doesn't exactly fit the description of the soul eaters I know.''

Charlie takes that in stride. ''All right, well, let's review the facts.'' She grabs a notepad from the table, dramatically flips back a few pages, and then clears her throat, readying herself to speak.

Sara tries her best to hide the tiny grin starting on her face. She glances at Nyssa out of the corner of her eye. Much to her surprise, Nyssa isn't looking at her. She's got that familiar look on her face. It's the look that means she's trying not to smile or laugh. Sara knows that look well. The sight of it makes something in her chest swell with nostalgia. She's not sure what to do with the fact that it's directed at Charlie.

''Okay,'' says Charlie. ''So far what we know about the thing that attacked Dean is that it takes souls, it can possess people, it has white eyes, and he said it wanted to take him back to its nest. Soul eaters,'' she drops the notepad and pulls the laptop over to her. ''Take people's souls back to their nests and can possess people. Not to mention!'' She holds a hand up and pauses to dig through the papers on the table. Eventually, Nyssa is the one who lifts up a book, fishes out a different notepad, and hands it over without a word. ''Yes, thank you. Look at this.'' Charlie thrusts the notepad at Cas. ''This is what Dean said this thing's true face looks like.''

''I've seen it,'' Cas says. He takes the notepad but doesn't look at it, placing it down on the table. Sara doesn't need to see the sketch. She's already seen it. Still, she sets the tray down on the table and watches Oliver snatch the notepad. His way too careful non-reaction is a dead giveaway. Ollie does not like to be shocked. Actually, no, that's not right. The Green Arrow does not like to display shock or fear. Any time he feels it he goes blank. Right now, he's blank.

Can't blame him. It's not a pretty picture.

The cloaked figure in the drawing has a long black robe with a hood and an oddly elongated and distorted face with what looks like veins or markings of some kind on the skin. There are two deep dark holes where the eyes should be, and its mouth is open unnaturally wide, as if it has unhinged its jaw to devour whatever (or whoever) is standing in front of it.

This morning, she sat at this table and stared at the image, trying to imagine what she would do if she had to come face to face with this unsightly horror movie looking thing. It doesn't look like it has any physical vulnerabilities she could take advantage of. If it has to possess people, she's not even sure it's corporeal in it's real form. What could she do?

Dean hadn't even seemed the slightest bit shaken up by what he had come face to face with. It was weird. She knows her brother-in-law is not just a stay at home dad. She knows what he used to do, what his brother still does, what his family has come from. It hadn't been that much of a shock when she was told, in all honesty. At least not in theory. The Winchester brothers do seem like they've seen some shit. She had just assumed they were former military. Monster hunting makes sense too. Even still, she has to confess that it's strange to imagine the guy who spends most of his time doing laundry or making healthy snacks or kissing her niece's boo boos as some badass Van Helsing-like monster hunter.

Is that mean?

Sara looks over Oliver's shoulder at the sketch. It doesn't look like something that should exist in real life. Then again, magic, resurrection, and time travel aren't things that should exist either and here we are. She's lost her ability to be surprised by anything at this point. Her recently resurrected sister has superpowers, her brother-in-law and his family hunt demons, and she travels through time. Of course creatures like this exist. If Bigfoot himself burst through the front door and moonwalked through the house, she wouldn't bat an eye.

''Now look at this illustration of what a soul eater supposedly looks like,'' Charlie's saying, turning the laptop around to show them an artist's rendering of a soul eater. It does look an awful lot like the thing Dean saw.

''I agree that the evidence is pointing in the direction of a soul eater,'' Cas says, calm as ever. ''I'm just having trouble with this thing's behavior. Its personality contradicts what I know of these creatures. Soul eaters are solitary beings. They're not social. They do not interact with people let alone freely converse with them. Dean's description of this creature's demeanor suggests it may be...unhinged. I do not like the idea of an unhinged soul eater. There's also the matter of it's apparent partnership with the witch. Soul eaters are powerful and incredibly egotistical. They don't have partnerships.''

''Well, maybe this one was lonely. You can't generalize all soul eaters.''

''Soul eaters don't get lonely. They don't have emotions.''

''Right, but they do have hunger,'' she points out. ''They have to feed to survive. This one is being fed. Regularly from the looks of it. Think about it. If the witch is bringing people for it to feed on, it never has to lift a finger. And it's under the witch's protection, which means no hunters on its spooky ass. Maybe it's not lonely,'' she shrugs. ''Maybe it's just lazy. You know it adds up.''

''I admit we're more than likely looking for a soul eater,'' Cas relents. ''A strange one.''

''Perhaps that's why this witch sought help from it,'' Nyssa says. ''It's not only a rare creature but it's an oddity at that. If it contradicts what you know of soul eaters, a normal hunter sure isn't going to figure this out.''

''Uh, excuse me,'' Sara pipes up, and they all look over at her with identical looks on their faces that tell her they had forgotten she was there. ''Follow up question: What the hell is a soul eater?''

Nyssa offers her a small but wicked smile and a declaration of, ''It eats souls.''

Sara attempts a glare but it's hard to glare at Nyssa. Especially when she's looking at her like that.

''A soul eater is a supernatural entity that feeds on the energy of human souls,'' says Cas, which sounds like just a different way of saying it eats souls. ''They're not of this world. They exist in between time and space. In a kind of pocket dimension. Because they don't exist in this dimension, they're not corporeal. That's why they possess people if they need to fight back against an attacker. It feeds over a long period of time,'' he goes on. ''It removes the soul from the body and takes it back to its nest. In the meantime, the soulless body remains alive but comatose and empty. Over time the body withers and dies.''

Sara tries to ignore the shiver running down her spine. ''An empty, comatose body sounds like the perfect thing to reanimate and brainwash.''

''Exactly,'' Charlie crows. ''You get me.''

''If this is a soul eater, it would also explain why she's making so many of these soulless soldiers,'' Nyssa proposes. ''Would it not? If all she's doing is reanimating the bodies and brainwashing them into doing her bidding and she's not doing anything to boost the health of the already weakened bodies then she is still dealing with dying bodies. It would explain why she seems to target vulnerable people in crisis and criminals. There is no shortage of either of those in this city.''

That is...dark. And cruel. Almost unfathomably cruel.

It also means Marlene Moretti is in a lot more trouble than they thought.

Sara will admit that the Moretti family is not her number one concern at the moment but saving them seems to be important to Laurel and Dean so that's what they're going to do.

She slides her gaze over to Oliver. He hasn't said a word during all of this, instead choosing to take it all in silently, face a careful mask of false blankness. The mask does slip when Nyssa suggests that the people of his city have been unwitting targets of an evil witch, though. There is a coldness in his eyes and the way his mouth turns down into a barely noticeable frown. It's strange, she thinks, but even after everything that's happened, she is still surprised by that. She understands it. Better than anyone else, she understands it. That doesn't mean it's not jarring to see Ollie - the fun loving, tender hearted, good-humored boy she had a crush on growing up - openly and easily display such a cold demeanor.

''Good to know.'' He tosses the sketch back down on the table. ''How do we kill a soul eater?''

Everyone looks at Charlie, who, in turn, looks at Cas. He, somewhat unusually from what Sara knows about him, folds under the pressure. ''I don't...'' He sighs heavily and rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes. ''I don't know. My wealth of knowledge regarding various supernatural entities is not as impressive as it once was. I've lost a lot since I surrendered my grace. Human memories fade faster than I thought.''

''Aww, buddy.'' Charlie looks concerned, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. ''Don't be so hard on yourself. You're still the Sherlock to my Watson.''

''I thought Dean was the Watson to my Sherlock.''

''He's clearly the Irene.''

''I barely know you and even I can tell you're highly intelligent,'' Nyssa adds on, helpful and even sort of comforting in that specific Nyssa way of hers. ''You don't have to be a seraph to be useful.''

''A sera - Wait.'' Oliver's head jerks up. ''Isn't that an angel?''

Nyssa's gaze is completely (and unsurprisingly) even as she gazes calmly at Oliver. ''Yes.''

He stares at her for a second, incredulous, and then swings his gaze over to Cas.

In response to the stunned, questioning look, Castiel, former angel of the Lord, merely offers him a cheeky looking smirk.

You know, Sara's been meaning to ask how much Oliver actually knows about who Dean, Sam, and Cas really are. Guess that answers that question. She's aware that he doesn't know everything, but guess he knows even less than she thought. Even her father knows Cas used to be an angel. She's not sure he believes it, but he's been told. She crosses her arms, allows him a second or two to process the news, and then she jumps in to save him. ''Did I know you were coming over today?'' She asks, tossing him a small but amused smile.

He looks at Cas for a second, narrows his eyes suspiciously, and then decides to let the angel thing go. Because that's where they're at in life. ''No,'' he admits. He gives Cas one last wary look and then rises to his feet and turns his attention to Sara. ''I'm a surprise.''

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the vicious smirk slowly crawl across Nyssa's lips as she stares at Oliver's back through her eyelashes.

''I wanted to check up on Laurel,'' he goes on, completely unaware of the look on Nyssa's face. ''See how she's doing. The last time I saw her... I just wanted to make sure she's okay.''

Sara is reminded of the day Laurel came back. It was a small thing, in the grand scheme of things, but it hadn't felt small at the time. Oliver referring to Laurel as ''the love of his life'' should not have been so surprising. Of course she's the love of his life. She's Laurel. He's Oliver. They've been in love since they were sixteen. Even when she was with him, Sara knew she would never be his number one girl.

Except Laurel isn't in love with him anymore. She hasn't been for a long time. She has a husband now. She's happy with Dean. She loves him and he loves her. Anyone with eyes can see that. Their love is something boundless and infinite. It is blunt and unapologetically loud. It's something that survives, even when one of them was dead. They love each other completely. Without conditions, without limitations, without expectations, and without reservations. Their marriage is this epic patchwork of teamwork and laughter and the choices they make to love and support each other, to fight for each other, to choose each other every day for the rest of their lives. It's something rare, something incredibly real and true. Certainly something worth fighting for.

It is...really, really obnoxious, to be honest.

Stupid happy people flaunting their functional marriage in the faces of people who are too damaged and broken and afraid or just too hashtag forever alone to ever have something like that.

Inconsiderate is what it is.

Somehow she doesn't think Oliver's problem with Dean and Laurel's marriage is that he finds them annoyingly in love. He doesn't look at them and feel reminded of how lonely he is. He still looks at Laurel and thinks of her as his. His destiny, his safety net, the love of his life, what he wants. Selfishness was Oliver's biggest problem before the island. She doesn't think that's gone away completely. Not when it comes to Laurel.

She forces a smile onto her face and opts not to pull on that thread. ''She's the same as when you called last night.'' She grabs the tray and opens her mouth to tell him to stay here while she goes to see if Laurel's awake only to immediately snap her jaw shut. She looks over his shoulder. Nyssa is still sitting quietly at the table, but her arms are crossed and she is still staring at Oliver's back. Cas and Charlie are whispering to each other. It might be best not to throw poor Ollie to the wolves. They'll eat him alive.

She shoves the tray into his hands, careful not to spill the mug of tea. ''Come on,'' she says. ''You can see for yourself. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.''

It's not exactly a true statement, but she's working with what she's got here. She waits until he's moved and then she looks at Nyssa. Neither of them say anything, but Sara can't help the way her lips quirk up ever so slightly in a smile.

Nyssa, for a fraction of a second, smiles back.

Reluctantly, Sara breaks the eye contact and heads after Oliver.

''Just out of curiosity,'' he says as she falls into step next to him. ''Is Dean here?''

''This is his house.'' Still, she takes pity on him. ''He's not here. He took Mary to physical therapy.''

Halfway down the hall, he stops in his tracks to throw her an alarmed look. ''Mary goes to physical therapy? Why? Is she okay?''

She's not sure how to respond to that but she decides gaping at him is the way to go. ''You two worked side by side for almost two years and you didn't know her daughter has physical therapy twice a month?'' She can't manage to keep the disbelief from her voice. It never fails to surprise her just how little Ollie and his people know about Laurel. She knows it's not completely on them because Laurel is extremely protective of her personal life and values her privacy, especially when it comes to Mary, but she's still surprised. You would think, considering they all act like they were so close to her, that they would know at least a tiny bit about her life.

''She never told me,'' he says, far too defensively for her liking. At her look, he sighs again and has to admit, ''I never asked. I guess I never asked much about her family at all.''

Yes, she's getting that.

She raises an eyebrow at him but ultimately chooses to throw him a bone. ''I think technically what she does is called vestibular rehabilitation,'' she says. ''Her hearing loss affects her balance. You've seen her walk. She's a wobbler.''

She stops outside the master bedroom and instinctively blocks him from getting to the door. For a split second, she pauses. She's not sure this is a good idea. Laurel will thank him for coming all the way here to check on her and she'll mean it. She'll give him a hug, maybe a kiss on the cheek, and hopefully seeing her will assuage some of his worries. But Laurel is not in the best shape right now. She's had a fever on and off, she's weak, she's tired, and Sara isn't sure she's entirely comfortable with exposing her to Oliver when she's in a weakened state. She wishes she didn't feel that way, but that's the reality. She loves Oliver. She considers him part of her family. But he is a flawed man. One of his biggest flaws is how he treats Laurel. He still expects her to be the same sixteen year old he fell in love with. The girl who coddled him and ignored every red flag, the one who hid every negative emotion from him because she just wanted him to love her without pity or frustration.

Sara realized that back in February of 2014 when she made the mistake of inviting him to her welcome home dinner. It was like every illusion Oliver ever had about Laurel being this perfect angel were all shattered in one night. She has never seen anyone so angry at someone else simply for being in pain and for showing that pain.

Frankly, knowing what she now knows, Oliver might have deserved to be sprayed with the garden hose that night.

''All right.'' She takes the tray back from Oliver. ''You wait here for a minute. Let me make sure she's awake.'' She gives him a quick smile, then turns, and disappears into the bedroom.

The master bedroom has become cave-like over the past 24 hours. It's warm and, thanks to the blackout curtains Thea moved in from her room, it's dark. It still smells overwhelmingly of white sage. They've been periodically smoke cleansing the entire house with the sage every few hours as per Hanna's instructions and she's noticed the smell seems to linger in the bedroom. It just seems to cling to the sheets, the pillows, and the blankets, hanging there, hovering around Laurel like a protective bubble.

Sara closes the door behind her and looks over at Laurel, still burrowed under the covers, asleep. Even in the dark, Sara can see that she does not look peaceful. She's twitching in her sleep, head lolling from side to side. Sara puts the tray of food down on top of the dresser and approaches the bed. She hesitates for a second before she reaches out a hand to touch Laurel's forehead.

The second her fingertips so much as graze her sweaty, feverish skin, Laurel lets out a whimper and Sara snatches her hand back.

Laurel, face pinched in worry, moans and rolls over, burying her face in her pillow. Her body tenses up, fists clenching the sheets tightly, and she lets out what sounds like a breathless sob.

Sara tries her best to shake her awake gently. ''Laurel,'' she tries, and then tries again, ''Hey, you're dreaming, Sassafras.''

The only response is another moan, this time accompanied by a small plea of, ''No.''

Sara shakes her harder and says, louder this time, ''Laurel.''

It does the trick, but it is not exactly a pleasant awakening. Laurel quiets down and goes completely still, like she's passed through the nightmare and moved into peaceful rest. Then she wakes up. She wakes up roughly, with a loud gasp, eyes snapping open, body unexpectedly jolting upright.

Sara is almost embarrassed to admit how much it freaks her out. She is a highly trained former assassin. She was trained to not be startled and to maintain her composure at all times. But when Laurel jerks upright, choking and sputtering as if she's been held underwater, Sara nearly jumps out of her skin.

Whatever nightmare she was in, Laurel doesn't manage to shake it off with ease. Her wild, wide eyes scan the room anxiously, fixating on the door. Her expression is a mixture of what looks like terror and rage.

Once her heart is beating again and she has aged about ten years thanks to Laurel's fucking horror movie jump scare, Sara takes in a few breaths and then asks, ''Are you okay?''

Laurel doesn't answer her. She doesn't even appear to hear her. Her eyes are still on the door, fists still clutching at the covers. She doesn't look like she's even aware that she's woken up.

Sara isn't sure what she's supposed to do. She stays quiet for about a minute, but can't keep her mouth shut any longer. The vacant, glazed over look in her sister's eyes is creeping her out way too much. She steps closer again with a soft, ''Laurel?'' She places a hand on her arm and instantly, Laurel jumps and flinches away from her touch. She does, however, look at her.

The second Laurel lays eyes on Sara, it's like the light comes on in her eyes. All at once her body deflates and seems to curl into itself. She buries her head in her hands.

Sara asks, again, ''Are you okay?''

Laurel sniffles and raises her head. ''Where's Dean?'' Her eyes are wet and scared and she looks worryingly hollowed out.

''He took Mary to her physical therapy appointment,'' she says, even though Laurel should know that already.

''Oh.''

''You sure you're okay?''

''I'm fine,'' Laurel says, although it's worth noting she refuses to look Sara in the eye when she says it. ''I - I was just... I thought...'' She frowns, brows furrowing like she's trying to calculate something in her head. ''I keep seeing...'' She never finishes any of those sentences.

''You keep seeing what?'' Sara asks. She gets, predictably, no answer.

Laurel turns her head to look at the window where the blackout curtains are pulled shut, keeping out the light. She presses her lips into a thin, tight line. It looks like she's trying to keep something in.

Sara's first thought is the sonic scream. She doesn't know how she feels about that thing. She knows she doesn't trust it. She trusts Laurel. She's just not sure about this thing inside of her. She wishes Laurel didn't have to deal with this, if she's being honest. The thing is a damn curse.

This scream is far more powerful than the device Cisco made for her and about ten times more powerful than the sonic devices Sara used to use from time to time. Laurel has done an amazing job of controlling the cry (even if most of that control has just been paralyzing fear) but everyone has realized that vulnerability and being emotionally and/or physically unwell is a trigger and that makes her dangerous. There have been some vague conversations about finding - or possibly even building - a space where she can safely practice her newfound ability, but with everything that's going on, that seems like a long ways away. Sara doesn't think it's out of bounds to be concerned that, in her current state, Laurel could lose control.

''Laurel,'' she murmurs softly. She isn't sure if she should step closer or back away.

Laurel snaps back to attention. She visibly swallows hard and then releases a breath. ''Sorry,'' she whispers. She clears her throat. She doesn't look like she's in danger of blowing. ''Sorry. Where...'' She scrubs at her eyes. ''Where did you say Dean was?''

''He took Mary to physical therapy,'' Sara reminds her - again. ''Do you remember?'' When all she gets is a blank stare and a lot of blinking, she elaborates. ''Mary didn't want to go. She woke you up to hide.''

Laurel remains unresponsive.

Mary is not fond of her vestibular therapy. Even with the limited amount of time she's spent around her, Sara knows that about her niece. She adores her physical therapist. She just hates the actual therapy. She was shaking like a leaf when she left. According to Dean, it's because she hates the long drive it takes to get to the center in Lamb Valley and because she's terrified of triggering a vertigo attack, which has happened a few times in the past. Today, she decided hiding with Mom was her best option for getting out of it. She ran into the bedroom half dressed, woke Laurel up with her screeching, and hid under the covers. She was not at all subtle about it. Dean and Laurel had to bribe her with the promise of a special viewing of Paddington to get her to come out.

This happened less than three hours ago.

Sara knows she's on edge when it comes to her sister, but she doesn't think her worry here is unreasonable. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed. ''Can you look at me?''

Laurels eyes are still vacant and far away, but she does reluctantly turn to look at her.

''Where are you right now?''

''I - I don't know,'' Laurel admits. Then, abruptly, ''Do you know when he'll be back?''

''Probably soon,'' Sara says. ''What do you need him for?''

''I just need to make sure he's okay.''

''Why wouldn't he be okay?''

Laurel doesn't answer that, but she does liven up. She still looks out of it and maybe somewhat hazy, but she throws back the covers and manages to get herself out of bed.

Sara tries to protest, to get her to stay in bed, but she knows better than to tell Laurel what to do. ''Were you having a nightmare?''

Laurel hobbles over to the closet and pulls out one of Dean's flannel shirts and a worn out looking SCPD sweatshirt that probably used to be Dad's. ''I don't know,'' she mumbles. ''I don't know what it was.''

''What did you see?''

''Nothing.''

''Are you sure? Because - ''

''Sara, I said it was nothing,'' Laurel snaps. Her voice is raspy from disuse but still sharp. Sara chooses (wisely) not to respond. She keeps her eyes on her, watching as Laurel strips off the sweat soaked t-shirt she's wearing, tugs on a fresh one, and throws on the flannel, her shaky hands struggling with the buttons. She still looks nervous, fidgety, and exhausted, but at least there's some life in her eyes. She grabs the half empty glass of water on her bedside table and takes a few sips, nodding at something over Sara's shoulder. ''Is that for me?''

Sara turns. Oh! Right. The tea and the strawberries. ''It is.''

''Is that coffee?''

''It's lavender chamomile. I know you like it.''

Laurel softens slightly. She still looks on edge but there is gratitude in her eyes. She puts the glass of water down and smiles softly. ''Thank you,'' she says, genuine. ''But I think I'm going to need something stronger than chamomile tea.''

''Or,'' Sara holds up a finger. ''Idea: You could drink some nice calming chamomile tea in bed and then go back to sleep. You need to - ''

''If you tell me I need to rest, I'm going to lose it,'' Laurel interrupts. ''I'm sick of people telling me I need to rest. I've rested. I was flat on my back for seven months. I've had more than enough rest for this lifetime.'' She pulls on the sweatshirt and brushes past Sara to pluck a single strawberry from the bowl, popping it into her mouth. ''Also, you didn't bring me a spoon.''

Sara jolts from her spot on the bed to double check the spoonless tray. ''Okay, that's my bad, but - '' She looks up, catching sight of Laurel shuffling over to the door. ''I should warn you - ''

Too late.

Laurel opens the bedroom door and instantly takes a step back, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. ''Oliver?''

Oliver, who has never been as smooth as he likes to think he is, stands there blinking like an idiot for about five seconds before he offers her an awkward wave and a smile. ''Hi.''

Laurel, clearly thrown, stares at him. ''You're...'' She looks deeply unsure about his presence here. ''Here. Standing outside my bedroom.''

He bobs his head up and down with excessive enthusiasm. ''Yep.'' He pokes his head inside the room and does a sweep. ''It's a nice bedroom. Smells like Thanksgiving.''

Sara, out of Laurel's line of sight, throws her arms out in exasperation and gives him a look. She's going for annoyed but she likely looks more flabbergasted than anything else. Smells like Thanksgiving, he said. How does this dude manage to pick up so many women when he has no game whatsoever?

Laurel looks equally unimpressed. ''What are you doing here?''

''Oh, I was just...'' He struggles. ''You know. In the neighborhood.''

''He came to check on you,'' Sara says, because she just can't stand to see the poor guy flail hopelessly any longer.

Laurel looks in between the two of them and then she appears to give up. ''Yeah, okay.'' She runs a hand through her tangled looking hair. ''I really need some coffee.'' She moves past Oliver without another word, leaving both of them behind.

Sara's expecting Oliver to trail after her because he's good at that but he just watches her go before turning back to Sara with a dark look on his face. ''Sara, she looks awful.''

''Um, I think you might need to work on your compliments.''

''I thought you said - ''

''I said her condition had improved,'' she says. ''Which it has. She's way better than she was yesterday. I never said she was cured.''

''I thought Hanna and Matteo Moretti - ''

''They're still at the hospital. Hanna needed some additional breathing treatments,'' she says. ''She had an asthma attack.''

''How convenient.''

''Oh, come on, Oliver,'' she warns. ''Don't start.''

''I don't even know these people,'' he practically hisses. ''They did this to her and I'm supposed to trust that they'll fix her?''

''You,'' she says, ''are not supposed to do anything. This isn't your show.''

He pauses at that. Guess he hadn't considered that possibility. She keeps her steely eyes locked on his and waits until he turns and walks away, still carrying his suspicion and disbelief with him, and then she lets out a breath. He has made it clear to her that he doesn't trust any of these witches (or possibly any witch at all) and that he doesn't believe Hanna and Mattie can help Laurel at all. If she's being honest, she doesn't think that's unreasonable.

She doesn't think an eighteen-year-old girl faked or somehow induced an asthma attack to avoid looking Laurel in the eye. She's not going to lie: it was a thought she had earlier when Sam called to report that Hanna was going to be staying longer than expected. But he was there when it happened and there's no real way to fake what happened to her. Sara believes Hanna has health problems that are being exacerbated by stress, fear, and grief. That sucks. She feels for the kid.

With that said, she doesn't trust the Moretti kids as far as she can throw them. She doesn't see why she should. They can cry guilt as much as they want to, but they still did this to Laurel. Maybe they feel bad about it now, but they still did it. You don't get credit for realizing you've fucked up only after the fuck up has occurred.

Sara respects that Laurel feels responsibility for these kids, but she's not buying what they're selling. She's willing to hear them out. She just doesn't want to pin all her hopes on them.

She rubs at a knot of tension in her neck. This is a mess. She fires off a text to Sam, asking him what's taking so long, and then she grabs the underappreciated tray of - well, okay, kind of subpar goodies, let's be real.

By the time she makes it out to the dining room, Laurel and Oliver have both disappeared into the kitchen. She tries to move right past the Three Musketeers, but she doesn't make it.

As soon as Charlie spots her, she asks, ''Should she be out of bed?''

''She says she's fine.''

''Just because she says it doesn't make it true,'' Cas says. ''She always says she's fine. Something she has in common with her husband.''

Sara tightens her grip on the tray and looks down at Aida, poking her head out from under the table and peering up at her curiously. ''Yeah, I know. It's Laurel,'' is all she manages to come up with. She turns to head into the kitchen. ''She could be bleeding out and she'll still tell you she's fine.''

''I wonder if perhaps that might have something to do with the reception she receives when she admits she is not fine.''

Sara stops at the sound of Nyssa's soft but forceful voice. She doesn't say anything, but it knocks the wind out of her. There is dead silence from behind her. Nyssa doesn't add anything else. Doesn't back track. Cas and Charlie stay quiet. Sara isn't quite sure how to take Nyssa's statement. She can't surmise if it was merely an observation or a dig at her. Either way, it stings. Especially coming from Nyssa. She ignores the possible jab, squares her shoulders, and makes her way into the kitchen.

''You didn't have to come all the way out to Avalon Park, Ollie,'' Laurel's saying as she scoops some coffee into a filter.

''I know,'' he says. ''I wanted to check on you.''

''You could've called.''

''I could've,'' he agrees, leaning back against the counter. ''I wanted to see you.''

''That's sweet of you,'' Laurel says lightly. ''I'm sorry I look like shit.''

He smiles at her. A real one, not one of those wooden ones. ''You don't look like shit.''

Sara puts the tray on the counter and glances in between them. She wonders how they do that. How they can make a conversation that, in theory, should be filled with tension seem so casual and comfortable.

Ollie tugs at his tie, pulling it out of place, and Sara watches as Laurel reflexively reaches out a hand to straighten it as she walks past him.

It's like being in the past.

''How are you feeling?'' He asks, waiting until her back is turned to loosen his tie once more.

Laurel doesn't answer right away. She gets the coffee brewing and then moves to the opposite side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter. She's careful to do it across from him and not right next to him. ''Last week, Dean got an email from Mary's preschool notifying parents that a child with a severe peanut allergy is going to be transferring to the class after Thanksgiving so they're going to be going peanut free. Dean and I haven't been able to agree on whether that means we should replace Mary's daily honey and peanut butter toast with SunButter on weekday mornings. He says it should be fine because she brushes her teeth after she eats. I think she's four and sometimes wipes her hands on her clothes. Her says I'm overthinking it but I don't want to accidentally kill a kid because she's wiped her hands on her shirt during the ten seconds we had our backs turned in the morning.''

Oliver and Sara stare at her.

Sara is wondering if Laurel's fever has spiked again.

Oliver says, with a frown, ''What's SunButter?''

''I'm just saying,'' Laurel sighs. ''I miss when that was our biggest problem.''

Sara puts her hands on her hips and takes a step back, narrowing her eyes. Then she says, ''I'd go with the SunButter.''

Ollie nods. ''You don't want to mess with a peanut allergy.''

Laurel throws her hands out. ''That's what I said!''

''Seriously,'' he adds on. ''What the hell is SunButter?''

''It's an allergy safe peanut butter substitute. It's made from - ''

''The sun?''

''...Sunflower seeds, Ollie.''

Sara can't help but cackle at the boyishly disappointed look on his face. When he glares at her, she sticks her tongue out at him and Laurel shakes her head at the both of them.

''What if there's a kid with a sunflower seed allergy?'' Oliver questions.

''Then I guess Mary will have to get used to oatmeal with blueberries in the mornings,'' Laurel says.

''But what if there's a kid with an oat allergy?''

She doesn't say anything to that, but she does toss him a half exasperated, half amused look.

''Just pointing out the variables,'' he smiles.

She rolls her eyes. Even with the eye roll, she can't hide the fond look on her face. He's got a pretty fond look on his face as well. It's a different kind of look. There's an edge to his fondness. It's probably not a look he should be directing at his happily married ex-girlfriend.

Sara looks at Laurel, who also seems to have noticed the look if the barely noticeable shift in her body language means anything. Sara doesn't have the energy or the patience to deal with any of that right now. She sidles up to Oliver, hoists herself up onto the counter, and asks, ''Should I be getting dinner ready?''

Laurel blinks a few times, clearly caught off guard by the question. ''What?''

''Should I be getting dinner ready?'' Sara repeats. ''It's almost four. A lot of times Dean will have something thawing by now or in the crock pot or he'll have at least mentioned dinner, but he didn't mention anything today. Should I be thawing something?''

''Did he ask you to?''

''No.''

''Then I think you're good.''

''What if he forgot?''

Laurel's lips start to curve up into a grin and she looks in between Sara and Oliver for a moment before saying, ''You two are just full of the hypotheticals today, aren't you?'' She laughs. ''You can try calling him, but I doubt it matters. We usually order out on PT days,'' she says, and then adds, under her breath, ''If we can even afford that right now.''

Sara doesn't let it go. ''What about snacks? Should I be getting snacks ready for Mary? I know she goes straight to the kitchen after school.''

''She should be fine,'' Laurel says. ''Dean always takes her to the Lamb Valley mall to get some trail mix and a strawberry peach smoothie after her therapy.''

Oliver pauses, cocking his head to the side curiously. ''Very specific.''

''Yeah, I don't know. He did it once or twice and she thought it was a thing so now it's a thing. She's big on routines.'' She pushes off the counter and turns around to grab a mug out of the cupboard. Just the act of reaching up to grab a mug looks like it exhausts her. Even Oliver seems to notice how winded she looks because he moves like he wants to help her or tell her to sit down. She doesn't give him the chance. ''Any updates on how the SCPD is handling the scene at the Bull's Eye? My husband's fingerprints were all over at least one of those crime scenes. I know we cleaned up as much as we could but we have no way of knowing if we missed anything and I don't want him dragged into a murder trial. He's been through enough.''

Oliver straightens up. ''Thea was at that scene,'' he reminds her. ''And there are still plenty of people in this city - including some members of the SCPD - holding a grudge against my family for my mother's part in the Undertaking. I'd rather not give any of them a reason to arrest a Queen. Trust me,'' he smiles tightly, ''we made sure there were no fingerprints left behind.''

She offers a terse nod. ''Good. What do the police think happened?''

''They're keeping things quiet for now,'' Sara jumps in. ''There hasn't even been a news report yet. But Dad still has friends in the department and they told him the SCPD is treating this as a drug deal gone wrong.''

''A drug deal?''

''Apparently the owner of the motel was a known drug dealer,'' Oliver says. ''And the other guy - uh, the - ''

''The soulless one,'' Sara finishes.

''He was obviously a user,'' Oliver says, and doesn't seem to catch Laurel's brief flinch at the callousness of his tone. ''The cops put two and two together and got - well, five. But it works out for us.''

''Well then,'' Laurel's voice is bone dry. ''That's certainly nice and tidy, isn't it?''

That's the SCPD for you, Sara doesn't say. She doesn't want to openly bash the organization her father worked for for half his life, but it's been made clear over the past few years that they are not exactly on top of things. Most of them are completely unaware of what's really going on in this city.

''It's not like it's hard to believe,'' Oliver points out. ''I know people like to think drugs are only a problem in the Triangle but they're everywhere.''

''Oh, I'm well aware of that,'' Laurel says. Her voice is casual but her eyes have gone cold. She looks at Oliver for a long moment, sizing him up. Sara doesn't know what for but she's wondering if she should perhaps be moving out of the blast zone. Even through her obvious exhaustion, Laurel still manages to transform her body language and the expression on her face entirely. The look on her face, the way she's standing, the tone of her voice when she speaks - it is all rigid and purposeful and vaguely intimidating. It's what Sara likes to call her Lawyer Mode. ''What do you propose we do about the drug epidemic, Mayor Queen? Your Chief of Staff tells me you've shot down her idea of safe injection sites, which would combat the growing number of overdoses happening in this city. So what's your plan? You must have one if you so easily shot down hers.''

Oliver looks far more stunned than he should be by the change of topic and the swift shift in Laurel's personality. He shakes it off as quickly as he can and volleys back, ''Safe injection sites don't solve the problem.''

''Have you looked at the numbers?'' She argues. ''Do you know how often first responders are being called to drug overdoses? How crowded the morgues are getting? Have you looked at those statistics? This is a dangerous city, Mr. Mayor, and the fight against opioids appears to be just getting started. Don't you think you should be doing whatever you can to limit the casualties?''

''You know safe injection sites are controversial,'' he says. ''The City Council would never approve - ''

''But you haven't even brought it up with them. You haven't put out a poll. You haven't reached out to any of the affected communities. You haven't treated the idea like a serious suggestion. So you must have another plan, right? Surely you wouldn't shoot down the only suggestion if you didn't have a plan yourself.''

Oliver just stares at her. He doesn't have an answer or a defense. He looks blindsided. Sara feels for him. She wouldn't want to go up against Dinah Laurel Lance, Attorney at Law either. She'll bicker with her sister, sure, no problem. No way in hell would she ever go up against Laurel the Lawyer. She values her sanity too much.

The one useful thing their mother ever passed down to Laurel is her debating skills. Mom has always been one of the most skilled debaters - and one of the most terrifying. Sara vividly remembers family dinners where she would sit at the table, listening to Mom calmly and easily verbally slam someone into the table. Laurel inherited that. Sara did not. She has no patience for debates and she lacks the ability to stay calm when the person on the other end of the debate won't agree with her. Mom and Laurel are both somehow able to remain calm yet forceful and steadfast in their convictions. Sara just gets pissed and starts fights.

She hops off the counter. She doesn't want to get in the middle of the political minefield Laurel has pushed Oliver onto, but she doesn't want to miss anything either. She grabs the forgotten yogurt cup and strawberries from the tray to put them back in the fridge but Laurel blocks her and steals them back.

''You're coming at me pretty hard here, Counselor,'' Oliver quips. ''Don't you think?''

Laurel remains unbothered. ''That's bound to happen when you're in politics. And you, Mr. Mayor, are in politics.'' She grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer. ''Better get used to it.'' She takes a seat at the breakfast nook and dumps the yogurt on top of the strawberries. ''But, okay, if you don't want to talk about drugs, we can talk about something else.'' She looks up at him with a twinkle in her eye. Her voice is bright and cheerful when she asks him, bluntly, ''What's your stance on gun control?''

Oliver goes slack jawed.

Sara bursts into laughter. ''This almost reminds me of the last Thanksgiving we went to,'' she says, and grins when she hears Laurel start laughing.

When she was about Mary's age, the entire Lance-Drake family was permanently banned from the annual Drake family Thanksgiving. Or maybe Mom was the one who banned them. Either way, it was also one of the only times Sara has ever seen her mother lose her composure during a debate. Every Thanksgiving up until that point, Mom would spend the entire dinner talking about colonizers, stolen land, smallpox blankets, and the indignities done to the Native American people. Which is, you know, more than fair, but Sara is fairly certain Grandma and Grandpa held Thanksgiving dinners because they wanted to have some pie with their grandchildren. Ideally without their middle child making everything into some big Issue.

The exact tipping point was when Grandpa interrupted one of Mom's passionate rants with a stern, ''Dinah Alexandra, can we at least enjoy our mashed potatoes without you talking over all of us?''

Sara's not sure what it was - maybe it was because she didn't like being interrupted, maybe she was just embarrassed at getting middle named by her father, or maybe it was the three glasses of wine and one rum and coke - but in response, Mom's entire face went beet red and she yelped out, ''Your mashed potatoes are racist, Dad!''

Sara and Laurel haven't celebrated a traditional family Thanksgiving ever since. But they did get something to tease their mother about. Sara looks over at Laurel. She's munching on a yogurt covered strawberry and she's still smiling at the memory but there's a sad, almost bitter edge to it.

Sara's own smile dims at the sight of it. It's hard to think of Mom in a positive light right now. It must be even harder for Laurel.

The kitchen door opens just enough for all three of them to hear that familiar creaking noise, and then it closes. On the other side of the door, there is a tiny ''oof'' sound followed by a squeaky, ''Can somebody help me?!''

Sara and Laurel both move but Oliver moves faster, rushing over to open the door for Mary. She marches into the kitchen with a grin and what looks like the remnants of a smoothie all over her face. Both of her tiny hands are gripping a cup full of green juice. When she looks up and spots Oliver standing there, her smile falters. She shies away from him, cheeks reddening, but still manages to offer up a polite, ''Thank you.''

He smiles back at her, softer than his usual smiles. ''You're welcome,'' he says. ''I like your shoes.''

She perks up at that. ''My Uncle Sammy got 'em for my birthday,'' she says proudly. ''They light up. See?'' To demonstrate this, she stomps a foot on the ground. The juice in the dangerously full cup sloshes and nearly goes splattering to the ground despite the flimsy lid. Mary doesn't notice.

''Wow,'' Oliver marvels. ''That's so cool. I wish I had light up shoes.''

''Maybe you can get them for your birthday,'' she suggests, sweet as ever. She looks, for a second, like she might actually be open to continue engaging in conversation with him, but then she spots Laurel sitting at the table, awake, out of bed, and eating one of her yogurt cups. ''Mommy!'' She gasps, eyes widening. She scrambles over to her mother, still clutching at the cup of juice. ''You're awake!''

''I am,'' Laurel says, offering her a beaming smile. She takes the juice and puts it on the table before turning all of her attention to Mary. Her smile softens and she angles her body toward her daughter, reaching out to cup her face in her hand gently. ''Hello, honeybee.''

Mary, eyes lit up completely, grins up at her. It's a small gesture; just a quiet, brief moment between them before Laurel laughs and grabs something to wipe at the mess on Mary's face, but Sara gets caught in it. They both look so genuinely, sweetly happy to see each other. Things are, for that one short moment, uncomplicated. They are unburdened. There is just Laurel and Mary and all that unending, unfathomable love between them.

Sara thinks, in this moment of completely ridiculous childishness, that she wishes someone would look at her the way Laurel looks at Mary.

Out of nowhere, she aches. She can't tell if she's aching for Laurel or for Mary or for herself, but it's in her chest and stuck in her throat. She has to look away.

It's her sister's softness that gets her. It's everything Sara has never allowed herself to be and everything she's always relied on Laurel to give her. She lost out on years of that. Something about that quiet moment has reminded her of that. All that lost time. You don't get that back once it's gone.

She looks around the kitchen for an escape. Something to do, to clean, just something to keep her hands busy. Normally, she would leave. Duck into the garage for some quality time with the punching bag or head out for a run. Even make up an errand or some bullshit excuse to go hide out at Dad's. There's no way out this time.

''Did you have a good time with Miss Ella today?'' Laurel's asking, still struggling to get the sticky mess off Mary's face with a dry paper towel.

''Uh-huh,'' Mary nods happily. ''I rolled and I didn't get dizzy.''

''Sweetie, that's great,'' Laurel cheers. ''I'm so proud of you!''

''But I fell down when I was running,'' Mary says. For about a second, she looks discouraged. Then she perks up and adds, ''But Daddy kissed it better and I got band aids.'' She plops down on the floor and rolls her kitty cat leggings up to her knees. ''See?'' She points at the band aids on both knees and makes sure that everyone gets a look at her Sesame Street band aids. ''Miss Ella only had Elmo,'' she says, ''and Elmo's only okay - ''

Oliver looks disproportionately aghast at Mary's anti Elmo declaration.

'' - But Daddy had Paw Patrol in the car so I got Elmo here,'' she points to her knees, ''and Skye here'' She thrusts her hand out to show her mom and then holds it out to Oliver and Sara.

Oliver, leaning into to look at the band aid, blurts out, ''Who's Skye?''

Mary looks baffled at the question. ''From Paw Patrol.''

He looks just as baffled. ''What's Paw Patrol?''

She blinks at him like she doesn't understand the question and then her face slowly morphs into a comically incredulous expression. ''You don't know Paw Patrol?''

Sara makes what she thinks is a valiant attempt to cover her mouth to hide her grin.

''Ollie's not really up to date on his pop culture, Mary,'' Laurel says, helping Mary to her feet and then lifting her up onto her lap. ''He hasn't even seen Stranger Things.''

Oliver pouts. ''I started it.''

Mary still looks so completely dumbfounded by the idea that there could be people out there who have not seen Paw Patrol that she forgets to be shy and just bursts out, ''You gotta watch Paw Patrol!''

He looks put on the spot.

''It's Mary's favourite show,'' Laurel explains. ''It's about dogs.''

''Talking dogs,'' Mary corrects. ''They help people and I like Skye the best 'cause she can fly but I love all of them and they're all my favourites.''

''It's on Netflix,'' Sara chimes in helpfully. ''Maybe you should put it on your list. It might be more your speed.''

He looks offended by that for about 2.5 seconds before he shrugs and says, ''I do like talking dogs.''

''That's the spirit.'' She pats him on the back. ''And hey - you can always call Mary if you get lost. Right, baby girl?''

Mary, reaching for the cup of green juice on the table, looks up, blinks, glances at her mom, and then signs, What?

Nothing, Laurel assures her, before helpfully moving the juice close enough for Mary to reach. ''What's this?''

''It's for you,'' Mary says happily. ''It's hand juice.''

There is a long pause. ''Hand juice?''

''Uh-huh,'' Mary nods.

There's another pause as Laurel sniffs suspiciously at the juice.

Sara slides into the seat across from Mary and Laurel. ''Do you mean hand squeezed juice? Or maybe hand pressed juice?''

''Yeah, hand juice,'' Mary says confidently. ''It's good for you.'' She grabs the cup with both hands and holds it up to Laurel, waiting patiently for her to take it. ''It makes you feel better so you can stop sleeping and be with me.''

Laurel's face visibly falls at that, but she forces a smile and says, ''Then I guess I'd better drink it all up.'' She drops a quick kiss to the top of Mary's head and then accepts the drink, taking a small sip from the straw. She winks and Mary laughs, that adorable, contagious little laugh of hers.

Sara chuckles, unable to help herself. Before she has a chance to ask where her green hand juice is, the kitchen door swings open again and Dean strolls into the room. He looks distracted, juggling his phone, a bag of trail mix, and a smoothie, but Oliver and Sara both still tense up when they see him. She's expecting him to be pissed that Oliver, the man who has zero respect for him and has been, if she's being honest, a nuisance, is in his home.

Dean doesn't even give him a second look.

''Daddy.'' Mary hops off Laurel's lap and throws herself at Dean as soon as he is within arm's reach, grabbing onto his leg. ''Mommy's awake!''

He abandons the smoothie on the table and slips his phone back into his pocket. ''I can see that,'' he says, handing her the bag of trail mix.

She opens it up, shoves her tiny hand in to grab a handful, and then stuffs the whole handful into her mouth. ''I didn't wake her up,'' she says seriously, peering up at him innocently, her voice muffled by the mouthful of treats. ''Promise.''

''I know,'' he lifts her up onto his hip with ease. ''I believe you.'' He looks over at Laurel, smile dimming slightly, and then he looks - for about half a second - over at Sara. She's not entirely sure what the look on his face means but it puts her on edge. He leans down to peck Laurel on the lips softly and then whispers something in her ear. Her entire body tenses up and when he pulls away, she turns to look out the window.

Sara catches sight of Oliver standing up straight, body at the ready.

Dean doesn't seem to notice. ''You know, pumpkin,'' he's saying. ''I think Aunt Nyssa could use some help taking Aida for a walk. You think you could help her?''

Mary's eyes get so big they look like dinner plates. ''Yes!''

Sara scoots closer to the window and pushes the curtain back to peek into the backyard where Sam is stepping through the back gate, leading two exhausted looking young adults into the backyard. Sara turns back, catching Oliver's eye. There is no way he's going to leave now. Hell, she strongly doubts he came here just to check on Laurel. He wanted to know what was going on.

''Okay.'' Dean's smile is tight, but Mary doesn't seem to notice. ''Let's go get your coat on. You can bring your trail mix with you. Mom's going to put your smoothie in the fridge for you and you can finish it when you get back. Deal?''

Mary lets out a happy screech of, ''Deal'' and then, ''Hurry up! Let's go, let's go!''

Dean shoots one more look in Laurel's direction and then he and Mary are gone, pushing through the kitchen door.

Laurel doesn't even pause. She rises to her feet and grabs Mary's smoothie to put away. ''Ollie - ''

''I'm not going anywhere.''

She closes the fridge door and turns to face him. ''I wasn't going to ask you to leave,'' she says, with patience only the mother of a small child could have. ''You should know what's happening here if you're going to help.''

''You could try not being a big ass,'' Sara suggests brightly. ''Just for something different.''

''I wasn't - ''

''And if you and my husband could keep the snarky comments to a minimum,'' Laurel says, monotone. ''That would be great.''

He blushes at that, but still mutters out defensive, ''Tell him that.''

''I will tell him that,'' she says. ''Right now I'm telling you.'' She squeezes his shoulder briefly and then brushes past him and out the door.

Oliver watches her go with this odd frown on his face, blinking in surprise, and then he turns to Sara. ''Did she just use her Mom Voice on me?''

She grins, winks at him, and gives his ear a light tweak as she moves past him. She shoves into the dining room and looks around, managing to catch sight of Laurel just as she's escaping down the hallway. Sara pauses to look in Dean's direction. She's expecting him to be hot on Laurel's heels but he's too busy trying to get Mary, chattering away through another mouthful of trail mix, bundled back up into her coat and hat to notice. Even Nyssa, attempting to catch her excited puppy long enough to clip the leash on, doesn't seem to notice.

Sara goes after Laurel. She hurries down the hall and out the sliding glass door just in time to see Sam wrap Laurel up in a hug. ''I'm fine,'' she's saying. ''Really, I'm good. I promise.'' She's lying through her teeth.

Sara might be more interested in that if not for the two witches standing in the backyard. Hanna and Mattie are both standing there, looking unsure, hanging back by the gate. It occurs to her that she has no idea how to defend herself against a witch. She has no idea how to protect Laurel from a witch. Although, given the mildly terrified looks on Harry and Hermione's faces over there, she's not sure that's going to be a huge concern.

Mattie looks fiercely protective of his sister but also nervous. He keeps himself glued to Hanna's side, but doesn't actually look like he could pull off any significant magic attack. He's a well-built kid, but even if he tried for a physical attack, he would lose. Hanna's the wild card. She's a tiny little slip of a thing, but she's the one who packs the wallop according to Dean. But she can't even look at Laurel.

She's standing there with her eyes downcast, lips trembling, body angled away from them. There's something about the level of fear present in her eyes that makes Sara uneasy. It seems excessive for the circumstances. These kids have been through a lot. Their grandmother is dead, their mother is soulless and possessed, their uncle is a jackass, and their father appears to be a money hungry loser. They have a reason to be fearful and grief stricken. This is just a lot more fear than Sara had been expecting. It seems...exaggerated.

Laurel must notice that too because her voice is the gentlest it has ever been when she steps away from Sam to greet the siblings. ''Hanna,'' she smiles. ''It's good to see you're okay.''

Hanna manages a weird wobbly grimace looking thing and shuffles closer to her brother.

Laurel takes it in stride. ''Sweetheart, I've known you for years. Am I really that scary?''

''No,'' Mattie says hurriedly. ''No, it's nothing like that. It's just - It's the spell,'' he says. ''She can see it.''

''She can see it?''

''Some witches can see the spells they cast,'' he says. ''Or,'' he keeps going when Hanna sends him a look. ''Not the spells, but the marks they leave behind. Kinda like magical fingerprints.''

''What do spells look like?'' Sara asks.

''A - A haze most of the time,'' Hanna stammers out. ''But not - not this one. This one looks like...'' She bites down on her bottom lip. ''Something else.''

''Something else?''

''Rot,'' Dean's voice says from behind them. He's just stepping out onto the deck, closing the sliding glass door behind him. He looks strangely nonchalant. ''It looks like rot.''

Hanna looks stunned, exchanging a brief look with Mattie. ''How do you know that?''

''A friend,'' he shrugs. ''He said he could feel the rot inside of her.''

When Laurel goes pale at that, he moves to comfort her. Like he usually does. She shakes his hand off her and shuffles away from him. ''Boy,'' she says, voice dry and sarcastic. ''You sure like to keep a lot of things to yourself, don't you?''

He flinches, but doesn't respond.

Sara looks over at Sam briefly and he catches her eye. He looks about as uncomfortable as she feels. ''Uh,'' he clears his throat and looks over at Hanna. ''He's - He's right? About the rot?''

Hanna manages a jerky nod. ''When I...'' She stops to take a deep breath and then looks right at Laurel. ''When I look at you,'' she says. ''I don't see you. I just see rot. I see what the spell is doing to you. My spell. I'm so sorry.''

Mattie stands up straighter at that. ''Your spell?''

''I…I did this to you,'' she whispers. ''What's happening to you is happening because of me.'' Then she bursts into tears.

Sara is not proud of it but her first reaction to Hanna's sobs is to screw her face up in aggravation. She's not great at the whole comforting thing. She's good at being comforted. Not so much at reciprocation. Being all maternal and shit is just not her forte. She's great at inappropriate humor, though. She's got jokes for days. That's her thing. That's what she brings to the party.

In this specific situation, at least she's not the only one not feeling the tears.

Sam audibly sucks in an exasperated sounding breath when Hanna starts crying. He actually checks his watch. Dean remains blank. Laurel is the only one who looks somewhat conflicted. She looks impatient, like she's ready to get this all over with as quickly as possible so she can go back to bed, but she also looks sympathetic. Or maybe that's just her face. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

She looks away for just a second. When she turns back it's like looking at a different person. All of her features have softened and she has this odd look on her face full of vulnerable kindness and compassion. The extreme change is unnerving to say the least.

''I'm really sorry,'' Hanna sobs out. ''I never meant for any of this to happen.''

''Okay,'' Laurel sighs out. She steps over to the Moretti siblings and gently extricates Hanna from Mattie's protective grip. ''Hanna, honey, look at me.'' She places both hands on the girl's cheeks to force her to look at her. ''I know you're sorry. I know that. I'm sorry too. I'm so sorry about your grandmother.'' She gives both of them a sad, understanding, kind looking smile. ''You and your family were in a bad situation. You must have been scared. I understand. It's hard to say no to family, isn't it? Even when you know what they're doing is wrong.''

Even when she is talking to her own daughter, Laurel's voice has never been this sickeningly sweet. She leads Hanna over to one of the chairs on the porch and sits her down. It's only when Laurel crouches down in front of Hanna, still looking at her with that soft, mushy look, that Sara understands what is going on here. This is a con.

''Listen,'' Laurel says. ''One way or another, everything is going to be okay. We're not going to let anything happen to you.'' She looks over at Mattie. ''To either of you.''

Hanna wipes at her eyes. ''What about our mom?''

It's telling, in Sara's opinion, that she doesn't even bother to ask about her father and uncle.

''We're going to do our best to get her home to you,'' Laurel says. She sounds like a hostage negotiator right now. ''But we need you to tell us what you know so we can figure out how to move forward. Can you do that?''

Hanna nods shakily, but she's still sniffling and there are fresh tears running down her cheeks. ''It's my fault.''

''What makes you say that?''

''What she wanted to do to you,'' Hanna says. ''It was sick. I didn't want any part of it. I never cared about the money. We would have figured it out.'' She pauses for a minute, trying to gather herself together. ''All my life, my mom and my - my grandmother,'' her voice catches. ''They taught us that witchcraft is our birthright. That it's a gift and that because we've been given this gift, it's our responsibility to use it to help. To make the world a better place. They taught us to be good.'' She says that part firmly. ''They wanted us to know that we are not wrong for existing. It doesn't matter what hunters think of us or what other witches do with their power. We are good witches and good people. We use white magic. We don't hurt people. Doing this goes against everything they raised us to believe.''

It's quite the speech. It's quite the performance. Sara can't tell if a ''performance'' is all it is. She wants it to be real. It's just... There's something off. She believes the grief is real. It's all of these passionate apologies. Eighteen year olds aren't exactly known for saying all the right things at exactly the right moments and yet here she is; hitting every single one of Laurel's buttons. Hanna is this frail looking, doe eyed, scared, currently motherless child making all these impassioned declarations in a big, Laurel-like way, and she is focusing all of those heartfelt pleas in Laurel's direction.

It feels like a trap.

Maybe she's just that scared. Or maybe she's a plant. Her mother doesn't appear to have had much choice in this. Neither has her brother. But her father... Everyone's sort of glossed over that issue. Regardless of what Marlene's choices were or weren't, he willingly chose to work for this witch, to do what he did, to attack Laurel in her own home. Who's to say Hanna doesn't take more after her father?

Sara stares at the girl sitting quiet and still on the dirty, still damp chair, hands folded demurely in her lap. She tries to spot any obvious tells in her body language. Anything that gives her away. It is clear this girl is smart. It's also clear she's been way more involved in this thing than Mattie. What if she's not as innocent as her brother wants to believe she is?

If Sara knows anything it's that it is far easier than you think to switch sides and go dark when that side is offering you survival. People do twisted things in order to survive.

''I tried to talk them out of it,'' Hanna says. ''But my uncle...'' She shifts in her seat, the first visible sign of discomfort she's shown so far. ''He convinced my parents that this was easy money. My father - He'll follow Ricky anywhere.''

''His brother always comes first,'' Mattie says in a mumble, bitterness creeping into his voice.

''Mom was desperate,'' Hanna says. ''She wouldn't have done any of this if she wasn't. I swear. She's not a bad person. Neither is my grandmother. They convinced themselves that no one would get hurt. You were only a body. You weren't supposed to feel anything. Your family was never supposed to know. Mom didn't want to hurt you.'' She looks past Laurel to Dean. ''She didn't want to hurt any of you. They just got so lost.'' She lowers her voice to a regretful sounding near whisper. ''I had to do something.''

Sara, with a growing sense of unease, asks, ''What did you do?''

''I...'' Hanna's voice is a tiny, scared squeak. ''I...''

''You botched the spell on purpose.'' It's Mattie who says it. His voice is quiet and incredulous. He's stepped back from her and he's staring at the back of her head with this mixture of disappointment, shock, and fear.

Sara has to admit that if her older sibling looked at her like that, she would be destroyed. So she can understand why Hanna immediately crumbles. It might be the most genuine emotion she's displayed. ''I didn't know what else to do,'' she cries out, standing up and trying to take a step toward him. ''Someone had to do something! Nobody was doing anything to stop them! Gran knew it was wrong and she wrote that spell for them anyway!''

''We could've just left,'' he bursts out. ''I told you - I told you we could leave without them. Get out of town. They needed you to do that spell. If we had just left - ''

''They're our parents. We need our parents!''

''We're fucking adults, Hanna!''

Yes, they seem real with it in that regard.

''Hey!'' Both siblings jump at the sound of Dean's sharp voice. There is no ire or anger in his expression, but there is a hefty dose of impatience in his voice. Instead of glowering at them, he merely raises his eyebrows and says, ''I get that you two are working through some shit right now but can we save the family drama for later? What did you do to botch the spell?''

Hanna clears her throat and swipes at her eyes again. ''Gran wrote the spell but she wasn't part of casting it and she was always changing things around so I thought if I changed some of the wording and took some parts out, no one would notice. I thought it would just fail. I thought nothing would happen and it would give me more time to talk my mom out of this. But I didn't know...'' She blows out a breath and her shoulders deflate. She seems to get smaller before their very eyes, shrinking into herself like a dying flower. ''That night, when the witch showed up at the graveyard, she changed the plan. She took the spell I had already changed and changed it even more. She made it a blood spell.''

''A blood spell,'' Laurel echoes. ''What's a - ''

''A blood calls to blood spell,'' Hanna corrects. ''That's what brought you back. You woke up because she called to you.''

A cold feeling of dread settles in Sara's gut. ''She called to her?''

''I don't think she meant to,'' Hanna says. ''She's overconfident but I don't think she fully knows what she's doing. If she did, she wouldn't have needed us to write the spell in the first place. I don't think she's ever done anything like this before. She must have thought making it a blood spell would be like a failsafe. Even if our spell failed, she could still use our magic to bring you back by connecting you to her.''

Sara can feel Laurel stiffen beside her at the notion of being connected to this witch.

''She must not have realized that our combined power could bring you back whole. Honestly, neither did I. I've heard of it happening before but it's so rare and you have to have a lot of power. I think...'' She frowns, thoughtful. ''I don't think she understands her own power.''

''How can she not - ''

''Because it's not her power,'' Mattie says, cutting Laurel off. ''The magic she has isn't a birthright. She's a thief.'' He spits that last word out like it's poison, voice dripping with righteous anger and what sounds like deep offense. ''All she does is take.''

''She has witchcraft in her blood,'' Hanna says, laying a hand on his shoulder. ''She has her own power. She's just added to it. Mom could sense it the moment we met her. We figured she was just a particularly powerful Borrower.'' She doesn't bother to explain what the hell that is. She wrings her hands anxiously instead and chews on her lip. ''We were wrong.''

Sara has so many questions. They keep bubbling up in her throat and she just keeps swallowing them down. She doesn't want to bury the kid with an endless string of questions. She needs her to keep talking, not clam up. The one question she does allow herself to ask, as calmly as she can, is, ''Where is she getting her power?''

''From other witches,'' says Hanna. ''Other Naturals like us. She's killing them and stealing their power. I think that's what she was going to do to us if we stopped taking her orders. That's why we ran.'' She gingerly sits back down in the chair. Her nervous fingers work the charm bracelet around her wrist. ''We heard through the grapevine that some witches had been killed. An elder witch in Amnesty Bay, two sisters up in Modesto, and an entire coven in Ivy Town. But the way we heard it, that was all the work of hunters. It happens sometimes. A hunter goes on a spree, word spreads through the community, and we hunker down.'' She slides her eyes over to Dean and Sam. ''Actually, there was some talk on the message boards that you two were involved.''

''Sorry to disappoint,'' Dean says.

''Wait.'' Sam raises his eyebrows. ''The message boards?''

''We figured it would pass,'' Hanna goes on. ''It's...an unfortunate part of being a witch, but it is what it is. But then, a few days ago, Gran was talking to a friend of hers and she learned that the witches had all had their powers drained out of them. That's when Gran figured it out. I don't know how she knew this witch was the killer, but she was sure of it. As soon as she told my mom, that was it. We had to get out of there. That's why we were at that motel. We were trying to get away. Mom was already on edge because of what happened to Laurel. She wanted to find a way to help you,'' she tells Laurel. ''She knew you would be feeling the effects of the spell's disintegration and she - she wanted to save you.'' A tiny, nervous flicker of a smile skitters across her lips. ''She knew it was the least we could do. The plan was to get Gran and me to the motel, then Mom was going to go back and get Mattie, and then we were going to get out of dodge. But when we got to the motel...''

That's the end of her story. She can't finish.

''Can you help Laurel?'' Dean asks the question with more caution than expected. He doesn't seem to want to spook the girl. ''You said your mom wanted to find a way to help her. Did she?''

Hanna looks at Mattie, then at Laurel, and then back at Dean. She nods. ''I think so. I'm not my mom,'' she warns. ''I'm nowhere near her level. But I can try. I want to try. I want to help.''

Sara works incredibly hard not to show her suspicion.

''Thank you,'' Laurel says. She reaches out to take Hanna's hand, squeezing gently.

''Uh.'' Sam raises a hand slightly, like he's asking for permission to speak. ''It's great that you can help,'' he says, ''but there's another problem here. Do you know why she's doing this? What's her endgame?''

''I don't know,'' Hanna says. ''I'm sorry. I was never told. My mom might know.''

Sam moves past that fairly easily. ''This witch,'' he says. He looks over at Laurel briefly, and then at Sara. ''You said she did a blood calls to blood spell. Does...'' He doesn't seem to want to say it. ''Does that mean...?''

Hanna sucks in a breath. Her eyes skitter over to Sara for a second and then to Laurel. ''She's related to you,'' she confirms hesitantly. ''I don't know how, but she's part of your bloodline.''

Oh ...Good. That's great.

What in the hell in Sara supposed to do with that? Where does she put that information? She already has all this brand new information about her family swimming around in her head. Her mother's a liar, they're the descendants of a power hungry witch, firstborn daughters are doomed, their entire bloodline is basically one long line of sad or broken or horribly selfish women, and her dead sister is no longer dead but isn't quite alive either, brought home by shoddy workmanship, hanging on by a thread. She is at maximum capacity for family drama. There's no room for this newest revelation.

She clenches her teeth to keep from losing her shit entirely and looks to Laurel for direction. She gets nothing in return. Laurel just looks blank; completely unaffected and stoic in the face of yet another harsh reality about the family they thought they knew. It's frustrating.

All Sara can think about is the Christmas Eve parties they used to have at Grandma and Grandpa's house on Sassafras Drive. It was tradition. Before she was born, the family Christmas was on Christmas Day but with her birthday falling on the 25th, the day became a birthday/Christmas hybrid for awhile. Christmas Eve, on the other hand, was just for the holiday.

She remembers everything about those parties. The matching pajamas the kids got every year from Grandma and Grandpa, the honey baked ham, Aunt Valerie's French Silk Pie, the fruitcake Grandma made that no one ever ate. Mom making them stop to pick up a poinsettia centerpiece on the way there every single year, Dad and Uncle Danny getting tipsy on eggnog and laughing way too loudly at their own inside jokes, the way Grandpa would grab Grandma when she was trying to clean up the mountains of wrapping paper and twirl her around the living room, singing along with Bing Crosby while she blushed.

She loved those parties. Her birthday was nothing compared to them. She clung to the memories of those parties while she was floating half naked and half dead in the sea. Or when Ivo would call her to his quarters at night, look at her with that too wide smile and tell her to come closer. She even held onto them when she was with the League, being trained and broken and molded into the killer she is now. She used to tell Nyssa about them when they were alone together. She used to promise herself that if she ever made it home, she was going to make sure that tradition continued. Bring her family back together. Make things better with Laurel. Maybe even show Nyssa what it meant to have warmth and love in a family.

She knows, logically, that none of what has happened or will happen will make those memories somehow less real. Those Christmas Eve parties were real. They happened. She really did live there. But it does change them. It shatters something. She used to think of those family parties and think to herself, That's when I was happy. That's when I was normal.

Now she looks back and has to think, I guess we were never normal at all.

It's like her safety net has been taken away. Even when she had nothing, she had those memories of when she was free and full of joy. When her family was just a family and she was just a girl.

I could've been anyone, she used to think to herself.

Except as it turns out, no, she couldn't have been. She may not be a firstborn daughter, but she is still a member of this messed up family. There was never any point where she was just like everyone else. She never could have been just anyone. She's a Drake. She's always been a Drake. She's always been an Ellard.

A long line of sad girls.

She looks over at Laurel one more time, still searching for a reaction. Laurel still looks mostly unfazed, but she's twisting at her wedding rings now. It's a miniscule reaction but it's enough for Dean to reach over and place his hand on the back of her neck, massaging her neck and shoulders. She doesn't move away from him this time.

''How is that even possible?'' Sara asks because obviously no one else is going to.

Hanna doesn't have an answer for that Dean is the one who says, almost reluctantly, ''Hazel.''

She looks at him. ''Hazel,'' she repeats dumbly.

''Your ancestor,'' he says. ''The one who started all this.''

''I know who she is,'' she says, voice clipped. ''That doesn't make any sense. She started this back in the 1500s. How can she still be alive in 2016?''

''Witches can live for a long time if they have enough power,'' says Laurel. When both of the Moretti siblings shoot her a mildly surprised look, she manages a tiny smile. ''Married to a Winchester,'' she reminds them. ''I know a little about a lot.''

''It would make sense,'' Sam chimes in. ''Hazel doesn't have a sonic scream herself, right? She had to use her daughter's. Maybe something's going down or she's in some kind of trouble and she needs the scream again. You're the reigning champ,'' he says to Laurel. ''You'd be her first pick.''

Sara has to admit that does make a sick sort of sense. Just one problem. ''Hazel's dead.''

''How can you be sure of that?''

''Because her ashes are in a sealed box on Great Aunt Faye's property in Maine.''

Now that Laurel has a reaction to. ''What?''

Sara's shoulders sag. She had not exactly been expecting to get into this today. ''Hazel's ashes are still in the family,'' she says. ''They've been passed down. Aunt Natasha inherited them when she took over the Amnesty Bay property after Faye died. She's back in Portland now, but Bo's still up at the house. I talked to him. He said he buried the ashes under the concrete when he was redoing the back deck because they were creeping him out.''

''Well, that...'' Laurel frowns. ''Certainly sounds like something he would do.''

''Hazel is dead,'' Sara says again. ''Dead, dead, dead, and our weird hippie cousin is meditating and doing, like weird yoga on top of her ashes.''

''Bo's not weird,'' Laurel says. ''He just lives his life differently than we do.''

''He tried to get me to do reiki yoga with him on the morning of your funeral,'' Dean says.

''He offered to adjust my aura,'' Sam adds. ''For five hundred bucks.''

Yep, that tracks.

100% something Bodhi Sage Drake, their cousin who lives in the woods and has a girlfriend named Clover would do. Last time Sara caught up with him, he claimed to be both a ''professional forager'' and a ''weed doula,'' which is apparently someone who helps you get through your first high and then you pay them a ridiculous amount of money. She still doesn't think that's an actual thing. Sounds more like a con artist you pay to steal some of your weed.

''He was probably trying to help,'' Laurel says, even as the corners of her lips tick up into a barely there hint of a smile. ''He's harmless.''

''He added me to the family email chain,'' Dean grumbles.

''Which was super nice of him!''

''He likes you,'' Sara says. ''Nobody else in our family would've added you to the Drake family email chain. I'm not even part of that email chain. And I am literally a Drake.''

''I could have lived without being a part of it,'' he says. ''I didn't need to read all about Valerie's experience with her first colonic.''

That also tracks.

''What exactly is a colonic?'' Mattie asks, earning himself a deeply horrified look from his sister. ''Because there were a few cheerleaders at my school who swore by them. I think, like, a Kardashian told them to do it or something?''

Sara slips her eyes over to Hanna, whose eyes have widened. She's shaking her head at them, seemingly begging them to keep their mouths shut and allow him to retain his innocence surrounding colonics.

Sam is the one who takes pity on the poor boy, visibly stifling a smirk and clapping a hand down onto his shoulder. ''When's the last time you two had a real meal? How about we get you something to eat?''

Mattie shrugs, but his eyes light up at the prospect of food.

Hanna is more reserved. ''You don't have to feed us. We can - ''

''We're not planning on poisoning you, if that's what you're worried about,'' Dean tells her. ''Go inside. There's leftover soup in the fridge. Eat it up because no one else is going to. My kid hates soup.''

''She doesn't hate it,'' Laurel tries. ''She just prefers to eat with her hands whenever possible.''

''Come on,'' Sam holds his hand out for Hanna to take. ''It's not a big deal. We feed everyone. Nobody's died yet. Any food allergies?''

''Um.'' Reluctantly, Hanna accepts his hand and allows him to help her to her feet. ''Shellfish. Mattie hates mushrooms.''

Mattie nods in confirmation. ''They grow in shit. Did you know that?''

''Okay,'' Sam says easily. ''Hard to fault that logic.'' He ushers them both over to the door, making sure they're both inside the house before he throws a look over his shoulder.

The look probably means something, but Sara doesn't speak Winchester so he mostly just looks constipated to her. She waits until he's inside before she turns back to Dean and Laurel. She immediately has to take an instinctive step back. They're both looking at her with their arms crossed, identical looks on their faces. It's - well, A) creepy. And B) ...more intimidating than she would like to admit. ''Whoa.'' She manages a chuckle. ''I feel like I just got caught sneaking in past curfew.''

The not angry, just disappointed looks continue.

''All right, quit it,'' she orders. ''You're freaking me out.''

''Is there something you'd like to tell me?'' Laurel asks calmly.

Sara sighs, shoulders dropping, smile slipping off her lips. ''After you told me about everything Mom said, I...I called her.'' She doesn't know why that makes her feel so small. Guilty, even. It's her mother. She can talk to her anytime she wants. Nobody told her to cut her out of her life permanently.

Laurel told her the opposite actually. Assured her that nothing had to change between her and Mom if she didn't want it to. ''I don't want you to lose her,'' she had said. ''Not because of me.''

Sara, angry and indignant, had squared her shoulders and said, ''I didn't lose her. She lost me.''

And yet.

She still called her mother the very next day. ''I wanted to know more,'' she explain. ''About who we are. Where we came from. She told me to talk to Aunt Natasha. Nat's been researching our family ever since she found out about the curse. She knows everything there is to know about it.''

Laurel licks her lips and exchanges a quick glance with her husband. Oh, okay, cool, so they do that wordless communication thing too. That's not maddening or anything. ''You never mentioned - ''

''I was going to,'' Sara says. ''I promise. I just wanted to have all the facts first. I didn't want to get your hopes up.''

''Get my hopes up?''

''I wanted to see if there was a way to get you out of this.''

''Get me out of - ''

''Take away the scream.''

Laurel doesn't have the reaction to that Sara had been expecting. She looks surprised, but she also looks...hurt. ''You... You want to take it away?''

Dean doesn't exactly look happy with that either. ''What makes you think that's your decision to make?''

''It's not,'' Sara says firmly. It's not his either, for that matter. ''I just thought...'' She wanted to help. It's not like Laurel ever asked for this. It's not like she wants it. It's scaring her. She can see that. This thing is powerful and uncontrolled. It is literally a curse. Why would she want to keep it? ''It's hurting her,'' she tries. ''It's hurting her.'' She looks to Laurel for confirmation. ''Isn't it?''

''Does it matter?'' Laurel's voice sounds tight and slightly out of breath. When they both look over to her, she's not looking at them. She looks uncomfortable and unwell, lurching unsteadily over to Hanna's vacated chair and collapsing into it. ''I'm fine,'' she says, cutting Dean off when he starts to say her name. She offers them both a weak smile. ''I just need to sit down for a minute.'' She takes in a few trembling breaths. ''You can't just get rid of a curse, Sara,'' she gets out. ''That's not how this works.''

Irritatingly, Sara doesn't have a rebuttal to that. That's exactly what Aunt Nat said. ''All right,'' she relents. ''Maybe that's a dead end. Nat's been searching for a loophole with the curse ever since Edie got hers. There's nothing so far. But she did tell me all about Hazel and Alice.''

Laurel, one hand clutching at her right side, looks up sharply at the name. ''Alice?''

''Hazel's daughter,'' Sara says. ''According to Nat, Alice was only about fifteen or sixteen when she killed her mother's former coven. She only did it because Hazel forced her to. It was what she was raised to do. It was all she knew. The massacre,'' she starts, then stops. It feels wrong to call it a massacre. She knows that's technically what it was, but it paints Alice in such a bad light. Hazel was an evil, insatiable witch. The coven wasn't much better. From all the information Nat had gathered over the years, they were a powerful but ultimately foolish group of heinous, Satan worshipping douchebags. They were every evil witch stereotype rolled up into one group of overdramatic, bloodthirsty morons who thought they could play God. This entire thing started with a tangled web of horrible people.

In Sara's opinion, the only real victim was Alice. She never asked to be born, to spend sixteen years being used, abused, and trained to be a killer. She was taught she was nothing more than a weapon. Sara knows that feeling well. A knife is just a knife until you put it in the wrong hands. Alice never had a chance.

Or at least that had been her opinion. Right until this moment. Now she's wondering if Alice was the victim or a willing perpetrator.

''It happened around this time of year,'' Sara continues. ''Hazel gave the orders. Alice followed them. The whole thing was over in about ten minutes. There were thirteen members of the coven. She killed twelve. One guy got away. There's no explanation for how. A few days later, he tracked them down and killed Hazel.''

Laurel's brows furrow. ''Just Hazel?''

''Nat's never been able to figure out why he spared Alice,'' Sara says. ''Just that he did. There's not much about Alice on any records. She lived, got married, had children, but there's no real record of what kind of life she lived. There's also no record of her death.''

It clicks for Dean instantly. He stands up straighter, jaw clenching, eyes darkening.

''If witches can live for centuries,'' she starts.

''Maybe this is her,'' he finishes.

''Right, except that Alice already has a sonic scream,'' Laurel cuts in. ''Why would she need mine?''

''Maybe there is a way to get rid of it,'' Sara proposes. ''Maybe she lost hers. Or maybe someone took it from her. It's been a long time. Anything could have happened.''

''She did tell you she wants what's hers,'' Dean says to Laurel, his voice low and calm.

At that, Sara goes rigid. She looks back and forth between them, waiting for one of them to explain what the hell that means. Nothing. ''Hold up.'' She grasps onto Dean's sleeve, forcing him to look at her. ''What are you talking about?'' She turns her alarmed gaze to Laurel. ''She told you that? You've spoken to her? When did this happen?''

Dean is the one who answers, ''Yesterday.''

''Yester...'' Sara's lips tighten in frustration. ''No one told me about this.''

''It's not - '' Laurel stops. She moves a hand to the back of her neck and closes her eyes. ''It doesn't matter,'' she tries, which is fucking absurd because of course this matters.

''How does this not matter?'' Sara questions, unable to keep the complete disbelief out of her voice. ''If this witch is contacting you - ''

''Can you just drop it?'' Laurel snaps out. ''I don't want to talk about it.''

An unpleasant silence follows the outburst, punctuated by a gust of cold autumn air. The dead leaves on the lawn swirl together, picked up by the breeze, scratching along the porch. The outright rejection stings, maybe bruises her ego a little, but concern is the number one thing that crops up. That was an awfully uncharacteristic eruption for Laurel. It was more of a Sara thing to do. Sara looks over at Dean.

He looks just as thrown as her. ''Laur,'' he says her name with extreme caution. ''Sweetheart.''

''I'm sorry,'' she says quickly. She clears her throat and raises her eyes to them. ''I'm sorry. I'm just tired. And my head is pounding.'' She sighs. ''You heard Hanna. I'm connected to this witch. I had a dream about her yesterday. Only it wasn't...'' She trails off, mouth working silently for a second before giving up. ''I'll tell you the rest later.''

Sara and Dean exchange a vastly worried look. Ultimately, Sara nods. ''Sure. Whenever you're ready.''

''I should go talk to the kids,'' Dean says. ''With any luck, they can give us a description of this woman and we can cross reference it with any info Natasha has on Alice's appearance.'' With some trepidation, he steps into Laurel's space to place a hand on her shoulder. ''I'll bring you an Advil, okay?'' He bends down to kiss her forehead gently. It looks more like a fever check than an actual sign of affection. He leaves them reluctantly, pausing only to send Sara a tight lipped but surprisingly encouraging smile.

Laurel already looks apologetic and full of regret. She leans back in her chair and brings her hands up to massage her temples. ''I'm sorry.''

Sara waves it off. ''That's okay.''

''No,'' Laurel insists. ''No, it's not. You're trying to help. I shouldn't - This is just...a lot. All of this.''

No arguments there. ''It is.''

''I'm trying to...'' She looks over at the remnants of her garden. ''I'm trying.''

''I know you are.'' It's the truth. It's not like it's been some big secret that Laurel has been majorly struggling since her return. It's been impossible to ignore. She has been trying so hard to come home, to be the Laurel they lost, but it's been like watching someone fumble around in the dark, searching for a light source that isn't there.

She died. She died and they put her in the ground and people mourned her and brought her flowers and built her a monument and started talking about her in past tense. That Laurel, the woman they painted murals for, is still gone. You don't get to die and come back the same. You can't pick up where you left off. The dead stay dead. They are not meant to come back. Sara knows this. She knows this.

She grabs one of the empty chairs and pulls it over to Laurel, sitting down across from her. ''So am I,'' she admits. She wants to reach out and touch her, but she doesn't. ''This is all new to me too. We're learning together.'' She smiles the biggest and brightest smile she can muster up. ''Maybe that's the one good thing about this mess. At least we're together. We haven't been...''

What is the end of that sentence? She was going to say we haven't been together since but she's forgotten how the rest goes. When were they together last? When was the last time they were able to be together with no pain, no tension, no awkwardness, no lies, no grief? When was the last time they were able to be sisters? No distance, nothing between them pushing them apart, just them, the way they were. She could say she doesn't remember but of course she does. She's thought about it every single day for the last ten years.

It was August, 2006.

It wasn't the Thanksgiving before the boat because Laurel spent that weekend in Lake Tahoe at the Merlyn lake house with Oliver and Tommy and some of their friends and Mom and Dad were in Cabo so Sara spent the long weekend getting drunk with her roommate and eating tacos on Venice Beach.

It wasn't that last Christmas either because Sara spent the entire winter break trying to figure out if her sister's boyfriend was flirting with her (he was) and if he meant what he was saying (he did). Then, on New Year's Eve, Laurel and Oliver got in this huge fight at Max Fuller's party because she thought he was ogling Max's fiancée (he was) and instead of going after Laurel, Sara stayed at that stupid party with stupid Oliver and at stupid midnight she stupidly let him kiss her and then she stupidly made out with him on stupid Max Fuller's stupid waterbed.

August, 2006. Ten years ago. Over ten years ago. That was the last time Sara was with her sister.

''I'm glad I'm here now,'' she says, though she feels like she should say more. She looks over at the kitchen window just in time to see Dean duck away. ''We should get inside,'' she says. Neither one of them moves to get up. ''You're cold.''

Just as she is mentally preparing herself to get up and head inside for another round of exposition, Laurel reaches out and places one of her cold hands on Sara's knee. ''Sar-Bear,'' she says, and Sara freezes at the sound of the childhood nickname. ''I am glad you're here.'' Laurel gives her this soft, serene smile that takes her breath away. ''I want you to know that. It's been a long time. I'm happy we're together.''

Something about the tone of Laurel's voice, sweet and sincere but still somehow apprehensive and full of melancholia, cuts her right down to the bone. Suddenly she feels like crying. Instead she clears her throat, smirks, and says, ''What about Ollie? You happy he's here?''

''Oh,'' says Laurel. ''Ollie.'' She chuckles and then lets out a sound halfway between an exasperated groan and a tired sigh. ''We'll see how that goes.''

''What do you think the chances are that we'll have to break up a slap fight between Dean and Oliver?''

''I'm not so worried about a physical confrontation. I'm more worried about a time consuming sarcasm rally.''

''Hmm.'' Sara leans back in her chair. ''You wanna make a game out of it?''

''A game?''

''Yeah. Let's bet on it,'' Sara says. ''How much money you got?''

''Uh, none,'' Laurel says with a raised brow. ''We're poor now.''

''Hey!'' Sara throws her arms out with a goofy grin. ''Me too! Let me tell you: time travel does not pay well.'' She crosses one leg over the other. ''All right, so, let's just do a dollar. Dean versus Oliver. Whoever gets the best dig in wins. Deal?'' She holds out her hand.

Laurel only hesitates for a second before she grabs hold of Sara's hand to shake. ''Deal,'' she says and then immediately follows it up with a yelp of, ''I call Dean!''

Sara blinks. ''...Damn it.''

Laurel, looking incredibly satisfied with herself, relaxes back in her chair. ''I know where my bread is buttered.''

''I bet he butters your bread,'' Sara mutters, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Laurel sputters, then blushes, and then, finally, laughs. ''What were you going for there?''

''I dunno. Something dirty.''

She laughs. Really laughs. She throws her head back and giggles. Her pale cheeks redden, body shaking with laughter, lips pulled back into a smile.

Sara wants to pause the world. Just for a second. She has no idea what the outcome will be here, if she'll walk away from this mess with her big sister alive and intact, but what she knows right now is that her sister is laughing, and she wishes she could take a picture.

Laurel does manage to pull herself together, but she still has that smile on her lips, that specific smile of hers that Sara never thought she would see again. In the ensuing quiet, the comfortable space between them, Sara feels like this is her moment to do something. Tell her all those things she never got the chance to say before. Everything she's thought about over the past seven months. But she doesn't. She looks over at the house, peering through the sliding glass door for any prying eyes. When she looks back, Laurel has her head cocked to the side and she is unnervingly still, staring at Sara. It's not an unkind look, but it feels overwhelming somehow. It's like she's digging into her with just her eyes.

Sara tries to laugh it off. ''Why are you looking at me like that?''

''Oh, I'm sorry,'' Laurel straightens up. ''Was I staring? I'm still trying to get used to... You look different,'' she admits softly. ''Have I told you that? You look so different from the last time I saw you.''

''I do?''

''You look lighter,'' Laurel says. ''Sure of yourself. Like you're right where you're supposed to be.''

''Of course I am,'' Sara says. ''I'm with you.''

''Well, that is very sweet and very cheesy, but...'' Laurel smiles again. It looks sad this time. ''That's not what I mean.'' Her sad smile morphs into a small smirk. As if she has just figured out some big secret. ''You've found something with them, haven't you? Your team. You've found a home.''

Sara means to laugh. She means to laugh and say ''no, dummy, you're my home,'' but she can't. The truth is that she's not sure what she's found with her crew. She's not sure what they mean to her or what the mission means to her but she knows it all means an awful lot. It's a strange life, a strange job, but it's hers. This is something she was chosen for. She didn't take this from anyone. She wasn't the second choice because Laurel wasn't available. She feels balanced there. Less of a third wheel. She's not an invader; some random character thrown into an established story. It's her story. She's not just killing time. She has a purpose. When she's on the waverider with her team, her band of weirdos and misfits and extras, she feels like she means something. Like she, Sara Lance, belongs. She wants to be with Laurel and Dad and Mary and even Mom and Dean, but she needs to be on that waverider with those misfits.

''I don't know,'' she says, because she cannot possibly begin to verbalize all of that. ''They're weird.''

Laurel counters that effortlessly. ''You're weird,'' she says and smiles innocently when Sara swats at her. ''You've found a place where you fit,'' she says. ''Maybe you're all weird, but you're doing something important. I think that's great. I think it suits you.'' She shrugs her shoulders at Sara's questioning look. ''You've always been restless. You're not one to put down roots. This is perfect for you.'' She goes quiet for a minute but keeps her eyes on Sara, inspecting her without a word. Then, quietly, ''Grown up.'' It's a soft declaration. ''That's how you look. You look so grown up. I missed that. I don't just mean over the past seven months. I mean over the past ten years. We've lost a lot of time together, you and I. I'm sorry for that.''

Sara swallows. ''None of that was your fault.''

''I know,'' Laurel says easily. ''But I'm still sorry it happened. I'm sorry I missed seeing you grow up.''

Sara thinks she should reciprocate that. I'm sorry I missed your wedding, she should say. I'm sorry I wasn't there when Mary was born. I'm sorry I wasn't there to see you start your life or to help you build it or rebuild it or rebuild it again. I'm sorry I got on that boat and left you behind and wrecked it all. I'm sorry I chose him when I should've chosen you. But the words don't come. She can't get them out. Can't bring herself to say these things aloud. It's not that she's not sorry. It's that there aren't enough words. There aren't enough apologies. It would take a lifetime just for her to be able to explain how truly sorry she is for what she did. For what happened after. Who she became because of that one selfish choice she made and the domino effect it had on everyone she loved.

''I wish we could've been together then,'' she says honestly. ''But we're together now. And we're still young. We have plenty of growing left to do.'' It doesn't feel like that's enough to make Laurel feel better. She feels like there should be more to say. There's always more left to say. Always words left unsaid and that heavy, unfinished feeling.

Laurel's smile is halfhearted at best, thrown on her face sloppily. ''I'm going to stay out here for a few,'' she says, after a beat. ''If that's okay. I just need some breathing room.''

''Oh, sure. I'll just - ''

''You can stay,'' Laurel cuts in when Sara starts to rise to her feet. ''I can breathe with you.''

Sara hesitates for just a minute, and then she settles back in her chair, and she stays.

Eventually, Dean brings out a blanket and some Advil for Laurel and two mugs of coffee. Laurel's probably has too much sugar and a splash of that flavored coffee creamer she likes because he's her husband and it makes sense that he knows how she likes her coffee. Sara's has no cream and a small spoonful of sugar, just the way she likes it. She doesn't remember ever telling him how she likes her coffee or even preparing a mug in front of him, but mysteriously knowing how everyone likes their coffee is the least confusing and enigmatic thing about Dean Winchester so she just goes with it. He does make a damn good cup of coffee.

In the companionable, comfortable, relaxing silence, Laurel angles her chair toward the backyard, away from Sara, and watches the birds in the apple tree. It's a nice day out today. Something of an oddity for Star City in November. There are only a few clouds in the sky and the sun is shining determinedly overhead. It's not warm because there's still that ever present chilly breeze coming in from the direction of the ocean, but it's not rainy or foggy or otherwise soggy and gray. It's almost a shock to the system. This city is so often gloomy that it's easy to forget blue skies can happen here.

Sara has no real interest in the weather. She doesn't care about the sunshine or the birds. She only has eyes for Laurel. She turns her chair out to face the remains of the garden and that eerie looking apple tree, but she watches her out of the corner of her eye.

Laurel, lifting her mug to her lips with hands she pretends aren't trembling with bone deep exhaustion she cannot run from. Laurel, worryingly pale with dark circles under her hollowed out eyes. Laurel, with her chapped, colorless lips and her blown out pupils. Laurel, frail and gaunt, even more so in the daylight.

Rot, Sara thinks to herself with a twinge of hysteria. Her sister is rotting.

How long until her fingernails fall off? Until her hair starts to fall out in clumps? Until her skin starts to blacken and peel away? Until the sage they burn can no longer cover the sickening smell of rot? How long until this fraying spell leeches all the life out of her and they're just left with dust and bones and fragments of the woman they tried and failed to save?

Back in May, when she first found out about Laurel, Rip told her that it had to be this way. It was fate. Meant to be. A fixed timeline. Laurel's death was unfortunate, a tragedy, but necessary. No way to go back. No way to save her without damning everyone else. A butterfly effect.

She's wondered, of course, how much of that was bullshit or assumption. If maybe someone had given him the wrong information. If he had misunderstood. If he was lying to her. If he was wrong.

Now, here, in the harsh light of day, sitting next to her dying, suffering sister, she wonders if he was right all along.

What if all this is happening not because of the mistakes of a desperate witch but because the universe is trying to right itself? What if by trying to keep her here, prolonging her pain, they're not helping but hurting? What if they're not supposed to save her? What if this isn't a second chance but a lesson in letting go? Is she willing to take that chance?

Sara looks over at Laurel and doesn't even try to hide the fact that she's staring. She looks at her now and then she flashes back to earlier, in the kitchen, watching her smile at her daughter. She flashes back to August of 2006, sitting on the beach, laughing. The first time she laid eyes on her when she came back in September of 2013, lurking in the shadows across the street, stunned into an awed, breathless silence at the sight of a baby on Laurel's hip. The first time she woke up after the Lazarus Pit and after she got her soul back and all she could see was Laurel. Two weeks ago when she walked into the Arrowcave and her whole world was just standing there looking at her.

It's a stupid question.

Of course she's going to take that chance. Even if the timeline could collapse. Even if the universe could unravel. She has to at least try. She is not the good sister. She doesn't do the sensible thing. She's the selfish one. She wants what she wants whether it's good for her or not and takes whatever isn't nailed down and makes choices she'll regret in the morning.

Rip should've known that.

.

.

.

September, 2013

She shouldn't be here.

It's too dangerous to come home. That's why she never has. Starling City should be nothing but a memory. It's better for everyone that way.

Here she is anyway; a ghost haunting the city she once knew, slipping through the streets unseen and unheard.

Sara pulls the baseball cap down to hide her eyes and bounces on the balls of her feet impatiently. Avalon Park, the Starling suburb Laurel lives in now, is too quiet for her taste. It's calm and peaceful, full of normal people and their normal families, laughing together without the sting of loss. It's a nice neighborhood, but it's making her jittery. She peeks out from behind the big oak tree and takes another look at her sister's house.

It's not what she was expecting. There's no front porch. Laurel used to talk about wanting a front porch like the one their grandparents had. It doesn't have enough windows. It's a small house on a corner lot with a fully fenced backyard, a sizeable front lawn, and a path cutting through the grass and running up to the front stoop. There's a big living room window and the curtains are wide open, but the house is dark and still on the inside. No one's home.

The house is not what Sara had been expecting, but there are flowers outside (rose bushes and hydrangeas and something else that is bright and lovely) and that is Laurel. She loves flowers. Always does her best to keep a bouquet or two around. Flowers bloom everywhere she goes. They practically bloom right out of her chest.

Sara smiles to herself, swallowing the melancholia. Laurel and flowers is something so achingly familiar it makes her want to cry. She shakes herself out of it and checks the time. Maybe she should take another lap around the block. Just to make sure the neighborhood is secure. She slips her ear buds in for appearances and fixes her hat once more before setting off. If anyone were to look at her, all they would see is a regular unassuming jogger. Nothing suspicious about that. Lots of people jog.

She watches the neighborhood as she goes. She studies; spies in windows, cranes her neck to catch glimpses of backyards, memorizes names on mail boxes, license plate numbers, and faces, and she is gone before they even have a chance to understand they are being scrutinized. She's looking for trouble. She'd rather not find any, but you can never be too careful. She wants to make sure this place is safe. She wants to make sure Laurel is safe.

There are no prowlers on Sherwood Lane today. There's a man coming home from work, a middle aged couple sitting out on their front porch enjoying a glass of wine after dinner, a woman watering her lawn while her dog bounces around her. Two cars roll on down the road. Two teenage girls pass by her as she runs, talking and laughing and free in a way Sara can barely remember. At the house next to Laurel's, there is another teenage girl sitting out on the front stoop with her yappy, decrepit looking dog. There is no danger here. There is no danger. It is an oddity. She has almost forgotten what this feels like. To be safe.

She continues to scan the street as she jogs, but she doesn't expect any problems. She's mostly doing it out of habit and to calm her nerves.

Truthfully, she doesn't know why she chose to come to Laurel first. She should have gone to her father. Stayed in the city, in the crowds, watched him from afar. It would have been easier. She didn't betray her father. She let him down, broke his heart, left him and Mom and they were ruined because of it, but she didn't betray him. She betrayed Laurel. How is she supposed to look at her after what she's done?

It would have been easier to blend into the crowd in the city too. The calm of the suburbs, the empty sidewalks and open space... It is nowhere she belongs. It is not where she fits.

Laurel does, though. She may be a city girl - with her stylish rent controlled apartment, her favourite bodega, and numbers for all the takeout places that are open after midnight programmed into her phone - but all she's ever really wanted is peace. A family of her own. A house full of flowers. Sara hopes Laurel has found that here with her rose bushes and her front stoop. And her husband. Because that's a thing. She has a husband now.

Sara hadn't been altogether surprised when she dug up that info. Six years is a long time. Laurel has a life to live, with or without Sara. Of course she's married. It wasn't surprising to learn that. It was a little surprising to learn that it wasn't Tommy. He's been in love with her almost as long as Oliver has. Or. He was. ...Maybe it's a good thing he wasn't the husband. That would have made the loss unbearable.

She does have to wonder, regardless of who the husband is, what Oliver thinks of Laurel being married.

Once she has jogged around the block again, she slows down to a walk to catch her breath. The driveway of Laurel's house, she notices, is still empty. Holy shit, maybe she should've stayed in the city and staked out the precinct to check on Dad. Clearly her sister is still the overachieving workaholic she always was. Nice to know some things stay the same.

Sara checks the time on her phone again. She can't hang around much longer or someone is going to notice that she's been casing the place for the past half hour. The teenage girl next door has shuffled inside with her grouchy dog, but there could be any number of gossipy old ladies watching her through their kitchen windows. Ten more minutes. She'll give it ten more minutes and then she'll go check on Dad.

She doesn't even have to wait five.

Just as she is sliding her burner phone back into her pocket, a silver Jeep comes from behind her, drives past her, slows, and then pulls into the driveway of 244 Sherwood Lane. She stops in her tracks. A rush of anxiety floods through her and she has to swallow hard. She feels, abruptly, like she may not be ready for this.

She came home when she heard about the earthquake because she had to make sure her family was safe. She won't stay, she can't, but she had to make sure. Over five hundred people died. One of her oldest friends is in the ground because his own father committed a horrific act of domestic terrorism. She had to come home. She has read the list of identified victims three times. She checked to make sure Dad and Laurel were both alive. She still had to come back. She needs to see them both in the flesh before she can leave.

Except now that she's here, with her best friend in the world only steps away from her, she is terrified. She's afraid that if she sees her, she is going to forget all the reasons why she can't stay, tear across the road, grab onto Laurel, and never let go. She takes a deep breath, puts her head down, stuffs her hands into her pockets, and approaches the house.

The husband gets out of the Jeep first and Sara finds herself resisting the urge to smirk. She knows nothing about him. She doesn't know his name or if he's worthy of her sister but she has to admit that, purely from an aesthetic standpoint, her big sis has fucking superb taste in men. Men are weak and not to be trusted, but some of them are damn fine to look at and this one is like a solid 8.5.

He is still not what she ever would have expected.

Laurel, when it comes to her personal life, prefers cleaner cut dudes. Men like Oliver and Tommy and maybe even Carter Bowen. Not without their vices, but well equipped with charm, a certain kind of elegance, table manners instilled in them by their nannies and maids, their prim and proper mothers, and a knowledge of which fork is which.

You know, because Laurel can be kind of a snob.

Or, all right, maybe that's not the right way to put it. She's classy. Yeah, that sounds better. She's a classy broad. She's not a mess like Sara. She prefers less trouble, more charisma in a man.

This guy...

She obviously can't tell what kind of table manners he has but there's something about him that says trouble. He looks like he might be older by a bit, but that's not it. He's wearing flannel, which is definitely weird for a Laurel guy, but that's not it either. There's something about the way he carries himself that is extremely familiar to Sara in a way she wishes it wasn't.

...Maybe he's a cop? Or a solider?

She supposes that could make sense. Dad's a cop and Laurel has always been a Daddy's Girl. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility.

Sara is so busy inspecting her new brother-in-law that she almost misses the passenger side door opening. It's her voice that she hears first. She's far enough away that it's muffled by the distance but close enough that she can make out what she's saying, but what she's saying doesn't really matter. All that matters is that this is her sister's voice.

''We just pulled into the driveway now,'' Laurel says. ''Oh, I know, traffic was crazy. I think there was an accident on the Star Bridge. It's a parking lot.''

Sara has not heard that voice in six years. Sometimes she dreams of it. Sometimes she dreams of all of them. But the voices are never quite right in her head anymore and dreams are just dreams. This is real. As she gets closer, she takes out her own phone and holds it to her ear, partly so she doesn't look like she's staring and partly to conceal her identity as much as possible.

''No, not really,'' Laurel's voice says. ''My dad took us out to dinner. ...Yeah, it's already past her bedtime so I think we're just going to get her into bed and then I have to catch up on work. What about you?'' She gets out of the car, a ray of the setting sun catching the wedding ring on her finger, and Sara tries, but she can't swallow the lump in her throat.

It's been so long.

She's so close. She could walk across the street right now and hug her. Tell her everything. She has so much to tell her. She has so many apologies to make. She tightens her grip on the phone and clenches her other fist, physically restraining herself from running into her arms.

''I am not always working,'' Laurel says to whoever she's on the phone with.

On the other side of the Jeep, her husband laughs.

''Okay, I'm working a lot right now,'' she admits. ''But you know I have a lot to catch up on. I just started at the DA's office.''

''Yeah, but you know what they say, babe,'' her husband says, resting his hands on top of the car, looking over at her. ''All work and no play...''

''No fair, you guys are ganging up on me,'' Laurel smiles. There is an edge to her smile, something Sara can't quite put her finger on, and signs of fatigue in her eyes, but if she's been working as much as her husband and phone buddy seem to be implying then she's likely just tired. What matters is that she smiles. She even laughs.

Sara puts her phone away and crouches down like she's tying her shoe. Just in case she starts blubbering. That would probably be suspicious.

Laurel looks... Not the same. Her hair's different, her body's changed, her makeup and clothes aren't the same. But she's still Laurel. Older now, all grown up and settled, but still unmistakably Laurel. It hurts to look at her. It hurts even more to look away.

Sara does her best to discreetly keep her eyes on them. Laurel is still chatting away but the husband has moved over to the back of the vehicle, pulling open the back door to retrieve something from the backseat. Sara is not all that interested in him so she almost misses it. She starts to look away, back to Laurel, only to immediately snap her eyes back to him when she realizes just what he's pulling out of the backseat.

It would seem she missed something when she was digging up info about her family. She missed something big. It's her fault. She didn't look that closely. Part of her didn't want to know about all the joys and sorrows she missed out on. She had not been expecting this.

He's holding a baby. Her sister had a baby. Laurel's a mom.

She's an aunt.

She's not sure why she's so shocked by that. Laurel used to talk about her grand plan for life and kids were always part of that plan. It's been six years. Life does go on after loss.

The husband lifts the baby into his arms with ease, murmuring softly and smiling, and the baby - a girl, Sara thinks, just judging by the features - stares back at him sleepily. Sara can't be sure how old the baby is - maybe a year, slightly younger possibly - but she's... She's so beautiful. She looks like Laurel. That's the first thing that pops into her head. She's sure there must be traces of the dad in there, but all she sees is Laurel's eyes and Laurel's nose.

Breathless, Sara stands up straight and stares. She just stares. She doesn't know what else to do. She forgets herself for a moment, standing there, right across from her sister. From her niece.

The baby, who is currently, from the looks of it, slobbering and gnawing on her dad's shoulder, stares back at her. And smiles.

Sara is more thrown by that than she should be.

In all fairness, she is not doing the greatest job of being stealthy. She's basically just standing here. She's usually better at this. It's normally so easy and effortless for her to go unnoticed, to melt into the world around her, to disappear. She's off her game right now. There is a part of her that wants to be seen. Part of her wants Laurel to look over at her and see her and recognize her and then they'll hug and cry and Laurel will ask her where she's been and she'll bring her into the house and make her a cup of tea and then Sara will finally, finally be home.

She takes in a gulp of air and turns away from them. That can't happen. As casually as she can manage, she starts stretching. Because joggers stretch. It's a very normal thing to do. Maybe. She thinks. She forgets. She wishes Nyssa was here.

She glances over her shoulder as she stretches. The husband is walking around the Jeep over to Laurel, baby girl still in his arms. The baby is still looking at Sara.

''Hey,'' Laurel says. ''Wish Joanna good luck. It's her first day at her new firm tomorrow and she's freaking out.''

''Kick it in the ass, Jo,'' he says into the phone when she holds it out to him. ''Tomorrow night,'' he adds. ''We're taking you out for dinner.''

''Oooh yeah,'' Laurel agrees, bringing the phone back to her ear. ''We'll get vodka martinis and Indian food. We can gorge ourselves on gulab jamun. You love gulab jamun.'' She laughs again at something her friend says. The next time Sara looks over, she's just finishing up, assuring her friend she's going to do great tomorrow and promising her she'll see her tomorrow. Her smile drops when the phone call ends and she looks, out of nowhere, exhausted and not nearly as cheerful as she was a second ago.

The conversation between her and her husband is too soft for Sara to hear so she takes the opportunity to look away from them so it's not quite so obvious that she's stalking them. When she does glance over at them, Laurel's gesturing at something inside the car. He nods and says something that makes Laurel smile again. She holds her arms out to the baby. Her daughter looks at her for a second and then shrieks and throws herself closer to her dad, clutching at his shirt.

''Wow,'' Laurel says. ''Hardcore rejection. Hard not to take that one personally.''

He laughs, rubbing the baby's back. ''Come on, Mary. Give your mom a hug. She's had a long day.''

Mary. Sara considers the name. Tries it out in a whisper. Mary. Her niece's name is Mary.

Baby Mary is eventually successfully transferred into her mother's arms and Sara watches from across the street as Laurel leans up to peck her husband on the lips before heading up the steps from the driveway to the front path. She's not wearing any shoes and she seems to be struggling with her keys, but the baby seems happy to be tugging at her mother's hair.

The husband follows after a minute, carrying a box he's retrieved from the backseat with Laurel's briefcase piled on top, her purse over his shoulder, and her strappy heels dangling from his finger. So. Guess he gets a singular point for chivalry. Whoever he is. ''A whole box of work,'' he says. ''Am I going to be neglected tonight?''

On the front stoop, just turning the key in the lock, Laurel turns to smirk at him. ''Don't worry,'' she calls out, ''if you're a good boy I'll be sure to carve out a few minutes to give you a belly rub.''

He laughs heartily, and then rolls with it. ''A belly rub! I love belly rubs!'' He leaps up the front steps, skipping a step, makes a weird barking noise (because the one thing that never changes about Laurel's taste in men is that she likes goofs) that elicits a shriek of laughter from Laurel, and then all three of them disappear into the house, where Sara cannot get to them.

They seem happy. She tries to smile to herself, but it feels halfhearted. She looks down at the sidewalk instead. She should leave. She's seen what she needed to see. Laurel's okay. More than okay from the looks of it. She has a family. A house in a nice neighborhood, a job that's keeping her busy, a husband that makes her laugh, a little girl named Mary. She made it out of her grief alive. She rebuilt.

Sara stays rooted to the ground. Maybe, she thinks, there could still be room for her. She watches the house as Laurel appears in the window with Mary on her hip. She's not looking out the window, attention elsewhere, but Mary is. Maybe one day, Sara thinks, she could see the inside of that house. She could go in there and just see if maybe, possibly, there could be a place for her. If maybe -

Mary points a tiny chubby hand at the window and she must make a noise because Laurel snaps her head up and looks out the window. Right at Sara.

''Shit,'' Sara mumbles. ''Fuck.''

She makes a show of fixing her earbuds and then she hurries away, seconds before the front door open and Laurel steps back out onto the front stoop. It is not her finest moment. Nobody follows her so she thinks she squeaks by without being recognized, but that was not her best work. She is supposed to be better at this sneaky shit. It is literally what she does. Right now, though, she just feels shaky and stumbly and sweaty.

Every fiber of her being wants to turn around and race up to that front door. Every single part of her wants to go home. She knows she can't. She knows what will happen if she does. If she reveals herself to her family, she will put them in danger. They'll get caught up in this. They'll get lost. Like her. She can't have that happen.

This is not her world anymore. This is not her life. Laurel can't save her from this. Can't be a part of this. She has a family. She has clean hands. Sara is nothing but dirt now.

It's best for everyone if she stays dead.

.

.

.

November, 2016

Unreality starts as a tingle.

In the back of her neck. In her throat. Deep in her belly. Up and down her spine. Her fingers and toes. Even in, as weird as it sounds, her calves. There is a stiffening of her muscles when the panic seizes her; a sudden tension, an unwelcome cramping in her fingers and her wrists, even momentary paralysis.

Sometimes she starts feeling restless and twitchy and trapped, like she doesn't belong in her own skin, like she's ready to unzip her spine, slither away from her body, and be free at last. If she's lucky, she can head out for a run or go to the gym for a workout and sweat the panic attack away. More often than not, she can't.

Then she starts losing time.

Sometimes it happens all at once. She'll be standing in the kitchen and then she'll be standing in the bathroom, and she'll have no idea how she got there. Or one minute she's alone, working at the dining room table while Dean puts Mary to bed, and the next minute, she's standing out on the back porch and Dean is just stepping outside, asking her what she's doing outside without shoes or a coat. Sometimes it happens in bursts. It's like she lives out a life she doesn't remember in between blinks.

Sometimes, if she's really losing the fight, if there's nothing or no one to anchor herself to, there comes the forgetting. She can forget where she is, who she's with, even who she is, and she's unable to understand what's happening to her or why. That doesn't happen often. Maybe four times during the twenty years she's been living with this. The first time it happened, she was sixteen, her parents were on a cruise, her grandparents dragged her to the emergency room, and she was almost admitted to the psych ward.

Once, when Mary was less than a month old and Laurel was still flooded with hormones, overwhelmed with motherhood, and seriously sleep deprived, she had a panic attack while Dean was out on a midnight diaper run. She wound up in the parking garage, barefoot, wearing only her nightgown. Her neighbor, Mrs. Nassir, and her son Youssef, found her and brought her back up to her apartment. She didn't know who they were, she couldn't tell them her name, couldn't remember where she was, or even that she had a baby. Even once she snapped out of the dissociation, all she could do was cry and shake. They stayed with her, even after she had snapped out of it, until Dean got home.

The crying always happens. And the shaking. Every time. Like clockwork. This horrifying hysteria consumes her, takes her breath away, explodes out of her, and then she melts into a puddle of tears.

She's had people talk to her about panic attacks like they're synonymous with sadness. Like they're just having a crying jag every now and then, a moment of anxiety before a job interview, the baby blues, even that they're something you can talk yourself out of with positive thoughts. That's not what they are for her. They are not always born out of sadness. They're not even always born out of anxiety. They can be brought on by anything. Exhaustion, illness, anger, if she's overworking herself, if she has a migraine. Sometimes there is no trigger at all. It's a crapshoot. That's what makes panic disorder so scary.

Panic attacks, for her, are full body events. It starts with a tingle, then dissociation, and then she shatters and goes to pieces. It's breathlessness and stiff, aching muscles, depersonalization, catastrophizing, a complete and total brain fog she can't get out of, sobbing and shaking until she makes herself sick. They wipe her out, leave her dazed and drained and empty, sore and unsteady sometimes for days after. Her longest recovery period was nine days with no Xanax and three aftershock attacks. Her shortest was four hours with Zoloft, Xanax, and half an Ambien.

The Canary Cry - this brand new one; the bitter inheritance she never asked for - is a lot like a panic attack. It starts in her throat, not a tingle exactly but something close to it. It's like something hot and sticky has gotten clogged in her throat, like someone has forced wet cement into her mouth. The heat spreads down to her belly, her spine, her fingers and toes. Explodes out of her like a firework show gone wrong. It consumes her the same way a panic attack does. It's scary, just like a panic attack. And it hurts. It hurts.

She can't blame Sara for thinking of it as a sickness. Something they need to stop. She's sure that's something her loved ones have thought about her panic disorder and her depression. It must be tiresome to live with a ticking time bomb like her.

She thinks about that while she's sitting out on the back deck with Sara and the coffee Dean made for her just the way she likes it - sugar and a splash of that salted caramel creamer she likes. She thinks about the similarities between the panic and the screaming. She doesn't mean to let her thoughts go there, but she is not having the best day today. She's just learned that some ancient witch ancestor of hers might be the one doing this to her, she's got two witches in her house eating her soup, her husband lied to her about her health, and she really doesn't feel well. She doesn't feel like vomiting blood or like her wound is going to burst open, but she feels tired and sweaty and weak. She doesn't have the energy to keep her thoughts from wandering.

She's trying to give Mattie and Hanna enough time to eat and settle in before they're bombarded with demands. So she takes her time outside, in the sunshine, with her sister and her coffee. She watches the birds. She drinks her coffee slowly. She tries to enjoy the mild autumn weather, the rain free day, and Sara's steadying presence.

But her mind wanders.

Then she starts to think - What if the reason her panic and her sonic scream are so similar is because they're connected? Ellard women have a long history of depression. Most notably the older ones. The firstborns. The cursed ones.

Great Aunt Faye was a reclusive hoarder. She lived alone, shut away on her sprawling property out in Maine. She rarely left. Once every two years to come visit. She was almost completely cut off from the rest of the world. She never married, though she had a few long term partners. She had two children, a daughter and a son. She voluntarily gave up custody of both children shortly after the birth of her youngest.

Faye's son lived with his father in Boston, probably still lives there, and was never interested in maintaining a relationship with his mother's side of the family, although Grandma used to try when he was a kid. Faye's daughter grew up with paternal grandparents in Texas and spent summers with Grandma and Grandpa in Starling City.

As far as Laurel knows, Faye never even had friends. When she died, the only people at her funeral were family members. Which didn't even include her children. Grandma used to say, ''Oh, that's just how Faye is. She does things in her own way.'' And, you know, yeah, sure. Maybe that's true. Maybe Faye liked the solitary life. Maybe she wasn't cut out for motherhood and she knew that so she opted to give them to their fathers because she knew that was the responsible choice. But...

Laurel remembers Faye as a grumpy, closed off, yet extremely emotional old woman. She was anxious and easily overwhelmed. Crowds were a big one. Too many people or too much noise, or not enough exits close by, made her antsy and agitated. Only once did Grandma ever admit, ''My sister had her difficulties. She loved her children, but she couldn't take care of them. She could barely take care of herself. She wanted a family, but. ...Not everyone can have that. It was best not to overwhelm her.''

Elizabeth, Faye's daughter, had a hard life. She was essentially abandoned by both parents and left to be raised by her grandparents who, according to Grandma, were not the nicest people. Laurel never met her. She never had the chance. Elizabeth was close to the family when she was younger, she kept in touch with her cousins throughout her life and was especially close to Aunt Valerie, but she had her troubles. She spent her life battling addiction, severe mental health issues, and homelessness, in and out of jail and rehab until she died at only 46 of cirrhosis.

Aunt Valerie has spent the past sixteen years in a Valium and Chardonnay induced haze, unable to move past her daughter's death. Even before Edie died, Valerie had her struggles. She had been hospitalized at least three times for depression and suicidal thoughts, once for postpartum psychosis after the birth of her middle child. She's a perfectly nice person, a little out of it, definitely has a tendency to overshare, but there's this deep rooted sadness about her. You can see it in her eyes. In her smile. She's ''never been quite right'' as Mom would say.

Grandma and Aunt Faye's mother, the original Dinah, the woman Laurel has been told she bears a striking resemblance to, was, by all accounts, a beautiful person both inside and out. She had the prettiest smile. She made the best chocolate cake in the world. Her favourite flowers were gardenias. She smelled slightly of oil paint, gardenias, and cinnamon. She didn't like to sing, but she used to hum all the time. She was, in many ways, a modern woman. Ahead of her time so to speak. She never married her longtime companion and they had, from the sounds of it, an open relationship, both of them periodically involved with other people. Sometimes the same people. They were both artists; spent their summers in France, held all these lavish parties, traveled the world looking for inspiration. When they had children, she chose to raise them mostly by herself, putting down roots first in Gotham, then in Starling, giving them both her last name while he continued his travels and took on more of a fun uncle role.

These are the snippets of Dinah Ellard that Laurel has gotten over the years. Bits and pieces of an unfinished life here and there, mostly from Grandma, once or twice from Faye, sometimes even from Mom and the aunts. When she was younger, Laurel used to think her great grandmother's life sounded like something out of a movie, mysterious and luxurious and romantic. She didn't learn, until she was much older, that if her great grandmother's life was a movie then it was a tragedy.

Dinah was immensely kind, could make friends with anyone, full of wit and wisecracks. She had two left feet, a mean right hook, and the sharpest, quickest sense of humor. She was a wonderful mother, an amazing friend, a beloved partner. She loved and was loved by so many people.

On the eve of her 34th birthday, she put on her favourite dress, her best lipstick, went down to the beach, filled the pockets of her heaviest winter coat with stones, and walked into the water. Left behind an eight year old, a six year old, shell-shocked friends and family, and a broken partner.

And Edie... Poor Edie. She was never even given a chance. Who knows who she would have been.

Laurel has known since she was a kid that mental illness is hereditary and that there are a lot of splotches on the canvas when it comes to the Ellard women. The picture never looked quite as insidious as it does now. The worst suffering has happened to firstborn daughters. What if that's a sign?

This is a curse. You can dress it up however you want. Call it a genetic mutation. Call it power. It's a curse, and curses are meant to hurt. What if the real curse isn't the scream itself but the reason for the screaming? This family is littered with years of agony. Generations of restless women pacing around in the dark wondering what was happening to them and why. Generations of strong women walking into the water because they couldn't find a way to make it stop.

This scream is a sickness. Maybe it is like a parasite. It eats away at their minds, burns holes in their souls, gnaws at the edges of sanity, feasts until there's nothing left.

Laurel thinks, as she's drinking her coffee out on the back deck, that she could almost live with that. If this thing is going to ultimately cost her what sanity she has left, then fine. She can plan for that. Start saving up for long term care for when it gets bad. Prepare Dean and Mary for the inevitability of losing her. At least if it's her, it won't be Sara.

She has only ever been half here anyway, held down by the heavy weight of depression and panic.

''You're sick,'' the witch said. ''You've always been sick.''

She was right. It has been a daily struggle for her entire life. Thirty-one years of this. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to get lost.

Nevertheless, it's not that simple. It's not that easy. Laurel is not just a firstborn daughter. She has a firstborn daughter. If this is in her, it's in Mary. If this curse contributes to or causes the mental instability that has plagued her and the other women like her in the Ellard line then what does that mean for Mary?

All Laurel has ever wanted for her daughter is more. Less hurt. Less pain. Less fear. Just something better. Happiness. Excitement. Joy. The idea of Mary inheriting this suffocating sadness is her worst nightmare. Now she feels like she's being forced to watch that nightmare come true.

Did she do this to her? Did she doom her child? Condemn her daughter to a lifetime of hurt just by giving her life? Is Mary going to grow up and resent her for bringing her into this world?

It may be a dark line of thinking and it's certainly too late to do anything about it now, but if Laurel had known about this curse, if she had been told about what she was, she never would've had children. She would have taken that option off the table from the beginning. She has never regretted Mary until this moment. What an absolutely sickening thought.

The back of her neck tingles. Her fingers cramp up and curl involuntarily. Her stomach does a nauseating flip. Laurel leans down to place her nearly empty mug on the porch because she's starting to lose feeling in her fingers. The coffee is not sitting right in her stomach. She blinks rapidly, staring down at the wooden slats on the deck. She forces herself to breathe. Takes in a shaky gulp of air, holds it, and then releases. She hears Sara say her name. And then -

She catches up to herself in the bedroom.

For a second, everything feels and sounds muffled. All she can hear is a ringing in her ears. Her vision is blurred. She can't feel her own body. It's a floaty, disconnected feeling that lasts about five seconds and then she comes crashing back down into herself and everything slams into her at once. It is panic, dread, fear, anxiety, anger, sadness, and a manic and out of control feeling of hysteria. It comes at her from every direction, smothering her, eating her up until there is nothing left but the bones.

Everything is loud and she feels sweaty and hot and so hypersensitive that even the air on her skin stings. Even the clothes she's wearing feel heavy, like they're pricking at her skin, bruising her, weighing her down.

She looks up. She can't focus her eyes on anything, but she knows that Dean is standing at the bedroom door. His back is to her. She can hear his voice, but it's a low murmur to her, muffled by the panic. ''...nothing you did,'' he's saying. ''Her body's on the fritz, right? She's got no defenses. She'll be fine in a few.''

''Is that normal?'' A voice asks. It sounds like Sara. It can't be Sara. She's not supposed to be here. She left. Or Laurel made her leave? Or she died? She's always dying. No, wait, wait, maybe Laurel's the one who dies? Which one of them was in the water? She doesn't remember. ''I don't remember it being that intense when we were kids. It was like she was just gone.''

Laurel looks down at her hands that won't do what she wants them to do. Gone? Where did she go? Is she here right now?

She tries to swallow but her mouth is too dry. She wants to take off her sweatshirt, but she can't move. Her limbs won't work. Her body won't work. She keeps trying to send it commands, but it won't listen. She is frozen in place, slowly being consumed, unable to run, unable to even shout for help. She can't even scream. It's like sinking in quicksand. It is a terribly claustrophobic feeling.

There is an increasing weight on her chest, a growing pressure inside of her that is becoming unbearable. It's crawling up her throat and sinking down to her toes. She feels like she's going to explode. Breathing is becoming a chore. She feels like she's just done an intense workout. Her heart is hammering so fast and so loud she can hear it even over the ringing and the roaring.

''Laurel?''

Startled, her body rips out of paralysis and jerks in fright. She looks up. She feels like she should be smiling or doing something to comfort him and make sure he knows she's okay because she doesn't want to scare him, but she's not okay. She couldn't smile if she tried.

He doesn't look scared. He doesn't even look that concerned. He smiles at her, softly, sweetly. He is being very careful with her. ''How're you doing, babe?''

Everything is caving in. She is about to crumble apart.

So.

She's not doing great.

She should tell him. About the curse. What it could do. What it has done to her. What it will do to Mary. She should tell him that. He should know. She's losing her mind. She is going to lose her mind. Maybe she's already lost it. One day, she'll have a panic attack and she won't be able to come back from it. Maybe it will even be this one.

One day, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe ten years from now, maybe even twenty, she is going to get so lost that she will not be able to find her way back. Just like the others. She's going to walk into the water with stones in her pockets just like Dinah Ellard. She's going to let the water take her, and he's going to have to watch it happen.

This is how he'll lose her. It might even be how he loses Mary.

How can she tell him that? It would break his heart. If she opens her mouth and speaks, he'll know. He'll know what she's done to their daughter. He'll be angry and terrified. And he'll leave. He will take Mary away from her and she won't blame him when he does. She's amazed he's put up with her whining and her drama and her literal craziness for as long as he has. It's best to get out of her blast radius. To run while you still can. Sooner or later, everyone figures that out.

But she doesn't want him to leave.

She doesn't want to end up like Great Aunt Faye, shut off from the world, hidden away behind four walls and the Maine wilderness with only the trees to keep her company. She doesn't want to be Dinah Ellard, loved and lost and taken by the sea. She doesn't want to be Edie, isolated and angry, so out of control that she explodes and takes innocent people with her. She doesn't want to be any of them.

She wants to keep this life of hers. Hold onto Dean and Mary with both hands. Like her life depends on it. Because maybe it does. She just doesn't know how she's supposed to do that when her hands are no longer strong enough to hold onto anything.

If Dean notices the increasing distress and creeping horror written all over her face, he says nothing. And he does notice. There is no way he doesn't. He smiles at her again, quick and distracted, but aiming for comforting and disarming. He takes a few leisurely steps into her personal space. ''You must be warm,'' he tells her, hands hovering by the hem of her sweatshirt. ''Let's get this off before you overheat. Is that okay?''

She nods jerkily and allows him to help her out of both the sweatshirt and the flannel, even though it feels like a thousand needle pricks to be touched right now. She is feeling hot. That is the one thing she is sure of. The one thing that doesn't feel muddled. She is very, very warm. That sickly, faint feeling of being overheated is starting to set in. She remembers being cold not that long ago. Miserably cold. She couldn't get warm. No matter how many layers she wrapped herself in or how many blankets she had. She felt like ice. Cold as death.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up in her throat and escapes.

Dean looks at her, but he doesn't say anything. He sits her down on the edge of the bed and pulls over a chair from the vanity so he can sit across from her. She tries to clutch at the comforter but it hurts too much to touch anything right now. It's uncomfortable enough just to feel the bed beneath her. She is supposed to be trying to ground herself. Sitting on the hard floor, holding her husband's hand, touching the ground, the wall, a pillow, anything to jolt her back to life. Just the thought makes her feel nauseated.

She's also supposed to be practicing mindfulness. She's supposed to be focusing on her breathing. Picking out everything in this room that is red. Paying close attention to the present, the here and now, her thoughts and feelings.

She is too far gone for any of that.

Dean asks her, ''Do you want to try getting out of this or is it too late?''

All she can do is look at him with her panic stricken eyes.

He doesn't ask again. ''Okay. We'll ride it out. We can do that.'' He keeps saying 'we.' She notices that. He sounds far away, but she notices that he keeps saying 'we.' This isn't exactly a team sport, but she knows he means well.

She would run from this if she could. She keeps trying to focus on her breathing but her attention span is shot. She draws in a breath and forgets to let it out. She tries to count in her head but only makes it to two. She tries to pick out everything that's red in the room, but she can't remember what red looks like. She has no rhythm. Her chest hurts when she breathes in and it hurts even more when she breathes out.

He grabs a glass of water that's sitting on the vanity next to what looks like a damp cloth. She does not remember him getting these things, but she also doesn't remember how she got from the back deck to the bedroom. ''Do you think you can take a few sips?'' He asks, and she balks at the idea. She'll choke if she tries. ''All right, maybe we'll try later.'' He puts the glass back down. Is she speaking out loud to him? She doesn't understand how he keeps reading her mind. Has her panic become a language he has learned to read?

''Is this a touching or no touching kind of day?'' He questions.

She cannot answer him to tell him that it is 100% a no touching day. Which does not help her panic. She doesn't want to be touched right now, but he's a toucher. It's usually helpful. It's usually the biggest comforter. Normally, he would be massaging her temples for her or working the pressure points on her back or rubbing her shoulders. Right now, she feels like her skin is crawling. The idea of being touched makes her want to vomit. But she can't tell him that. The fact that her consent cannot be verbalized right now is extremely distressing. It's an uncontrollable, unasked for and unwelcome intense kind of vulnerability that is only adding to her hysteria. If she was with anyone other than her husband, she would not be able to say no to anything.

Dean, again, seems to instinctively just know that today is not a day for back rubs or hand holding. He doesn't touch her. He doesn't even try. He does scoot the chair closer, but not close enough to touch her, not even close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. ''We don't have to touch,'' he says. ''Just look at me. Just focus on me and breathe. It won't be like this forever.''

She's trying, but her vision keeps blurring and she keeps losing him to the static. She doesn't think she's going to be able to keep both his face and his voice.

''Laurel,'' his voice is gentle. ''I can see you trying to fight this. It's only going to last longer if you keep putting it off. I know it sucks, but I think you need to let it happen.''

Easy for him to say.

Her entire life has been narrowed down to the immense feeling of impending doom, a looming terror, and sheer panic. There's nowhere she can run, there's nowhere to hide, nothing concrete or tangible to fight, but avoidance is an instinct. She so badly does not want to feel this. She does not want to be here or have to do this. Even as her breathing quickens and worsens, palms growing sweatier by the minute, she so desperately does not want to do this. She knows he's right. She needs to let the panic in and get it over with. How can she do that when that goes against her every instinct?

Laurel tries to keep looking at him, to use his face as an anchor, but she can't. The panic is making him fuzzy around the edges. She closes her eyes as her breathing speeds up and starts becoming short, frantic pants and wheezes.

''Baby,'' he says, from far away. ''Listen to my voice. I'm right here. I'm right here with you. Everything's going to be okay,'' he says. He promises. ''I know it hurts right now, but it'll pass. It won't be like this forever. Just keep trying your best to breathe. You'll get there.''

Panic is hard work.

She often views childbirth as the hardest thing she's ever done - and it was - but panic is something that recurs. It crops up over and over again, sudden back breaking hard work on an otherwise normal Sunday afternoon or even on her daughter's birthday. It sucks. Having to fight and struggle just to breathe sucks. Every time she manages to get in a breath, the feeling of inexplicable terror get worse and her heartbeat speeds up.

''You're not gonna die, honey,'' Dean's telling her. ''You're doing great.''

She does not feel like she's doing great. She feels like her heart is about to burst out of her chest. She fights and manages to get one strangled breath to reach her starving lungs.

''That's my girl,'' he encourages. He falls silent after that, for barely five seconds, and that sickening dread surges. She tries to say his name but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper. She reaches for his hand and he, very carefully, takes her hand in his. ''I'm still here,'' he assures her. ''Right here with you.''

It doesn't hurt to have him touch her. That must be progress. She keeps her eyes shut and focuses on her breathing and his voice and the way he's so gently holding her hand.

''Hey, you want me to sing to you?'' He jokes. ''Would that relax you?''

The suddenness of the joke startles her and a messy laugh comes tumbling out of her, erupting from her chest like a volcano. She's not sure if the laugh shocks her body or if the panic attack is just moving into the next phase, but her wheezes are actually resulting in air reaching her lungs again. The feeling of the oxygen rushing back to her lungs makes her feel dizzy. She's still panting, still floundering, but things are improving. The feeling of impending doom is transforming into shame and sadness without reason. She keeps her eyes shut and focuses on breathing.

Her breathing does even out eventually and her head quiets down. She doesn't keep track of the time but it feels like she sits there for hours, working on breathing, gluing herself back together. Slowly, she opens her eyes.

Dean, still sitting across from her, both of his hands wrapped around one of hers, smiles at her. He looks happy to see her. ''Hi there, pretty bird,'' he says. ''Welcome back.''

She looks at him for a second, meets his eyes, and then promptly bursts into tears. It's nothing new. She honestly doesn't even try to stop it. There's no point. This is going to happen whether she likes it or not.

He lifts her hand up so he can kiss the back of it. ''You're doing great, Laur.''

She moves her free hand to her sore chest. The worst part of the unavoidable sobbing is how much her body fights it. It physically hurts. She keeps trying to stifle the sobs, swallow them down and bury them, and it's so exhausting. The cries have to force their way out, leaving her feeling raw and bruised. It's horrible and it never gets any less horrible no matter how many times she goes through this.

''I - I'm sorry,'' she coughs out. ''I'm sorry. I - I couldn't...''

''Don't apologize,'' he says firmly, with a shake of his head. ''You have nothing to apologize for. This is not a big deal. You're exhausted and you just had two young adult novel rejects unload a shit ton of shitty info on you. You're allowed to be overwhelmed. Hell, I'm overwhelmed.'' He gives her hand a squeeze before letting go. She watches as he rises to his feet and grabs the cloth from beside the glass of water. He sits down beside her and dabs at her flushed, sweaty face with the cool cloth.

She expects to feel comforted by his close proximity to her but when he sits down next to her, all she can feel is frustration and embarrassment. None of it is his fault. He's just trying to help her the way he always does. It's just that he's going to ask. She knows he's going to ask. He'll ask what the trigger was, if she wants to talk about it, and she doesn't want to tell him. She doesn't want him to have to carry any of that. It's too much.

Laurel balls her hands into fists and tries to stop fucking crying.

She knows it will pass, but it's humiliating to lose it like this. To have him see her so out of control and frenzied. It's not like this is gentle weeping. This is full body, gulping, wracking, hysterical sobs.

She does understand, you know. How he could lie to her. Why he didn't tell her she was dying. She's angry, but she gets it. She understands the paralyzing selfishness of fear. She's been there. Look at her now.

When the sobbing begins to calm, replaced by whimpers and ragged breathing, in the space before the trembling, her head finally begins to clear. The heavy fog begins to lessen and she is finally able to surface for breath. She realizes, in the aftermath of hysteria, that her husband is not going to leave her and take their daughter if she tells him that she's worried mental instability might be part of the Ellard family curse. She even realizes that she doesn't deserve to be left.

She doesn't even know if her worries are founded. Who can know for sure? There's a good chance she could be being histrionic and presumptuous.

There may very well be some truth to the idea that the scream has a negative affect on the mental health of the women who have to carry it around inside of their chests like a live grenade. Mary may have some trouble later on in life. But, if she does wind up needing a little extra help, she's going to get it. It doesn't have to be a tragedy. If she needs help, they will help her. She will not be alone in this. Not ever. And she won't be in the dark. They'll tell her. Prepare her.

She's beginning to shake like a leaf. Dean is rubbing her back and reminding her to breathe. She's going to voice her concerns to him about Mary. She's his child too. He deserves to know. But... Later. Once she gets her head on straight.

''You think you can get some water down now?'' He asks when she lifts her head.

She's still trembling violently, but she does nod. Her mouth is so dry that her tongue feels like it's glued to the roof of her mouth and it feels like there's sandpaper in her throat. Even taking the tiniest sip of water is a challenge thanks to the adrenaline shakes her body is currently suffering through. She can't even hold the glass herself because her hands are so unsteady. Dean has to carefully tilt it to her lips. The first attempt goes south and ends with her choking and coughing up the water. He handles it with ease, handing her the cloth to mop the water off her chin. The second attempt goes better, though she still sputters. On the third attempt, she actually gets enough water to unstick her tongue. It's a relief. It's also humiliating.

As soon as she gets enough water to wet her mouth, she leans forward to bury her head in her hands so she doesn't have to look at him.

He doesn't force the issue. Just takes the water away, puts it back on the vanity, and sits back in his chair to give her some space. ''I should've brought a straw.''

''Straws are bad for the environment,'' she croaks out.

''We have those reusable crazy straws of Mary's.''

''But they're still plastic.''

''Hey, you're the one who bought them.''

She sniffles and raises her head, careful not to do it too quickly. ''I had to.''

''But, Laurel,'' he says. ''The landfills.''

''It's the only way she'll drink Pedialyte,'' she says, looking around for a box of tissues. ''You know that.'' She stops looking for the elusive box of tissues and looks back at him, narrowing her eyes. ''You're making fun of me.''

He grins at her and stands to grab the box of Kleenex from where it has fallen off her bedside table. ''Can you blame her?'' He flops back on the chair once she's accepted the box. ''That shit tastes disgusting.''

''You've drank it?''

''I taste everything she puts in her mouth. Don't you?''

''I guess not as much as I used to now that she can tell us when she doesn't like something.'' She plucks a Kleenex from the box and blows her nose. ''Everything she puts in her mouth, huh?'' She tosses the used tissue into the trash bin. ''You know, she eats her boogers.''

''Not anymore.'' He leans back in the chair, slouching down. ''Now she just sticks them under the tables.''

''Ew, what?'' Laurel wrinkles her nose in disgust. ''No, she doesn't.''

''Why do you think I clean under the tables so often?''

''I thought you were just being anal!''

''Don't yell out the word anal,'' he advises. ''They're gonna get the wrong idea about what we're doing in here.'' A pause, and then he smirks. ''Unless you want them to - ''

''Dean!''

''Probably shouldn't yell me name out either,'' he says, undeterred. ''Or they're really gonna get the wrong idea.''

''Oh my god.'' He just laughs. He looks incredibly proud of his dumb jokes.

She tries to fight the smile creeping up onto her lips. ''Does she really wipe her boogers under the tables?''

''I thought I'd told you about this.''

''But... Why?''

All he can do is shrug and say, ''Kids are gross.''

The shaking has passed by now, dulled down to a mild tremble. When he hands her back the glass of water, she is able to take a few slow sips all by herself.

After a few minutes, each minute better than the last, he finally approaches with caution. ''You good?''

''Better,'' she says. The emotional aspect of the panic attack has almost completely disappeared by now. The doom and gloom fog, the dark cloud over her head, the claustrophobic feeling of being boxed into her own body. Only the heaviness remains. This is normally the part where she'd crawl into bed and sleep it off. Not an option right now. There's too much to do.

''You want me to kick everyone out so you can get some rest?'' He asks, because maybe he really is a mind reader.

She takes another sip of water. ''No.'' She takes a few more sips and then experimentally rises to her feet. Her legs still feel jelly-like, but she doesn't immediately drop. She can't tell if she feels like crap because of the panic attack or because she's, you know, rotting apparently.

''Do you want to talk about it?''

She puts the glass back down. ''It was just...'' She stops and bites down on her bottom lip. ''It was everything, I guess,'' she says. ''All of it. The past couple days...'' She shakes her head and looks down at the ground. ''I'm tired and I don't feel well and all that crap just got dumped into my lap and it was just... Too much.'' She smiles weakly. ''My circuits got overloaded.''

He stands up, inching closer to her so he can put his hands on her shoulders and then run them down her bare arms. It's only when she feels the heat of his skin against hers that she realizes she's starting to feel cold again. She can't seem to get away from this cold.

''You sure you're okay? If you need to take a few - ''

''No, no, I'm good,'' she says, which is a lie and they both know it. ''It is what it is.''

He opts not to press the issue, but he does pull her in for a hug. He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight against him like he's trying to wrap her up and protect her. She pauses, caught off guard, and then, slowly, she winds her arms around him and hugs him back. She's not sure why she's caught off guard. It's the tenderness of it. Tenderness is a shock after the violence of a panic attack. He smells like coffee and soap and Mary's strawberry peach smoothie. His body is warm and solid and so familiar. She knows it like she knows her own. Maybe even better. It's home.

She closes her eyes and accepts the comfort he's offering her.

It's not a surprise to her that Samandriel said she was rotting. All she's done since yesterday is fever dream. In her dreams, she's always rotting. That is not a metaphor. She means that in the most literal sense. For twenty four hours, she has been crumbling and melting and disintegrating. Walking around with her flesh falling away, eyes unseeing, sunken back into her head and covered in a white film. Her body bloats and oozes, decomposes rapidly until her tongue is swollen and her lips are gone. Like a mirror held up to show her what's really going on underneath the illusion of being alive. Or a warning of what's to come.

This is what happened to you, and this is what will happen again. You silly girl, you thought you were really here?

Dean was in her dreams. He was dead. He was living, then he was dying, and then he was dead. It started this morning. In every dream, every nightmare, every time it started all over again, it always ended the same way. With Dean crumpled at her feet, bleeding out, dead, and her useless fingers, flesh molted away, stripped down to the bone, muscles and tendons and veins hanging, could not save him. Sometimes she tried. Sometimes she was the one who lit the match, pulled the trigger, brandished the knife.

Late last night, it was Mary in her dreams. Mary, lying at her feet, lifeless and cold. Mary, bloodied and broken, and Laurel's own hands holding the knife. When she first had those dreams, the ones of her little girl crumpled and dead, she was so viscerally horrified and sickened that she woke up in the middle of the night, paralyzed, unable to scream, and instead all she could do was lean over the side of the bed and vomit. She never told Dean about the dreams. She's still not sure if she should. She had a raging fever. They were just dreams.

Only they weren't.

It's a message.

Do as I say or I will take what you love the most.

She wonders who she will dream about tonight. Will it be Sara? Or Thea? Her father?

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter and swallows down the bile rising in her throat. She holds onto him tighter, with both hands. Reluctantly, she pulls away from the hug. Dean doesn't let her go far, grasping onto her hand lightly. He reaches up to cradle her cheek with his other hand. He knows damn well there was more to this panic attack than fatigue and information overload. But he won't ask. He never does. That's the thing about her husband. He rarely pushes her into talking. He waits, gives her space, and lets her come to him when she's ready. She loves him for that.

''If you need a break, say the word and I'll shut it down,'' she says. ''Got it?''

''Got it.'' She pushes herself up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his in a soft kiss. ''Thank you.''

All he says in return is, ''Always.'' He heads for the bedroom door as soon as he's pulled away from her, but Laurel lingers where she is. She grabs the discarded flannel from the bed and throws it back on. She's cold but also they have company and she'd like to cover up this ratty old t-shirt she's wearing. She should run to the bathroom and wash her face. Can't imagine she looks great right now. Her face is probably all red and splotchy. She wishes she had time to wash her hair. She feels greasy. She settles for running a brush through it and putting it up in a ponytail. She grabs the half empty glass of water, chugs the rest, and then puts it back down. Her eyes travel up to look at her reflection in the mirror and -

A horrified gasp rips out of her and she leaps back, face twisting in horror. Her heart pounds noisily in her ears, smashing against her ribcage in fright. Her reflection is not her reflection. It is, but it's not. The body in the mirror is not reflecting what she's doing. The body in the mirror stands in her bedroom, lips curled up into a cruel smile, with blood on her teeth and a mask covering her lifeless eyes. The rotting woman's rotting smile widens. She advances as if to attack or maybe to escape and opens her cavernous mouth impossibly wide to scream.

Instinctively, Laurel throws her hands up to cover her face from the onslaught of shattered glass. It never comes. Breathing shakily, she puts down her hands and looks back at the mirror. Her reflection is completely normal. No rot. No mocking smile. No mouth with too many teeth opening too wide to scream or perhaps to devour. It's just her. Pale, tired, and frightened, but her. Alive and breathing.

She frantically grabs at her wedding rings. It's all she can think of to do. She twists the ring. She runs her fingers over the eternity band Dean gave her. She feels the engravings on the engagement ring passed down to her by her grandparents. She takes a few deep breaths. Miraculously, she does not spiral.

''Laur?'' Dean pokes his head back into the room. ''Are you - ''

''I'm coming,'' she says. ''Right behind you.'' Her feet propel her over to him and away from the mirror. She doesn't look back.

.

.

.

''Okay,'' Oliver sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose in obvious frustration. ''So you can't give us any numbers?''

He's standing at the head of the dining room table, hands braced against the back of the chair, towering over Hanna and Mattie with a look of vexation on his face. They don't seem intimidated by him. Hanna maybe looks mildly bugged. Mattie, still slurping at the remnants of his soup, looks unbothered.

They haven't fucked over Oliver. Makes sense they would be unafraid of him. It doesn't matter that he's the Mayor. It matters even less that he's the Green Arrow.

''I told you,'' Hanna says tersely. ''I was mostly confined to one room.'' She is sitting primly in her chair, hands folded in her lap, spine straight. She only ate a small piece of bread and less than half a bowl of soup, but she is on her third cup of tea. Her brother is on his second bowl of soup and his second cup of tea that is mostly milk and honey. ''There's no way I could know how many soldiers she has,'' she says. ''She has a whole compound.''

''Which you also know nothing about,'' Oliver grouses.

''Because we were blindfolded on the way there.'' She swings a pleading look in Laurel's direction. ''I've told you everything I know.''

Laurel has to shake herself out of an exhausted stupor. ''I know,'' she says, and tries for a smile. She reaches across the table to pat Hanna's hand. ''You did good.''

It's true. Hanna has spent the last forty-five minutes spilling her guts. She's described the witch to the best of her abilities - the sound of her voice, her height, weight, eye color, hair color, even her fashion sense.

The witch is tall and slender and favors heels, which makes her seem even taller. She wears a lot of dresses, expensive ones at that. She has green eyes and dark hair. Her smile is wide and white. She speaks softly and slowly. She means every word. There is an unnerving twinkle in her eyes; a permanent superiority that suggests she deeply enjoys, possibly even thrives on the chaos she creates. She believes in what she is doing.

She never lifts a finger. She doesn't fight, not to Hanna's knowledge. She has people for that. Even when she puffs her chest out and shows off her power as a witch, she is calm and steady.

Every piece of information Hanna gives paints the picture of a smart, terrifying, and utterly self-important creature. She sounds vain and shallow and egotistical, but brutally competent. Possibly out of her mind, but clever and powerful and hungry.

She also, it cannot be forgotten, has an army.

Hanna doesn't know how many soulless soldiers she has, but she gets new bodies every day. Her army is not just made of soulless individuals. There's also Ricky, Dante (who they've deduced likely still has his soul but is just an idiot), a female bodyguard - mid to late thirties, Asian, cruel, never smiles, massive hate on for the Moretti family - who also still retains her soul, and another man who Hanna never saw with her own eyes, but who the witch talked to on the phone regularly.

It's a whole operation. A seemingly well-oiled machine working out of some big house somewhere on the outskirts of the city. It's all been going on right under their noses. Right under the Green Arrow's nose. This wasn't even a blip on the radar until now. Laurel can understand Oliver's resentment.

''What about on the way out?'' He asks, standing straight. ''You weren't blindfolded then, were you?''

''No, but - ''

''And you're telling me you didn't notice anything?''

''Seeing as how we were running for our lives,'' Hanna bites out, ''no, I can't say I paid much attention.'' She keeps her chin up and stares up at him defiantly.

In return, Oliver narrows his eyes and glowers.

Automatically, either because of maternal instinct or just because she's known Oliver since they were fourteen, Laurel says - or, rather, warns, ''Ollie.''

He backs off.

Dean, sitting beside Laurel with one arm draped over the back of her chair, takes a sip of his coffee. He has said surprisingly little during Oliver's interrogation. An unusual thing for him. He's usually all about the biting sarcasm when it comes to Oliver. Also, he's supposed to be winning Laurel a dollar right now and he is not doing a very good job of it.

Now, though, when he notices Hanna and Mattie are both beginning to tense up, he sets his mug down, leans in close to the kids, and says, ''Don't mind him. He's not housetrained.'' He gives them both a wink and a smile. ''If it helps, just think of him as a cardboard cutout of a person. That's basically his personality anyway.''

Oliver actually looks slightly wounded by that.

Hanna, on the other hand, relaxes. Which, in turn, makes Mattie relax. She huffs out a small sigh and then, sounding thoughtful, starts talking. ''It's a big property. Like, there's gotta be a couple acres at least. Lots of woods. And...'' She pauses, thoughtful.

Dean, eyes still on her, reaches over to swat at Sam's arm. Sam rushes to grab for a nearby notebook to write down what Hanna's saying.

''I think there's a barn there,'' she says. ''Or - Or some kind of other building. Maybe just a big shed thing. And it has one of those long, windy driveways, you know? The kind that are really bumpy and narrow.'' She settles back against her chair. ''Anyway, that's it. I can't remember anything else. It was dark. I don't know if that helps.''

''It helps,'' Sam assures her. ''It definitely helps.''

Dean looks over at Oliver with a shit-eating grin.

Oliver huffs.

Sara, leaning against the wall off to the side, curses under her breath. Without asking, she pushes off the wall, invades Oliver's space, steals his wallet, and plucks out a dollar bill to hand over to Laurel.

Laurel accepts it with glee. ''Fantastic,'' she chirps. ''Babe.'' She pokes Dean on the shoulder. ''Babe, I'm bringing home the bacon again.''

He looks lost, but he grins anyway. ''Awesome. Dinner's on you then?''

''A roll of Certs from Star City's finest vending machine.''

''A pack of Juicy Fruit would go farther.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' She tucks the dollar into his hand, closes his fist around it, and pats his cheek. ''It might've been a dollar back in your day but a pack of Juicy Fruit is a dollar fifty minimum.''

''Is that all you can remember?'' Sam asks, cruising right past the exchange happening to his left.

Hanna leans back against her chair. She looks hesitant about something. ''I'm...not sure,'' she confesses. ''There was...'' Her lips turn down into a frown. ''I don't know if...'' She trails off yet again, lets out an aggravated sigh, and shakes her head. ''I think... I think there might have been a kid there?''

Laurel feels her entire body tense up, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair.

The small smile is wiped right off of Dean's face. ''A kid,'' he repeats. ''She has a kid?''

''I don't know if it's her kid,'' Hanna says. ''I don't even know...'' She lets out another sigh. ''I don't know,'' she says, sounding annoyed. ''I didn't see one while I was there, not with my own eyes, but I swear - I swear I heard a kid crying. I was in, like, this library type room and I looked all over but I couldn't find anyone.''

Laurel's lips tighten. ''If there's a child involved in this - ''

''Then we'll need to act quickly.'' It's Nyssa's voice, crackling through the speaker of Cas' phone. She's been silent so far, listening in from her phone while she's at the park with Mary and Charlie. ''And carefully. I think we all understand that. A child changes everything. However.'' Abruptly, her tone changes. She sounds like a disappointed mom. ''May I ask a question that should have been asked already? How do we know we can trust you?''

All eyes go to the Moretti siblings. All eyes, that is, except for Laurel's. She looks down at her own untouched bowl of soup that Sam put in front of her when she sat down. She only managed about three bites and even that was a chore. Eating is useless right now anyway. There's no way she's going to be able to keep it down. Last night, she managed to get down half a bowl of Dean's tomato rice soup only to end up throwing it all up. Today she got down a cup of coffee, four strawberries, and a tiny bit of yogurt. That's more than enough.

She pushes the bowl away from her and trains her gaze on Mattie and Hanna. She doesn't bother to weigh in on this particular issue. Contrary to popular belief, she is not a naive fool. She is well aware that these two have been playing up their innocence and helplessness. Maybe even their regret. That doesn't mean what they said wasn't true, but their whole shtick is undoubtedly a ploy. No, of course she doesn't trust them. They burned that bridge.

But this has nothing to do with trust. Hanna and Mattie need them to get their mother back and they know it. They won't risk her life. Whatever else, their love for their mother is real.

''About the kid?'' Hanna asks innocently. ''Why would I lie about - ''

''About everything, Ms. Moretti,'' Nyssa says, voice crisp.

Hanna answers that with a cloying sweetness. ''My Gran says you can't ask yourself what's wrong with the world without looking in the mirror and accepting some of the responsibility.''

Which is all well and good, but doesn't actually answer the question.

''That's nice,'' Nyssa says placidly. ''But how do we know we can trust you?''

Hanna puckers her lips, perturbed.

''I think what Nyssa is trying to say,'' Cas begins, ''is can you two, for five minutes, cut the bullshit?''

Mattie and Hanna are not the only ones who snap their attention to him in shock.

He doesn't even flinch. His gaze is calm and even as is his voice as he says, ''If your mother and grandmother have even half the amount of power you claim they do then you two are the furthest things away from helpless. So do us all a favor and drop the act.''

It is the most authoritative Laurel has heard him in a long time. He levels them both with a single apathetic look. Hanna manages to hold his gaze longer than Mattie, staring at him with her big Disney eyes. Then her shoulders slump and she looks at her brother with a very different look in her eyes. He just shrugs and shoves more food in his face. She looks back at Cas. She looks at him for a long time, head cocked to the side, smirk spreading on her lips, and then she leans over to him and sneers, ''Angels.''

''Buzzkills,'' Mattie says around a mouthful of bread.

''Should've known you were going to be a problem, Castiel,'' Hanna says, taking a sip of her tea.

Laurel can feel Dean tense beside her and when she looks over at him, he's looking at Sam. Sam isn't looking at his brother, but he still seems to get the look, reaching for his weapon.

''I fucking knew it,'' Sara mumbles.

Hanna turns her attention back to Dean and Laurel with a smirk. ''You want to know how you can trust us?'' All trace of the innocent, bug eyed, motherless child has disappeared, replaced by a confident, cunning young woman. ''You can't.''

''Witches,'' Mattie says, pointing to himself. ''Hunters,'' he adds, pointing to Sam and Dean.

''We were taught to fear you,'' Hanna says. ''You were taught to kill us.''

''Natural enemies.''

''But we will do what it takes to get our mother back,'' Hanna says grimly. ''Even if it means teaming up with hunters. We need her. She's not just our mother. She's the leader of our coven. Most of our power is on a leash that she holds. This isn't about trust.''

''It's about need,'' Laurel finishes.

Hanna looks at her, mildly surprised. ''Yes.''

Unlike the others, Laurel has felt no need to tense up at the shift. Of course they're not innocent kids. They're witches who brought someone back from the dead. They were never innocent. At least now they're being honest.

''I'm powerful but I'm outnumbered,'' Hanna says. ''We need you.''

''We're not asking to be friends,'' Mattie says, finally pushing his empty bowl away. ''We're just asking for a temporary truce. As soon as we get Mom, we'll get out of town and none of you will ever see us again.''

Laurel watches their expressions carefully. After a minute, she reaches over and places her hand on Dean's knee. His shoulders relax and he slides his eyes over to his brother. Sam hesitates, but ultimately chooses to let his hand fall away from his weapon.

''Believe it or not,'' Hanna says, locking eyes with Laurel. ''I did mean what I said. We are good witches and we do regret what we've done to you. I just might've embellished some details. Whatever,'' she waves it off. ''Look, if you'll let us, we can help you.''

''Help her how?'' Dean asks. ''What can you do for her? Can you break this spell? Or at least repair it?''

''Well...'' Hanna bites down on her lip. ''No,'' she admits. ''I can't remove the spell. I know it's making her sick, but it's also what's keeping her alive. If I break it, she dies. And I would have no idea how to repair it.''

''Then you sound pretty useless to me,'' Oliver says sharply.

Hanna looks at him for a second and then leans across the table, directing her attention to Dean. ''Would you like me to stitch his mouth shut?''

''Don't tempt me.''

Mattie, who mostly looks sad that there is no more food for him to eat, looks up at Oliver. ''Fuck you, dude. It's not like she said she came here empty handed. Unclench.''

''There is something,'' Hanna confirms. ''It's a legend. It's called the Resurrection Seal. It was developed by the Grand Coven - a hierarchy of witches, they think they're hot shit, but,'' she rolls her eyes, ''they're old news now. Just a bunch of old ladies sitting around with their hoop earrings and their tarot cards and - ''

''Oh my god, shut up,'' Mattie cuts in. ''Nobody cares about your ageism.''

This new version of Hanna Moretti is nothing like shy Heather Denton. Laurel can't help but wonder how much of Heather was real and how much was a lie.

''But anyway,'' Hanna flicks her hair over her shoulder and looks back at Laurel. ''This seal - It's basically a bundle of extremely powerful magic. It's placed inside someone and if they die, it revives them.''

''Sounds like a pacemaker,'' Sara says.

''Kind of,'' Hanna allows. ''It's not something that's supposed to exist. It defies the natural order of things. That's why it's so secret. Not many people know about it and the ones who have heard of it think it's a myth.''

''It's not?'' Dean's voice is flat and he doesn't look at all impressed by what she's saying, but he's also clutching Laurel's hand so tightly she's a little worried he's going to fracture the bones in her poor hand.

''Oh, it's very real,'' says Hanna.

Cas doesn't look convinced. ''How can you be sure?''

''Because my mom has seen it in action.'' Hanna shrugs her shoulders. ''Before she got married and had us, Mom was... She hung around with different people. There was this one witch - I think her name was Rowena. Brilliant and powerful, but selfish, according to Mom. She stole the seal. My mom saw how it works once. She saw Rowena die and then, a few minutes later, she just...woke up. Like nothing had ever happened. This was Mom's plan to help you,'' she says. ''My mom and Rowena had a falling out years and years ago so she would never help, but Rowena had loose lips after a bottle of scotch and she told Mom everything. How it works, how to put it inside of someone, how it was made. Mom wrote it all down.''

''She writes everything down,'' Mattie chimes in.

''Her plan was to find a way to create a resurrection seal and give it to you. That way you just get to live. No catch. No drawbacks. No consequences. You just get a second chance.''

''Did she find it?'' Laurel barely even recognizes her own voice, raspy and breathless. ''A way to make the seal?''

''She was close,'' Hanna says. ''I have her journals. I know what she was doing.'' There's a flicker in her eyes, a flash of fire. ''I'm going to pick up where she left off.''

''How long will this take you?'' Nyssa's voice questions.

Hanna falters. ''I don't know.''

Dean's face visibly falls. ''That's not good enough. She's running out of time.''

''I know.'' She looks over at Mattie, who dutifully leans down to pick her bag up off the ground. She digs through it and pulls out a worn looking journal. ''That's why I have this.''

''Which is?''

''A temporary fix.'' She smiles at Laurel. ''It should stabilize you and restore your health long enough for me to figure out the seal.''

''It's an energy linking spell,'' Mattie says, cheerful.

''An energy linking spell,'' Cas repeats. His expression darkens considerably. ''Those are notoriously unsafe and complicated.''

''Not this one,'' Hanna says. She flips open the journal and slides it over to him. ''Mom made this spell when I was born. I was premature. By like a lot.''

Mattie nods his head vigorously. ''She almost died a bunch of times.''

''I should be dead right now,'' she says. ''I would be if Mom hadn't done this spell.''

''She linked herself to you,'' Laurel whispers.

''And I lived.''

That is something that makes perfect sense to Laurel. She's a mother. She can honestly say she completely understands that thought process. A mother will do anything to save her child. She would have done the same thing. She understands a mother connecting herself to her child to save their life. She cannot fathom why anyone would ever pour their life into hers to keep her here.

''There were no side effects?'' Cas questions, still leafing through the journal. ''Your mother suffered no ill health from this?''

Hanna's pause is too long. ''She kept the spell going for longer than she should have,'' she finally says. ''I was over a year old when Dad finally made her break it. Around that time, she was...feeling the spell.''

Sam narrows his eyes. ''What does that mean?''

''Just that she was tired a lot,'' Mattie explains. ''Her immune system was out of whack so she was getting a lot of colds. She had a bad case of the flu. Her iron levels were low. Things like that. But as soon as the spell was severed, she was fine. They both were. Hanna stayed healthy. Mom was back to normal within a month.''

''I'm not planning on keeping the spell going for that long,'' she says. ''I'm thinking more like a few weeks. No longer than a month. There shouldn't be any side effects.''

''Shouldn't,'' Sam says darkly.

''How does this work?'' Oliver plays with the sleeve of his white dress shirt, carefully pulling the sleeves up. ''How will it help her?''

Hanna takes her journal back from Cas. She places it on the table and puts her hand on it. ''The current spell is weak because it's flawed and because it's doing something it was never meant to do: sustain both her body and her soul. When a spell is weak like this, it searches for an energy source. The only energy source this one has is Laurel.''

Everyone turns their eyes to Laurel at that. She looks up at all the eyes on her. She's not sure if she's supposed to say something to that. What can she say? She tugs her hand out of Dean's grip and hides them between her thighs, trying to warm up her icy fingers. Cold, she remembers, is a symptom of shock.

''Because the spell is so weak,'' Hanna goes on, ''it's feeding off her energy to keep going, which is causing her condition to deteriorate rapidly. Because she's so sick, the spell is working even harder to keep her here, which means it needs even more energy. It's like a vicious circle.''

''Think of the spell as a rope,'' Mattie offers. ''Laurel's holding onto it and it's only strong enough to hold her body, but now the soul's jumped on as well and the additional weight is causing the rope to fray. We need to find a way to reinforce the rope while Hanna works on the seal.''

''And this,'' Dean gestures to the journal. ''This can do that?''

Mattie looks to Hanna. She says, with the utmost confidence, ''It will.''

''You're sure you can do this without your mom?''

''I am.''

''What are the risks?''

''...Minimal.''

''But they're there,'' Laurel says. Her voice sounds oddly hollow. She wants to find a way to fix this. She wants to find a way to stay more than anything. She's not sure if this is the right way. This sounds dangerous. Not for her but for the other person involved. She doesn't want to get anyone hurt.

''This won't be a one time transfusion type of situation,'' Hanna says. ''It's a constant, slow leeching.'' She looks contrite when she sees Laurel flinch at the description, but she doesn't take it back. ''It's a give and take. The two people involved in this spell will be bound together. Even after the spell is broken, some remnants of that connection will remain. My mom and I - It's not like we could feel each other's pain. But I...'' She looks down at the journal and curls her fingers around it protectively. ''I felt when her soul left her body.'' She visibly swallows hard. ''There's an emptiness inside of me now. Where she was.'' She looks up at Laurel. ''If we can't save her, I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life. So, no, I won't pretend there aren't risks. When you siphon energy from someone, you create a link. If you die while this spell is going, so do they. If they die, so will you. It's also not a permanent fix. You're still going to be in a decline. You just won't be able to feel it as much.''

''So it's a band aid,'' Laurel says.

''Band aids have their place. What this does is give you more time. This is what we have for you.'' She leans back. ''You can take it or leave it.''

''It does look like a solid spell,'' Cas says. ''It's not as flimsy as the one you're under now. No strange loopholes from what I can tell.'' He still raises an eyebrow at Hanna. ''Do you typically carry around your mother's private journals from 1998?''

''Like I said,'' she says breezily. ''This was always the plan.''

The silence that follows is heavy but short lived.

''I think you should do it,'' Sara says resolutely.

Oliver is also quick to jump on the train, offering her a decisive nod. ''Yep, me too.''

''Oh, we're doing this,'' Dean says, adamant, like he thinks this is his choice. He looks at her. The desperation in his eyes is not hidden well. ''Right?''

She releases a breath and props her elbows up on the table so she can hide her face in her hands. They're acting like this is the easiest choice in the world to make. It's not. They're talking about binding her to someone forever. Who wants to be bound to her forever? What if she dies? What if the energy isn't enough and she just drops dead? That means whoever does this dies with her. She would be responsible for the death of someone she loves. How is that fair? She can't do this to someone she cares about. She can't do this to anyone. ''I don't want anybody to die for me.''

''Nobody's dying,'' Sam tries to placate her.

''Laurel, this is your chance,'' Dean all but pleads.

She snorts and lifts her head, raking her hands through her hair. ''Until I die and take someone with me.''

''I can give you a way out,'' Hanna suggests. ''An emergency eject button of sorts. You would have complete control over the spell. That way if I, for some reason, can't create the seal or if your condition worsens or if the other persons starts getting sick, you'll be able to break the spell.''

Laurel chews on her lip, torn. It's a hard offer to pass up.

''Laurel.'' Sara crouches down beside Laurel's chair and reaches out to grab her hand. ''If you do this, you get more time with Mary. Even if we - If we can't save you. She deserves more time. There has to be more time.'' Her voice cracks when she speaks. Laurel can't remember the last time she saw her sister so close to tears. ''Please,'' Sara tries. ''Please, you have to do this.''

Laurel looks at her sister for a minute. Then she looks over at her husband. They both look so desperately, stupidly hopeful.

From Cas' phone, still set to speakerphone even though Nyssa has long since gone quiet, there is the muffled and faraway sound of barking. And then the sound of Mary; her joyful shriek of laughter. Bet she's having the time of her life right now. She's got her trail mix and there's a puppy and two of her aunties who will literally do whatever she asks of them. She had a good day at PT and she knows that her mom and dad will both be waiting for her at home and she's got a strawberry peach smoothie in the fridge and it's takeout night tonight. All is right in her world right now. There has been a lot of change, a lot of upheaval, and the hard times are not over yet but for today, right now, all is well.

Laurel swallows the rock in her throat.

Mary deserves that. She deserves peace, love, happiness, and both parents for as long as she can have them.

Laurel takes a deep breath. She looks at Hanna. ''When can you do it?''

''Right now.''

''Do it.''

Dean and Sara both let out audible sighs of relief.

Sam immediately gets to work, turning to Hanna. ''Do you have everything you need?''

''Mom already put together most of the ingredients.'' She rummages around in her bag and pulls out a tightly rolled and taped brown paper bag. ''I'll need a mortar and pestle if you have one, a pen and paper, salt, and tweezers.''

Sam is on his feet in a second. ''On it.''

''How is it done?'' Dean asks once Sam has disappeared into the kitchen.

''An implant,'' Cas says. ''The spell goes inside of her and her partner in this.'' He looks to Hanna and Mattie. ''Yes?''

''Yes,'' she confirms.

Everyone is moving. Getting to their feet and standing at the ready. Laurel is the only one still sitting at the table, left feeling small and vulnerable. They are all so frantic to save her, their movements quick and harried, but she feels stuck in slow motion. Suddenly, very suddenly, she feels sad. She feels so unimaginably, unbearably sad. It just washes over her like a wave. Grief is like a wave, she remembers, and she is still grieving.

She is afraid. This, she supposes, is obvious. She's dying. Most people are afraid to die. It's not just that. That's the thing. She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to have to. She doesn't want to need witchcraft or the Lazarus Pit. She doesn't want to be put under a spell. To have to steal energy from someone just to stay alive. It feels wrong.

If she had just stayed home that night.

None of this would be happening. She wouldn't have died then and she wouldn't be dying now. The scream wouldn't have been triggered. She wouldn't have missed her daughter's first day of school or her first horse ride or her fourth birthday. They would have a brand new baby. Less than a week old if her calculations are correct. She has a hard time not letting her mind drift there when she thinks about what happened. She wonders if they would have had a boy or a girl. What they would have named the baby. How Mary would have adjusted to being a big sister.

She could know. She could know all of those things if that night had happened differently. She could know how it feels to be a mom of two instead of how it feels to be stabbed in the lung by one of her ex-boyfriend's primitive weapons. She wouldn't need this. Witchcraft and spells and all these things that do not belong in her world. She would be here. She would be right here, holding her new baby, exhausted but happy, enjoying her maternity leave and her family and her life.

Why didn't she just stay home?

Grief hits you at the strangest times.

''Laurel?''

She lifts her head to look at Hanna. It takes her a second to realize that everyone is looking at her. It takes her even longer to realize that there are tears in her eyes.

''Are you all right?'' It's Cas who asks the question, softly, with a strange tone to his voice like he knows exactly what she was thinking.

''I - '' Laurel clears her throat and swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''Yes. Fine.'' She looks over at Hanna. ''Just out of curiosity,'' she starts. ''If I didn't do this, how - how long do you think I'd have?''

Hanna says nothing right away. She glances over at Dean like she's silently asking if it's a good idea to answer that question. He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at Laurel and yet still somehow managing to avoid her eyes. ''With the severity of your symptoms,'' she begins slowly. ''Not long. The only reason you're even upright is because of the healing spell I gave you yesterday. It's working as a barrier to keep the worst of the symptoms at bay.''

''Theoretically,'' Laurel tries. ''If you just kept that charged up...''

''It wouldn't work,'' Hanna says gently. ''You'd still be very sick. It's not strong enough to combat this. I can already see it crumbling now. It's not enough to keep you here. Even if I kept it going, I don't think you'd...'' She pauses. ''You might make it through the night. You won't make it through tomorrow.''

''Laurel,'' Dean says her name in a sigh. ''If you don't want to do this - ''

''I don't,'' she says shortly. ''I don't want to put someone else in danger just to save me.''

''Just to save you,'' he parrots, exasperated. ''Because your life means so little?''

She doesn't know how to answer that. She doesn't know her life's worth. She doesn't even know what her life means. She never had a chance to figure that out.

''Look,'' Oliver says. ''Whoever does this with you will be a willing participant.''

''Absolutely,'' Hanna agrees. She sounds firm. ''I won't do this without the explicit consent of everyone involved.''

''See?'' He tosses an encouraging smile in Laurel's direction. ''Willing participant.''

''This is about choice, Laurel,'' Sara says. ''You have yours and they have theirs. No one is being forced to save you.''

The kitchen door swings open and Sam reappears, arms laden with the supplies Hanna asked for. ''Okay.'' Hanna accepts the mortar and pestle. ''What's the deal? Are we doing this or what?''

Laurel sighs and then pulls herself to her feet. Her tired body feels too heavy to be upright and just the movement of standing makes her dizzy. She feels a little drunk honestly. Which is…disconcerting. Given her history. She runs a hand through her hair. She makes a choice. She wants to live. If nothing else, she wants to be the one to take down this witch. ''We're doing this.''

''Great.'' Hanna's voice is clipped and professional. As soon as Laurel gives the greenlight, she visibly pours all of her focus into doing this spell. She looks grateful she doesn't have to pay attention to everyone else anymore. She digs out a small pocketknife, cuts open the brown paper bag, and pours the ingredients into the mortar. It looks like a mixture of dried herbs, dirt, some violet colored sand, and what looks like crushed leaves of some sort. It smells like lavender and thyme, even more so as Hanna grinds it all together, but there's another smell mixed in as well. Something sickly sweet and almost medicinal. It all smells very perfume-y. Cheap, sugary drugstore perfume to be exact. Like the body mist Laurel used to save up her allowance to buy when she was twelve.

''You know,'' Hanna muses, startling Laurel out of her thoughts. ''I've never done a spell on a famous person before.'' She adds two sprigs of rosemary from a small black pouch Mattie hands her.

''I'm not famous,'' Laurel says, which is becoming a weird reflex in this weird new unmasked life of hers.

''Netflix wants to do a documentary about you,'' Mattie informs her.

''Dateline did a two hour special on you,'' Hanna says.

Uh, well, that's a new one.

Laurel stares at the two, unblinking. Then she turns to Dean.

''Did I not...'' He winces. ''Tell you about that?'' He kind of laughs nervously and then ducks his head down to stare at the table.

''It was okay,'' Hanna says. She sounds pensive. ''It was called The Woman in Black. Not very original.'' She rolls another sprig of rosemary between her thumb and pointer finger. ''It was kind of boring though? Like, none of your family was involved. They talked to a few of your old classmates. Former clients. Stuff like that. But no family or close friends so it was lacking emotional impact.'' She tosses the rosemary in. ''It was dry.'' She digs around in the pouch and drops in two coins that look identical to the one from the goodie bag yesterday. Same silver coin. Same Celtic symbol. ''I'll need some blood,'' she says, abruptly switching topics. ''Some of yours,'' she moves her eyes to Laurel, ''and some from...'' She stops, looking out at everyone else expectantly. ''Whoever is going to do this with you.''

Dean doesn't even think about it. He steps right up to the plate and reaches for the pocketknife she has placed on the table. He just immediately goes for it, throwing himself into the fray.

Laurel has no problem understanding why. If the situations were reversed, she wouldn't hesitate to do this for him. But she's a hypocrite. When she sees him reach for that knife, a flood of horror rushes through her. ''No!''

He takes the knife anyway. ''Laurel - ''

''No.'' She shakes her head vehemently. ''Not you.''

He looks truly bewildered. ''Of course it's me.''

''We have a child,'' she begs. ''We're not leaving her an orphan.'' When it looks like he's going to argue, she cuts him off. ''I know, I know.'' She holds her hands up. ''Emergency eject button. You know as well as I do that life doesn't always go according to plan. We need to minimize the damage we could do to her. We are not leaving her alone out here.''

''Then it's me,'' Sara says easily, stepping forward to take the knife from Dean's hand. ''I'll do it.''

''Sara, no - ''

''I'll do it,'' Sam pipes up.

''Nyssa says she's on her way back now,'' Cas says, from where he's turned off speakerphone and held it to his ear, most likely because Nyssa is ranting in Arabic about this whole plan. ''Any one of us would be willing to - ''

Without warning, Oliver pops up behind Sara, snatches the knife away from her, and slashes his hand. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't announce what he's doing. He doesn't even ask. He just takes the knife from Sara, so abruptly it appears to startle her, and he slices his hand open. It happens to fast to protest. One minute, Sara is holding the knife. The next, Oliver is dribbling blood all over the table runner on the dining room table. He reaches out before anyone can say a word, holds his hand over the bowl, and squeezes. Droplets of blood splash onto the coins dropped into the mixture. He still doesn't say a word.

Nobody else does either.

For a long time, there is only deafening silence. After a minute or two, Dean, Sam, and Sara lean over to peer into the bowl.

''Huh,'' says Sam.

''I was not expecting that,'' adds Sara.

''Nyssa,'' Cas sighs. ''I'm going to have to call you back.''

Laurel barely hears any of that. She is too busy staring at Oliver in shock. He silently accept the handkerchief Cas hands him for his bloody hand and staunchly does not look at her. Out of everyone here, she never thought it would be him. The thought never even crossed her mind.

''Oliver,'' she says. ''Ollie.''

''It's not a big deal,'' he says, but he can't look at her when he says it. He looks at Hanna instead. ''I'll give her whatever she needs,'' he tells her. ''Do your spell.''

She does not look particularly impressed. In the quiet that settles over the room, she looks around at everyone's faces. Then she looks at Dean. ''Should I continue?''

His expression is hard to decipher. He doesn't look angry exactly. Doesn't look hurt either. He looks... Well, he looks grossed out. He looks repulsed by the idea of Oliver being the one to do this. Still, he doesn't object.

''I can do this,'' Oliver insists. ''I'm young, I'm fit, I'm healthy. I have energy to spare. I can give her what she needs. Laurel.'' Finally, he turns to look at her. ''I can do this for you. Please let me do this for you.''

She is feeling lost right now. She doesn't...understand this. Why would he want to do this for her? His selflessness has never extended to her before. Why now? She can't make her voice work, can't find the right words, but she gives Hanna a quick nod anyway. She doesn't know why Oliver would want to be connected to her for the rest of their lives when he doesn't even seem to like her half the time, but she's not the most selfless person ever. She wants to live. He's offering her a chance. She has to take it.

''If you get yourself killed and take her with you,'' Dean warns coldly. ''I will bring your stupid ass back to life just to kill you again. You hear me?''

Oliver sticks his nose up and glares.

Silently, definitely still in shock, Laurel reaches out, digs around in her husband's pocket, fishes out the dollar bill, and hands it back to Sara.

''Yep,'' Sara says. ''Yep, yep, yep, he won that round.''

''Man, who knew there was so much drama going on over here,'' Mattie mumbles. ''It's like Days of Our Lives up in this bitch.''

Numbly, Laurel struggles out of her flannel and allows Hanna to collect blood from her. She barely even winces when she slides the knife across her arm in a deep gash. Even when she squeezes blood from the deep cut, Laurel can barely feel it. She feels an itching and a mild burning, but mostly what she's feeling is stunned.

''Mattie,'' Hanna straightens and turns to him. ''Give me your Saint Christopher pendant.''

''What?'' He looks offended she would even ask. ''No.'' He splays a protective hand over his chest. ''Why?''

''She wants control of the spell. Hand it over.''

''But... But the whole football team got these for graduation.''

''Matteo.''

''Ugh.'' He huffs and rolls his eyes. ''Fine.'' He plucks a pendant out from under his shirt and pulls the chain over his head. With a disgruntled grumble, he drops it into his sister's open palm. ''I can't have anything normal.''

''Whoa,'' Dean mutters under his breath. ''Teenage Sammy flashbacks.''

Sam responds, easily, ''Shut up, Dean.''

Hanna drops the chain into the bowl and it hits the bottom with an audible clink. She glances into the bowl, hums in apparent approval, and then adds a singular pinch of salt from the small dish Sam has brought her.

Now, Laurel's going to be honest here. She is utterly ignorant when it comes to matters of witchcraft. She has no idea what she's expecting. What she is not expecting is for the mixture to start bubbling. Despite the fact that the only liquid in the mostly dry mix of dirt, sand, herbs, and leaves is blood, it starts bubbling.

She watches in morbid fascination and muted horror as the blood begins to rise up and fill the bowl. At first, it's the deep rust color of blood, but then it begins to darken. Whatever is in that bowl boils and darkens and changes until it is this thick, viscous, black ooze that resembles tar. And it smells. It really smells. The foul odor starts out relatively mild but swiftly worsens until it becomes nearly unbearable. It is an eye-watering stench. It no longer smells like lavender and cheap perfume. It smells like fire and old blood and rotting meat.

The smell fills the room until Sam and Oliver are coughing, Sara is gagging, and Dean is rushing to open the dining room window, all the while grumbling unhappily about ''teenage witches fucking my house up.''

''That...'' Cas, with his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth, has to pause, likely to stifle a gag. ''That is quite pungent.''

''Yep, that's a ripe one,'' Mattie agrees, but still, incredibly, starts poking at Hanna's abandoned bowl of soup.

''If it helps, this means it's working,'' Hanna says, even as she too stars looking queasy.

''It does not,'' Laurel says, accepting the flannel shirt that Dean hands her. She holds it over her nose but it doesn't manage to block out much.

''I'm gonna have to throw that mortar and pestle out, aren't I?'' He mutters, holding the sleeve of his Henley over his nose.

''Yep,'' she says, voice muffled by the shirt covering her face.

''Whatever you're doing better work, Disney Channel,'' he barks out, moving to stand by Laurel's side, keeping pressure on her bleeding arm.

Hanna doesn't answer, still staring down into the bowl, but she does smile. Her lips pull back into this wide, beaming, toothy grin of triumph. ''It already is.'' Without a flourish, she reaches into the bowl full of goo and plucks out one of the coins with the pair of tweezers. The coin is covered in the thick ooze. Until, just like that, it isn't. She turns the coin over, inspecting it closely. As she does, the black tar-like substance begins to evaporate. Like it is actually being sucked into the coin. Hanna's satisfied smile widens. It's incredibly unnerving, actually. She grabs the pocketknife and turns to approach Oliver. ''Arm please.''

Mystified, he holds out his arm.

She sighs. ''With the sleeve rolled up.''

He looks suspicious, but rolls up his sleeve. ''What are you - ''

''I'll need to cut you again,'' she says. ''BTW, for future reference, it's better to cut your arm for bloodletting. Not your hand.'' She looks down at his bloody hand in distaste. ''I know that's how they do it on TV shows, but you could really fuck up your hand.''

He stares at her. ''Noted.''

''Please do,'' she says dryly, and then makes quick work of carving up his arm.

Even from the other side of the table, Laurel can tell that it's a deep cut. Blood immediately gurgles up from the cut, drips down his arm, and sloshes onto the table. She has to look away. Normally the sight of blood doesn't bother her, but right now, just watching the blood splatter onto the table is making her nauseated and dizzy.

Oliver, stubbornly tough, does not show even a hint of discomfort besides a half second long grimace when the knife is first pressed to his flesh. Not until Hanna places the coin inside of his arm that is. Laurel doesn't mean to look, but she can't help herself. Curiosity has forever been one of her biggest vices. She looks over at the precisely wrong moment, just in time to see Hanna wiggling the coin into Oliver's open wound. Blood pours from the wound and Oliver, considerably paler than he was only seconds ago, hisses in pain as a foreign object is forced into his body.

She looks away as fast as she can, but the damage is already done. Her stomach leaps into her throat, threatening to upend its contents all over the dining room floor, and her vision goes murky.

''Oh,'' Sara's voice says, faraway. ''That cannot be sanitary.''

Oliver, voice tight with pain, asks, ''Why is this thing so hot?''

Laurel thinks she should warn someone that she's going to pass out, but she can't seem to get the words unstuck from her throat. There is an uncomfortable tingling and heaviness in her arms and legs. Her entire body feels like it's made of paper. She doesn't need to say anything, turns out, because Dean notices her swaying and maneuvers her into a chair. She closes her eyes tightly and puts her head between her knees while he holds her arm above her head.

''She's fine,'' he says. ''The blood's just -''

She doesn't hear the rest. She doesn't actually black out - or at least she doesn't think she does - but she blocks out everything that's going on around her to focus on her breathing. It's the nausea. She needs to get that shit under control. She really does not want to puke all over herself in front of everyone. That would not be a good day. Not that this has been a spectacular day so far.

''Laurel?'' There's a tapping on her knee. ''Are you okay?''

As cautiously as possible, she raises her head to look at Hanna. Only it is not Hanna kneeling in front of her. A smiling corpse is in her place. The body's mouth is too wide and its teeth are bloody and there are too many of them and maybe that's not a smile at all. White eyes, magnified by the mask it's wearing, burn into her. A hand, decomposing under those fingerless fishnet gloves, moves to her knee. She shrinks back in her chair, but can't get away.

''Laur.'' Dean's voice. Right in her ear. He sounds worried, but not freaked out by the corpse in their fucking dining room. He must not be able to see it. It must be just for her.

Everything goes fuzzy and there is a roaring in her ears. She blinks and shakes her head. When everything clears, it's Hanna kneeling there, and Dean is right beside her.

''I think she's getting worse,'' someone says.

''Then we need to do this fast,'' Hanna says. She must mistake the terror in Laurel's eyes for uncertainty because she asks, ''Are you sure you want to do this?''

Laurel tries to put the image of herself, undone, out of her mind. ''I'm sure.''

Hanna takes Laurel's bleeding arm and removes the cloth Dean has placed over it. She's holding the other coin in between the tweezers but before she can do anything with it, he reaches out and grasps onto her wrist, stopping her. ''Hold up, Halloweentown.'' He looks troubled. ''I need you to swear on your mother's life that what you're doing is going to help her and not hurt her.''

She looks surprisingly understanding of the ultimatum, although there is definitely an undercurrent of indignation in her blue eyes. She says, fervently, ''I swear on my mother's life, Dean. I swear on Mattie's life.''

He looks at her, then at her brother, and then he lets go of her wrist.

Laurel wisely decides to shut her eyes for this part. Having something shoved into an open wound is going to hurt no matter what. It's not a thing that's supposed to happen. Still, this is... It burns. The coin that is being pushed into her arm is blazing hot. It feels like the coin was kept over an open flame before it was placed into her body. Why is this thing so hot? It's an unforeseen amount of pain. She inhales sharply and grits her teeth against the searing pain. She grips her husband's hand as tightly as possible.

But that's it.

It hurts because there is something being shoved into a wound. Her body is reacting to this the way anyone's would. That's all she feels. Nothing else. When she opens her eyes, everyone is staring at her with such hope in their eyes. She hates to let them down. ''I... I don't feel any different,'' she admits, and looks back down at her bloody, mangled looking arm so she won't have to see their hopes fall.

''You...'' Hanna looks immensely discouraged. She looks floored. ''What?''

''Dude,'' Mattie's voice says. ''What'd you do?''

''Hanna,'' Dean sounds agitated and possibly on the brink of throwing her black goo out the open window. ''I thought you said - ''

''I know what I said!'' She looks like she is this close to stamping her foot on the ground. ''This should have worked!''

Laurel stares at her mangled arm. ''My arm itches.''

Hanna squints at her, then looks at the bowl of ooze, then back to Laurel, then at the ooze, and then - ''Oh!'' She brightens up, releasing a nervous sounding giggle. ''I forgot the names.'' She laughs again, a bit hysterical, and her cheeks redden. She grabs for the pen and paper and throws the tweezers at her brother's head when she catches him rolling his eyes at her. ''I need your full names,'' she says, glancing between Laurel and Oliver. ''I know yours is Dinah Laurel Lance, right? And...''

''Oliver Queen,'' Laurel provides, without even giving him a chance to answer. ''Oliver Jonas Queen. J-O-N-A-S.''

''Right.'' Hanna moves fast, tearing off two small scraps of paper and scribbling the names down. She crumples up the scraps and throws them into the magical tar. They sit on top of the substance for about a second before being pulled into the darkness. ''Well,'' she says. ''Get ready then.''

Laurel frowns. ''Get ready for wh - ''

Hanna tosses in another pinch of salt, and that's that. Before anyone can even blink, there is a flash of blinding light, a boom that shakes the house, and then there is only pain.

It is not something she can describe. It's like a scorching, blistering heat that explodes inside of her. It doesn't just happen in her arm. It happens everywhere. It's like there is a real fire inside of her, taking over, consuming her from the inside out. She means to open her mouth to ask what's happening to her. She screams instead. Not a Canary Cry but a real scream of pain that slips through her lips and pierces the air around her. She can't even see through the pain.

The pain shifts inside of her, like a living thing inside of her, slithering around her insides; becomes a bruising, immobilizing, paralyzing weight. It rams into her chest, steals her breath away, and then, mercifully, she passes out.

.

.

.

October, 2012

It's late by the time they get home from the hospital, half past eleven, and all Laurel wants to do is sleep. Whatever adrenaline had been keeping her going seems to have dissipated and she is left in the swirling wake, exhausted, sore, and way too pregnant for this shit.

Dean is worried. It's not hard to tell. He was the one who pushed for her to be admitted overnight at the hospital. Had even seemed disappointed when she was given the all clear to head home. She understands his concern, but she's fine. Other than some bruising, some minor contractions that didn't amount to anything, and some trauma that will inevitably haunt her dreams for the next few nights, everything is all good. No preterm labor, baby's heartbeat is strong, little one's still kicking up a storm and moving around. Even her blood pressure was fine by the time she was discharged.

Tonight has been a long night, but it's over now and she just wants to go home. She's not being irresponsible. She let Dean and her dad convince her to go to the hospital to get checked out, spent a few hours hooked up to all kinds of monitors, got IV fluids to combat some mild dehydration, and set up an appointment with Alex for tomorrow morning just for extra peace of mind. She did everything right. Now she wants to rest.

She doesn't think any of that has comforted Dean. He keeps looking at her like he's seriously considering locking her in their bedroom until the baby is safely out of her so he can look after their daughter himself because Laurel is clearly doing a shit job of it.

He's been his usual attentive self, but something is off. He stayed right by her side in the hospital. Got her water and something to eat, held her hand, relayed all of her pertinent medical information to several different people, made sure they looked at the bruising on her neck, and even helped her and her IV to the bathroom. He just hasn't said much to her. He hasn't been engaging her in meaningless conversation just to keep her mind off of what's going on. Hasn't tried to distract her, to make her feel better, to assure her that none of what happened was her fault. She's not saying he needs to do that. Just that it's unusual that he hasn't. She knows how he works. He does things like that.

She does get why he's been off tonight. His pregnant wife, less than a month away from her due date, was involved in a prison riot. It was a situation that easily could have ended in a doubly tragedy. It almost did. She was strangled. If mom isn't getting enough oxygen, neither is baby. She understands the gravity of the situation. She has gone over it in her head a thousand times since it happened. She can't blame him for being shaken.

That doesn't mean the silence isn't jarring. They are so rarely silent in their relationship. People don't generally look at her and think 'oh yeah, that woman with the overly stiff posture and uptight personality must be a rowdy beast' but he brings it out in her. He was the one to break the silence she had settled into after Sara. He brought the laughter back. Gave her conversation and someone to wake up to in the middle of the night and ask ridiculous questions like, ''What if the baby gets so big and there's no more room for her and she just pulls an Alien and explodes out of me?''

She doesn't know how to navigate the silence between them.

Dean is quiet the whole way home. Laurel dozes on and off during the short car ride home, but he doesn't say a word. She can feel his eyes on her every time they stop at a red light, but he never says anything. He only speaks up once they're both safely tucked away in their warm, dark, cozy apartment. ''Do you want something to eat?''

She jumps at the unexpected sound of his voice, even though she shouldn't. Maybe she's more on edge than she realized. ''What?''

''Are you hungry?'' He's facing away from her, a silhouette in the darkness.

Unbidden, it conjures up a memory of a few nights ago: coming home, all by herself, to a dark apartment with someone standing in the shadows, waiting for her. Only it wasn't Dean moving through the darkness that night. It was the hooded vigilante that's been set loose in this city. The same man who almost murdered someone in front of her tonight. Who almost murdered someone for her. Who didn't seem capable of stopping. She hasn't figured out what to do with that.

''You haven't eaten in hours,'' Dean goes on, completely unaware of her unease. He fishes her phone out of her purse, puts the purse on the couch, sets her briefcase down on her desk, and plugs her phone into the charger in the living room.

''I - I ate at the hospital,'' she says, fiddling with the sleeve of her father's jacket that he wrapped around her outside of the jail. She should make sure he gets his coat back. Nights can get cold here. He'll need his jacket.

''You had half a bag of stale peanuts from the vending machine,'' Dean says, and she can practically hear the disapproving frown in his voice. ''You need to eat something.'' He crosses the room, dropping the keys into the dish next to the door before flicking on the lights. Warm light floods the apartment and instantly, she feels better.

In the light, she can see that he looks tired. She really did a number on him tonight. That is one of her biggest regrets about what happened tonight. She never intended to worry her husband or her father or Tommy. She hadn't expected there to be violence. She knew Jason Brodeur was a criminal. She understood that he was corrupt and that going after him came with risks, but she didn't think he would put a hit out on a pregnant woman. That was her mistake. He had a woman murdered in front of her baby girl. She should have known there were no lines.

It takes her a second to realize that Dean's eyes keep moving to her throat now that the light is on and it takes her another second for her to understand why. Bruises. There are bruises. Automatically, in an effort to protect him or maybe to protect herself, she ducks her head to hide them from view and brings a hand up to cover them.

Dean moves past it, helping her out of the coat and suggesting, ''I could make you some eggs. Or grilled cheese. You've been on a big grilled cheese kick lately.''

She tries not to grimace at the mention of food. She doesn't know if she can stomach much right now. The nausea that plagued her during the first trimester has persisted well into the third trimester. It's not nearly as bad as it was then, thankfully, but she still feels like crap most of the time and it gets so much worse if she's all keyed up. ''I don't know.'' She toes off her shoes and makes her way over to the couch, easing herself down onto the soft cushions. She thinks a good portion of the soreness is related to the normal pregnancy aches and pains and most likely some of it is just from being so tense for so long but her back and hips are killing her right now. She has to think that being thrown onto a cold concrete jailhouse floor probably did not help with her discomfort. ''Maybe something small,'' she suggests. ''I'm not really hungry. I just want to sleep.''

He looks at her for a minute, head cocked to the side, expression indiscernible. ''What about cereal? You love cereal.''

She swallows a sigh. He is not going to let this go. ''Okay.''

''Great. I'll make you some tea too,'' he declares. ''Peppermint, right?'' He doesn't even give her the chance to respond before he's gone.

She watches him go and then releases a breath, sinking back into the pillows on the couch. The baby's still kicking up a storm, more so than she usually does at this time of night. Shifting around too, like she can't quite get comfortable. Laurel rubs at her belly and wonders if babies can feel fear in utero. Was her daughter scared earlier? Could she feel her mother's stress, anxiety, and terror? She must have felt it when her mom was tossed around like a rag doll and strangled. Must have at least been jostled around in there. Was she scared?

Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and takes in a few shaky breaths. Her baby is fine. She tries to hold onto that. Baby Girl Winchester's heartbeat is strong and steady. On the ultrasound, she was happily chilling out in there, sucking on her thumb, all curled up and comfy, seemingly completely unaware of her parents' stress. She's a Winchester. She's a Lance. One little prison riot is not going to get her down.

Laurel gives herself another minute to breathe, and then she decides to focus on her kick count. It's not strictly necessary tonight - she knows for a fact that the baby is fine - but she does it anyway. Kick counts are not meant to be used as a foolproof diagnostic tool, but that certainly hasn't stopped Laurel from doing them religiously and getting way too into them. Once, a few weeks back, she wound up calling her midwife in tears at three in the morning because the baby hadn't moved in over an hour. Alex calmly instructed her to A) drink a large glass of ice cold juice and B) ''wake Dean up and get him to sit with you because you're spiraling.''

Despite that whole ordeal, most of the time, she finds the practice to be quite soothing. They do this every night, her and her girl. It's their first Mommy & Me activity.

She closes her eyes and counts the movements - every little kick, every roll, every jab. ''I'm sorry,'' she murmurs, without opening her eyes. ''For what I got us into tonight. You didn't sign up for that.'' That's all she's able to get out before she hears Dean coming and shuts her mouth. She opens her eyes just in time to see him take a seat across from her, perched on the coffee table.

''Here.'' He holds a glass of water out to her.

Reluctantly, she sits up straight and accepts the glass of water. She takes a small, cursory sip of the water, wincing slightly and moving a hand to her throat. She knows she got off easy with just a minor scratchy and sore throat, but it's the reminder of what happened that gets her.

''Remember to take slow sips,'' Dean advises, putting a bottle of Gatorade on the table next to him. ''It's going to hurt to swallow for awhile.'' He doesn't seem to be in any big hurry to go get her that bowl of cereal he had been so adamant about her having. He sits there, eyes on her, without saying a word, until she has finished the entire glass, and then he mumbles something about getting her food and disappears again.

He's angry. She can't tell if he's angry at her or at the person who did this to her or even at the vigilante for getting her involved in this, but she knows her husband and she knows that this cold silence of his is anger.

It's strange that she's not angry, to be honest. It's even stranger that she's not panicking. This feels like the type of situation that would normally flatten her. Especially being pregnant. This pregnancy has shredded her mental health. For this entire pregnancy, she has been sick, sore, and completely out of control. Stands to reason what happened tonight could be a big trigger for those issues. She should be a mess right now. ...But she's not. There have been a few moments tonight where she's had to stop and concentrate on her breathing, but she's not panicking. She's not freaking out, her mind isn't going in fifteen different directions, she's not lost in some whirlwind of self-hatred and depression. She's...okay, actually.

Maybe she's in shock.

She puts the empty glass on the table before struggling to her feet. She grabs the bottle of Gatorade and heads to the bedroom, calling out that she's going to lie down as she passes by the kitchen. She takes her time to remove her makeup and wash her face in the bathroom, but she's too tired to have a shower or run a bath. She doesn't even bother to pull her pajamas out of the drawer. She just peels off her sweater and skirt and grabs one of Dean's t-shirts from the floor beside the hamper. She should probably just suck it up and wear her own clothes instead of stretching out another one of his shirts but she can't say she feels too bad about it. It's not her fault men's clothes are more comfortable than women's. She pulls the shirt over her head and crawls into bed, burrowing herself under the covers. She still does not feel panicky. Mostly what she feels is a grim sort of satisfaction.

Peter Declan is an innocent man. He was about to be executed. Now he gets to live. It really is that simple. He gets to go home to his daughter. It's not going to be an easy road for either of them, not with the trauma of what happened and the grief they'll carry with them for Camilla, but they'll be together. She did what she had to do to make that possible. Maybe working with an unstable and violent serial killer was not the wisest decision she has ever made, but this is the world we live in. Sometimes the enemy of your enemy is your friend. As frustrating and scary as it is to admit, sometimes justice lives in the in between. She never used to think that, but you get a crash course in the way the world works when you get involved with Dean Winchester.

When your father is a cop - and his father before him - you grow up believing the law is something sacred to be protected. It's where justice begins and ends. Laurel was not immune to that flawed ideology. She's a lawyer. Clearly the law is something important to her. It used to be comforting. Something to fall back on. A safety net. Then she met Dean and learned that there is a whole other world out there, hiding in the shadows. Justice, within that world, looks very different. The hunting world is violent and bloody and lawless. It's like a western or a rejected Stephen King novel. Buffy meets Butch Cassidy. The dark, seedy underbelly of normal. Yet somehow, it works. People keep being drawn into that world and despite everything, they manage to create lives for themselves there. They forge relationships and families. They find justice. They help.

It has never been her world, she's always been just on the fringes of it, the outside looking in, but she's grown to understand it. Accept it, even. She married a vigilante. She's having a baby with a criminal. She understands that in this world of shadows and shades of gray, there will occasionally be a need for lawlessness.

This was one of those times. It shouldn't be different just because she was the one taking the case.

Working with the man in the hood was a mistake. He's reckless and unpredictable, but inserting herself into this case was the right thing to do. She knows that in her bones. She wouldn't take it back.

Laurel takes another sip of the Gatorade even though she isn't thirsty and grabs her pregnancy pillow from the floor beside the bed. Even with this giant contraption of a pillow, it's hard to find a comfortable position to lay in. Her due date is right around the corner. Everything hurts at this point. She's struggling with the giant pillow, tossing and turning in discomfort, when the door opens. She lifts her head to look at the heaping tray of food Dean's carrying. ''That's a lot more than just a bowl of cereal.''

He shrugs it off. ''Thought I'd give you options.''

Options, it seems, include a bowl of cereal, a mug of peppermint tea, a grilled cheese, a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a bag of pretzels, and a protein bar. It's a lot. Every single thing on that tray will give her heartburn. Although, with that said, everything gives her heartburn these days. She gets heartburn just from drinking water. She does have to admit she is getting a little hungry now that she's had a chance to calm down slightly. She hasn't eaten a lot today.

Laurel sits up and plucks the crackers and the bowl of cereal from the tray when he lowers it down to her level. ''Do we have Zantac? Eating this late is going to give me wicked heartburn.''

He sets the tray down on her nightstand and mutters, ''I'll go check.'' He's still not looking at her much. It's not the norm. He has yet to crack one single joke. That's usually what he would be doing right about now; making corny jokes that he knows are stupid just to make her laugh. He does that. He's always done that. Not tonight.

She munches on a few bites of the Cheerios and dutifully takes a few more sips of the Gatorade. When he comes back into the bedroom, he tosses the package of Zantac onto the bed, eyes her just long enough to make sure she's eating, and then busies himself with mindless chores around the bedroom. He even starts picking up his dirty clothes from beside the hamper and putting them into the hamper, which he never does. He's avoiding her.

She frowns and puts the bowl of cereal back onto the tray. ''Dean - ''

''How are those contractions coming?'' He asks, back to her.

''Gone,'' she says. ''The doctor said - ''

''The doctor said you were lucky,'' he says, whirling around to face her.

She presses her lips together and looks at him for a long time. ''You're mad at me.''

He doesn't respond to that, turning his back to her once again. She doesn't push the issue right away. She cradles her belly protectively and tries not to overthink this too much. She knows, in the back of her mind, that he's just scared, but the irrational, super pregnant and hormonal part of her can't help but worry. She doesn't like fighting with him. It tends to trigger her abandonment issues. Which is her issue and not his, but she would still rather avoid arguing. She likes to think that her marriage is solid, but she also thought her parents' marriage was solid and look what happened there.

They have had a really rough year, is the thing, and it feels like they've just managed to get themselves and their relationship back on track within the past few months. She wants to keep that going. She doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. With the baby coming, they need to be a team now more than ever. ''Listen,'' she starts. ''I know you're upset. Tonight's been - ''

''You almost died in a prison riot,'' he cuts her off, voice cold. He still doesn't turn around to face her. ''Both of you. Do you get that?''

''Of course I get that,'' she says, trying not to sound overly defensive. ''But I didn't. We didn't. We're okay, Dean.''

''So - What?'' He finally turns around. ''You're just going to brush it off?''

''I'm not brushing anything off!'' The baby delivers a swift kick to her right kidney and she inhales sharply. Great. Her daughter's not even born yet and she's already picking sides. She breathes out through her mouth and waves him off when he takes a step in her direction, corners of his mouth pulled down in worry. ''I'm okay,'' she assures him. ''Just a kick.'' She heaves herself out of bed and moves over to him. ''She's okay,'' she tells him. ''Look.'' She takes his hand and places it on her belly. She's hoping if he feels their daughter kicking and moving around, he'll calm down. ''She's okay,'' she says again.

He softens slightly, but does not look sufficiently calmed. ''You just couldn't stay out of this one, could you?'' He doesn't say it rudely. He sounds matter of fact about it. He doesn't take his eyes off her bump.

''If I had, I wouldn't be the woman you married,'' she reminds him.

He lifts his eyes to her, retracting his hand. ''The woman I married was beaten and strangled tonight.''

She cringes at the wording. ''I wasn't beaten.''

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. She watches him distance himself from her, heading over to the other side of the room to change his clothes. He doesn't need to go all the way over to the other side of the room to do that. She crosses her arms over her stomach. She's not sure what he wants her to say. She understands he's feeling scared and helpless - and angry that he's helpless - but what was she supposed to do? Tonight was a bad night, she's not going to deny that, but she doesn't believe what she did was wrong.

''I don't like the way things went down tonight, but I don't regret stepping in,'' she says. ''Peter Declan was going to die. He was going to be executed for something he didn't do. I had to do something. He has a little girl.''

Dean laughs, but it's humorless. He tugs a t-shirt over his head and turns to look at her. ''We have a little girl,'' he says. ''When does she get to be the one you protect?''

Laurel stares at him, mouth agape. The words feel like a slap in the face. There is this enormous feeling of anger and hurt, a sickness swirling in her gut, but she doesn't know what to do with it. She doesn't want to fight with him. Not when she knows they're just going to go in circles. She expects that kind of thing to come out of her father's mouth. She doesn't expect it to come out of Dean's. Her father, whether he's aware of it or not, has always relied far too heavily on guilt trips and emotionally manipulating her into doing what he thinks she should be doing. She and Dean don't do that with each other. At least they're not supposed to.

She has spent her entire pregnancy petrified. Scared out of her mind about being a mom. She doesn't know if it's something she'll be good at, if it's something she has in her, and she so badly does not want to damage her child the way her mother damaged her. Dean knows that. He knows all of that and he still said what he said.

''I will always protect our daughter,'' she spits out. Her voice shakes when she says it. She tries to pretend it's from the anger and not because she feels like she's about to burst into tears.

Dean, she supposes to his credit, does not dig the knife in deeper. He looks fairly contrite, at least about the cold tone of his voice, but he doesn't offer her an apology. ''You knew Brodeur was dangerous,'' he says. ''You knew he had someone murdered and you still went right up to him and threatened him right to his face.''

Yes, well... Maybe threatening to ''pull on the loose end until his whole world unravels'' was too bold. One might even consider it hot headed. ''I was doing what I thought was right,'' she says, albeit somewhat weakly.

''Laurel, your due date is in less than three weeks.''

''Someone needed to fight for Declan!''

''Why did that someone have to be you?''

''It's my job.''

''It's not your job to put yourself in danger,'' he argues. ''And that's not why you did this. You did this because he asked you to.''

She raises her eyes to him. She opens her mouth to deny this, but nothing comes out.

''You lied to me,'' he tells her. ''You said that case just fell into your lap.''

''It - It did,'' she says. ''I just...didn't tell you how.''

He scoffs. ''A lie of omission is still a lie. You've said that exact thing to me before.''

She averts her gaze. ''I know.''

''This guy came to you,'' he says. ''To you, Laurel. He chose you. All the lawyers in this city, and he deliberately chose you. You ever wonder why?''

Her expression darkens. ''Don't.''

''Don't you think it would explain a lot of things?'' He demands. ''They both showed up in town at the same time. He spent five years on a deserted island. You have no idea what happened to him there or how he's changed.''

''He hasn't changed,'' she bites out impatiently. ''He's still the same selfish playboy he was. Oliver is not the vigilante.''

Dean doesn't look like he believes her. ''So not even a tiny part of you believes it could be possible?'' He shakes his head. ''He asked you to do this and you just - you did it. You didn't even think about turning him down. Was that because of Peter Declan or because deep down you know who's behind that hood?''

''Oh my god,'' she deadpans. ''That's what this is about? You think Oliver's the Hood and you're jealous?''

''No, Laurel, this is about you putting yourself in - ''

''Arrow Guy, whoever he is,'' she cuts him off, voice sharp, ''is a means to an end. I don't care who he is or why he's doing this, but he had information that helped me with my case. That's all it was. Nothing more. I have zero interest in him outside of what he can do for me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't want you to worry.''

''I'm worried,'' he says. ''You are not a vigilante. You're a lawyer.''

She has no idea why that stings the way it does. She knows exactly why it makes her so angry. She narrows her eyes at him and folds her arms like she's trying to physically block this conversation. ''I worried about you,'' she tells him. ''I worried about you every single day.''

He lets out a long suffering sigh as if she's just being irrational or hormonal. ''Laurel - ''

''You hunted monsters,'' she snarls. ''Monsters, Dean. Things that could have killed you with a snap of their fingers. And I stood by your side. I stood by your side every day while you made the choice to do that. You were gone for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. I remember one time I went ten days without talking to you. Almost two weeks without knowing if you were alive or dead because you wouldn't answer your phone. There was nothing I could do but wait for someone to tell me what was going on. And I never - not once - made you feel like shit. Because what you were doing was important and I recognized that. You were helping people. Who was I to stand in the way of that?''

He does not seem at all subdued. There is a fraction of a second where he almost looks remorseful for his hypocrisy, but it passes and he fixes his gaze into a stony frown, choosing instead to double down on his anger. ''You really can't see a difference between what I used to do and what you're doing now? You're pregnant.''

''But I won't be forever,'' she warns. ''That can't be your excuse to control me - ''

''You think this is about controlling you? Laurel, I don't want to watch you fucking die!'' He looks like he's about ready to start pacing and pulling out his hair. ''What's the plan here? Huh? Are you planning on doing something like this again? Are you gonna squeeze the kid out and then go run off with the idiot in the hood who thinks he's fucking Legolas?''

''No!'' She bursts out. ''No, that's not what I'm - I don't give a shit about the guy in the hood! How many times do I have to say that? This isn't about him,'' she says honestly. ''This is about this city. You don't understand. You can't.'' She doesn't know how to say this to him, how to explain it, how to put into words. He won't understand how she's feeling. It's like there's this pressure building up inside of her. She can't figure out what it is that she's been searching for, but she is searching. It has nothing to do with him or the baby. She loves her family. It's not that. It's...something else. She doesn't know what. She's never known.

She has everything. An amazing husband, a soon to be daughter, lots of loving friends and family, a career that she fought for, that she loves and that she's good at, and a rent controlled apartment in the heart of the city she grew up in. She should be happy. She should be content and fulfilled. But she's not. She has tried to ignore it, to pretend it's not there, but she can't make it go away. There is an emptiness inside of her that can't be filled.

Laurel does not believe in destiny. She has never believed the concept of 'everything in its place/everything happens for a reason.' That's too easy. Still, she can't deny the fact that for her whole life she's had this tugging feeling deep inside of her. It's as if she is being pulled toward something unknown, something she's never quite been able to see and never been able to reach.

These past few days, working with the Hood, helping Peter Declan, going against everything she's been raised to believe in... It felt like she was getting closer to something. It felt like she was going in the direction of whatever it is that the universe seems to want her to see. She doesn't know what that means yet, but she thinks she might want to find out.

''This place is getting worse,'' she says quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ''This isn't the Starling City I grew up in. It's not the place my grandfather used to tell me about.'' She lays a hand atop her bump, smoothing down the t-shirt. ''This is my home,'' she tells him. ''But as it is right now, I'm not sure Starling is the place I want our daughter to grow up in. It's toxic here.'' She cringes when she admits that and tries to tamper down the guilt rising in her chest. She is nothing if not fiercely loyal. She's been attached to this city for her entire life. Couldn't imagine living anywhere else. It's home, for better or worse. But, over the past few years, it's hard not to notice how things have been changing. Home is burning. ''This city used to be safer. It used to be better. Now it's run on greed and selfishness and corruption. The people here need change.''

''Then get involved with local politics,'' he says, which is a weird sentence to hear Dean Winchester say seriously. ''Run for Mayor. Or City Council. I'll help you. I'll do anything you want. I'll stand by your side, I'll make campaign buttons, I'll put on a suit and parade around as your trophy husband. Or you could volunteer. Or, hey, better yet, run your legal aid office. Save the city that way. Just... Just...'' He deflates, letting out a long sigh and bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead in exhaustion. ''I can't lose you,'' he says, and then, again, ''I can't lose either of you. I need you.''

She looks up at him, swallowing hard. She can't begrudge him for his fear. She just...also can't feel quite as guilty as he thinks she should. ''You won't lose me,'' she murmurs. ''I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I lied.'' She gets to her feet and shuffles over to him, touching his face briefly, and then his neck. ''I'm sorry I put her in danger. But I'm okay.'' She smiles at him. ''I didn't die in a prison riot. I'm not going to die in a prison riot.''

He relaxes at her soft touch and lets out a breath, but he still doesn't look placated or convinced so she wraps her arms around him in a hug and hopes that will be enough. She can feel him sigh into her neck, holding onto her tightly. When she pulls away, she makes sure to give him a bright smile and places a hand on his cheek once more, leaning in to kiss him softly on the lips.

It's hard not to notice that he doesn't kiss her back.

He looks at her closely when she steps back from him, seemingly searching her expression for something. ''You still stand by what you did, don't you?''

She draws in a breath and lets it out. Then repeats. Truthfully? She absolutely does. 100%. ''Yes,'' she admits. ''I do.''

''Babe,'' his voice is soft but tired. ''You can't save everyone.'' He says that with the certainty and the exhaustion of someone who has had to learn that particular lesson in violent, tragic, and bloody ways.

She does understand that. She knows that loss is a part of life. That doesn't mean she shouldn't try to minimize it. ''Maybe not,'' she says, ''but I can try.''

He looks... She doesn't know. She doesn't know what that expression on his face means. He tilts his head to the side and stares at her, lips pinched together, eyes narrowed slightly, but then he relaxes. His shoulders droop, the lines on his face smooth out, and he just sighs and leans in to kiss her forehead. ''Okay,'' he says to her. ''Then I'm with you.'' He smiles at her. It's a genuine smile, but he looks...

He looks scared. Scared but proud.

''You want to take on the world,'' he says, ''I'll be right by your side. I mean that.'' He clasps her hand in his, bringing it up to hold against his chest, right above his heart. ''I'm on your team, Laurel. I'm always on your team. Just... Please don't try to do these things alone, okay? Let me in. Let me help.''

She licks her lips. She thinks she can give him that. ''Deal,'' she smiles. ''It does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it?'' She asks. ''You and me against the world?''

He lets out a chuckle that sounds more tired than anything else. ''A force to be reckoned with, I'm sure.''

She studies his face carefully for a moment, trying to make sure that they really are okay. Maybe they just need to get some sleep. It's been a long, stressful night. ''All right.'' She leans in to kiss his cheek softly and then steps back. ''I'm going to the bathroom because your daughter is doing a tiny fetus rendition of Puttin' On the Ritz on my bladder and then I'm going to eat that grilled cheese.'' She tries for a laugh as she starts on her way to the bathroom. ''I hope you're ready to hear me complain about my heartburn all night.''

''Laur,'' he calls after her, and something about the tone of his voice makes her stop in her tracks in the doorway. ''What are you going to do when they pull that hood back and Oliver Queen's the one staring back?''

She doesn't turn around immediately. She's not proud of it, but she has to admit her heart plummets at the thought. ''It's not Oliver.''

''How can you be so sure?''

She inhales sharply. She turns around. She thinks of the only answer she can give him. It won't be enough, but it's the truth. ''...Because I don't want it to be him.''

''We don't always get what we want,'' he warns.

Yes. She has spent her entire life learning that lesson.

''Oliver Queen is not the man under the hood,'' she says firmly, so firmly it's like she's trying to make it true just by being adamant enough. ''This guy - as unstable as he may be - is actually capable of caring about the lives of other people.'' Her expression darkens. ''I learned a long time ago that Oliver never thinks about anyone but himself. It's not him. Trust me. He doesn't have it in him.''

''Well, I hope you're right,'' Dean says. ''Because whoever this guy is...'' He pauses, and then clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. ''He sure does like you.''

.

.

.

November, 2016

Laurel awakens with the sound of screaming in her head.

She opens her eyes to darkness and, for a split second, thinks she is right back where she started from; in that grave, that blue sleeveless dress, those black pumps, the clothes they put her in, the hole they dug for her.

Then her vision clears and she recognizes, with a thundering sense of relief, the familiar four walls of her and Dean's bedroom. She closes her eyes again. She floats there for a moment, not asleep but not quite all the way awake, feeling safe in the comforting space, and then she remembers -

The spell.

A gasp catches in her throat and her eyes snap open. With a strangled cry, she bolts upright, throws off the covers, and moves to leap out of bed.

''Whoa, whoa, Laurel.'' There are hands on her, familiar hands, gently forcing her to sit back down on the bed. ''Take it easy,'' the voice says. Dean, right there with her. ''Slow down, honey. There's no rush. You're okay.''

She grasps onto his hand and chooses to heed his warnings, giving herself a moment to catch her breath and breathe. ''The spell,'' she gets out. ''How - How - ''

''Hanna says it's all good.'' He looks at her with a cautious gaze. ''How do you feel?''

She looks at him blankly for a second and then realizes - oh. She feels...

She feels fine.

She feels good even. She looks down at herself. She doesn't know why she's expecting herself to look different but she's almost a little disappointed when she looks at herself and realizes she looks the same. She feels like she should be changed somehow. She sure doesn't feel the same. She feels relieved. That's the only way to put it. The feeling of physical relief is so enormous she almost starts crying right then and there.

She feels like herself again.

It is like a giant weight has been lifted off her. Her heavy bones don't feel so heavy anymore. The nausea, the dizziness, the exhaustion, the aches and pains, the feverish feeling, the raw tenderness of her wound - It feels like the pain is all evening out, draining away, away. There is still some mild discomfort leftover but it's easing with every passing second.

She looks at him and all that wild, bright hope in his eyes. ''I feel better,'' she tells him. She has been waiting so long to tell him that. ''I feel okay. I'm awake now.'' She doesn't know what she means by that. She decides to smile at him, big, bright, and beaming because she wants him to smile back.

I'm home now, she considers telling him. I've come home.

''You - '' He breaks off as if he can't dare to go on. A breath seems to catch in his throat and then his expression and body language shift, and he smiles back.

It's like seeing him for the first time again.

He has been so distracted ever since she came back. He's been tense and worried and on edge, weighed down by fear and exhaustion. Paralyzed by the looming unknown. He doesn't sleep well most nights. He has nightmares and tries to pretend he doesn't. He lied to her about what was happening with the spell. What was happening to her own body. He has been trying so hard, too hard, to be okay, to take care of everything without letting anyone know what's wrong, but he's been off. He hasn't been himself. She hasn't been herself either.

When she tells him she feels better, it's like he comes back to life too. Even if it's just for this moment. Even if the spell is a temporary band aid. Even if there is still some crazy witch out there haunting their lives. It's a good minute they have here now. Sometimes you just have to take those as they come.

He says her name tenderly and then he just wraps her up in this big bear hug and holds her tight. She hugs him back just as tightly and closes her eyes.

She knows she should be wary. Concerned about the consequences of the spell, the endless list of things that could go wrong. She's not. For this one moment, this one second where her head is clear and her breathing is easy, she would like everything to be okay. And so everything is.

It's a very short moment.

When she opens her eyes again, she looks at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity.

Her rotting, decaying, lipless, white-eyed reflection, eyes unseeing behind the mask that killed her, still smiling that bloody, ravenous smile.

Laurel does not startle this time. She thinks of Dinah Ellard walking into the water and blood calling to blood and the witch wearing Tommy's face and making threats and promises and declarations of war and greed.

I've been calling you, the witch said. You and I, the witch said. We have a connection, the witch said, with Tommy's smile, Tommy's voice. Can't you feel that? Come on. You can't tell me you haven't noticed. That little nagging tug inside? That bone deep ache? That's me, sweetheart.

Laurel stares back at the grotesque dead bird in the mirror with defiance. She thinks, with enough heat to light a fire, You can't have me.

Somewhere, the witch shudders.

She only looks away from the mirror when Dean pulls back from the hug. When she glances back, her reflection is normal. He brings a hand up to cup her cheek. ''Are you sure you're okay?''

''I am,'' she says honestly. ''I feel stronger now.''

Strong enough, one might even say, to fight back.

There's a knock on the door and then Hanna pokes her head inside with an uneasy smile. ''Hi,'' she greets. ''I don't mean to interrupt - ''

''It's okay,'' Laurel says. She lets Dean help her to her feet and is pleasantly surprised when she can stand on her own two feet without feeling lightheaded.

''I don't want to bother you,'' Hanna says politely, although she has zero qualms about stepping into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. ''But Oliver's awake, which means you are too.''

Oh.

Oh, that's right. Ollie. He's done this for her. He's the one left holding the rope. He's the one standing between her and another painful death. She'd almost forgotten about him. Laurel looks down at the floor. How unexpected.

How utterly unexpected and yet somehow completely unsurprising all at the same time.

She lifts her eyes. ''Is he okay?''

''Oh, he's fine.'' Hanna waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. ''The initial draining might leave him tired for today - just because you need more of a recharge than usual right now - but he'll be fine after a good night's sleep. He'll probably sleep better than he has in years.'' She clasps her hands together and drifts around the room, studying it with an overly critical eye. She hums in almost snobbish distaste at one of the pieces of artwork hanging on the wall.

It's still hard to tell Hanna from Heather with this girl. The truth from the lie. She's not the meek, mousey girl she pretended to be, but Laurel is not all that convinced she's this hardass, uppity temporary coven leader either. She thinks this might be a show too. An attempt to act the part. She has a feeling the real Hanna Moretti is most likely an in between. She thinks, more than anything, that this kid is scared. That, she can understand. That, she can deal with.

''He really is fine,'' Hanna says, when she catches sight of the look on Laurel's eyes, mistaking the look in her eyes for concern. ''You both are. The spell's locked in tight now. See?'' She nods to Laurel's arm, the one that had been, at one time, bleeding.

Laurel looks down at her arm, expecting to see a bandage or maybe some smears of dried blood. There's nothing. There's no cut, no bandage, no scar, no weird lump indicating the coin is there underneath her skin. The only sign that something has happened, the only thing that remains is a tattoo. The thick vine snakes down her arm, coils around her wrist and goes all the way down her hand and to the tips of her fingers. It curves upward as well, disappearing up the sleeve of her t-shirt. It's an intricate design; a spiraling winding vine full of thorns and little buds; flowers that haven't bloomed yet. If she looks at it closely for long enough, the vine almost looks like it's moving, swaying in imaginary wind.

''Hmm.'' She raises an eyebrow. ''Don't remember signing up for any tacky tattoos.''

Hanna chuckles, unruffled. ''It's not a tattoo,'' she says. ''It's a mark. Every spell leaves one. This is just more noticeable than others. It will dissipate once the spell is broken.''

Laurel turns her arm over to inspect the vine wrapped around her arm, nestled into her skin like it belongs there. Not exactly a tattoo she would have chosen for herself. She makes a fist, watching as the ones extending to her fingertips move fluidly with her. ''Hmm,'' she says again. Guess it's a small cosmetic price to pay.

''How are you feeling?''

Laurel looks away from the vine and back at Hanna. ''Better than I have in months,'' she says. Truthfully, she feels better than she did even before April. She knows most of her fatigue and nausea from her final weeks can be blamed on the pregnancy but she hasn't felt this energized in so, so long. She feels electrified.

Hanna smiles. ''I'm happy to hear that. Anyway, um,'' she clears her throat. ''I just wanted to bring you this.'' She holds up a chain. It's the Saint Christopher medallion she swiped from Mattie. There is not a trace of the tar-like sludge on it. ''This is your link,'' she explains. ''Or the tangible manifestation of it anyway.'' She steps closer to place it around Laurel's neck. ''If you ever need to break the spell for whatever reason, you need to break this. You'll need to destroy it. Burn it. Smash it. Whatever. Hopefully you won't need to do that, but the panic button is here if you need to press it.''

Laurel touches a hand to the medallion. It feels warm. She can't tell if that's because it's been in Hanna's hand or because it's essentially acting as a magical battery. ''Thank you, Hanna,'' she says. ''Really.'' She reaches out to touch her arm, but stops short of pulling her in for a hug. ''Thank you.''

Hanna looks uncomfortable with the gratitude. ''It was nothing.'' She straightens up promptly, plastering on a serious look. ''Now we can get to work.''

Dean raises his eyebrows at the order. ''Work?''

''You get my mom back,'' she says solemnly. ''I get to work on the resurrection seal. That's the deal, right?''

''That's the deal,'' he confirms.

''We will bring her home,'' Laurel says, a promise she knows is unwise but can't help making.

''You know,'' he begins, sounding a little too casual. ''I'm happy Laurel's feeling better - believe me,'' he turns to look at her, ''you have no idea how thrilled I am. But here's the thing, Practical Magic.'' He looks pointedly at Hanna. ''I can't help but think about the last spell you and your, uh, coven cast on my wife. This spell - It's stable? It won't break down like the other?''

She looks miffed at the dig, but she can't really argue with his points. ''No,'' she says. ''This is a strong, healthy spell. It's doing exactly what it's meant to do and it's going to continue doing what it's meant to do - holding both you and the other spell up - until either you or I break it and not a second before.'' She goes for a smile. It looks real enough. ''You're safe for now.'' She looks in between them both for a second, eyes lingering on Dean. ''Oliver Queen did that,'' she reminds them, looking far too satisfied when Dean bristles. ''I'd thank him for that if I were you. Although I suppose there's no rush.'' She turns to leave. ''After all,'' she says over her shoulder, right before she steps out of the room and closes the door behind her. ''You're bound together forever now.''

Well, okay then. Someone certainly doesn't appreciate having her power questioned. Yikes. Good to know that despite the witch thing and the unconventional life she lives, she is still a petty teenager at heart. It may be the most normal thing about her.

Laurel looks over at Dean, pushing back a sigh.

The issue here is not that Oliver has essentially sacrificed himself to save her. It's not the energy transfer itself. It's the connection. It's the fact that, even after the spell is broken, some of that connection will remain for the rest of their lives. That is the issue.

Oliver has always been a complication for them. Even before he came back. Her unhealthy relationship with him and the damage it did is such a huge part of her insecurities that it has seeped into every aspect of her life, including her marriage. Not to mention ever since he came back, he has been a huge source of grief, anger, hurt, and frustration. Now, no matter what happens, no matter where they go, where they end up, she will always have to carry a piece of him with her.

Years ago, when Oliver first came back, she promised Dean that her ex was not going to be a problem in their marriage and yet here they are, years later, with Ollie's ghost literally tattooed on her body.

She clears her throat. ''Dean - ''

''It's okay,'' he assures her right away. ''It doesn't matter. I don't care.'' He grabs her wrist gently, thumb over her pulse point, over the vines wrapped around her wrist, and tugs her over to him. ''As long as you're okay,'' he says. ''That's all that matters.'' He leans down to capture her lips in his, pulling her closer.

She kisses back, of course, winding an arm around his neck, pressing her body into his where it fits, where it has always fit, but it is not hard to notice that this kiss feels different. Tentative, in a way.

He rests his forehead on hers when he pulls away, breathes out, and then he looks down at her hands. He takes both of her hands in his and looks down at the markings. ''As long as you're okay,'' he says again, as he looks intently at the vines crawling down her arm, worming their way under her wedding rings, connecting her to Oliver Queen, now and forever.

.

.

.

end part nine

---

AN: Soul Eaters were mentioned in episode 11x16 of SPN. It was the first time the Winchester brothers had ever come across one, but because HTLGI only goes up to S7 of SPN (with a few things thrown in from later seasons) they never battled that Soul Eater so this is the first time they (and everyone else) are learning about them. They have also never met Rowena. I just thought I'd name drop her because I love her.

The second flashback in this chapter takes place in the direct aftermath of episode 1x04 of Arrow.

Chapter title from ''Her Bliss Dwells on the Moon'' by Sirkka Selja.