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.

11. Stranger Things

AN: Additional warnings for: Body horror, mild to moderate gore, hallucinations. Spoilery warnings at the end of the chapter.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Eleven

Stranger Things

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December, 2010

There is a specific kind of hush that goes hand in hand with winter snowfalls. It's like this all encompassing quiet that blankets everything, muffling the 24/7 hustle and bustle of city life. Snow is not a regular occurrence in Starling City so the quiet of snow is not something residents get to experience often, but it's the first thing Laurel notices when she wakes up in the middle of the night. It's unmistakable. It's cold in her bedroom, colder than it was when she went to sleep, and there has been a strange but noticeable shift in the atmosphere. Everything is still.

She moves to scoot closer to Dean because she's starting to shiver in the cold and he's like a human furnace, but the space beside her is empty. She forces her sleep-encrusted eyes open and lifts her head slightly to look over at the spot now reserved for him.

Empty.

No Dean, no body to give her warmth, no comforting sound of his breathing to lull her back to sleep, but there's the window and there's the snow. She releases a heavy sigh and sinks back into her soft pillow, pulling the comforter up to her chin.

Waking up alone is not an uncommon experience for her. She does technically have a live in boyfriend now but she has a live in boyfriend who is extremely aware of how strangely their relationship began and how it must look to people on the outside looking in. It took two months for him to move from the couch to her bedroom and even then he still spends a few nights a month on the couch just to ''give her some space.'' In addition, he has some wicked nightmares and he still struggles with hypervigilance. It's normal to find him furiously cleaning random areas in the middle of the night or zoning out in front of infomercials with shaking hands.

Laurel rolls onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. Maybe she should go check on him. If he would rather sleep on the couch tonight, that's fine, but she'd like to be sure he's not out there drinking himself into oblivion and then drunkenly trying to clean his loaded guns. Not that she honestly thinks that's something he would do. That sounds more like something her father would do. She just needs to be sure.

He's probably fine. He's probably just on the couch because he's having one of those ''I don't want anyone to think I'm taking advantage of you'' nights. (And when he says ''anyone'' he mostly means her father.) Or maybe he's had a nightmare and he can't shake it. His nightmares, she has to admit, are frequent. And brutal. Sometimes he can leave them behind. Sometimes he can't.

...Yeah, she should check on him.

Reluctantly, dreading the inevitable onslaught of cold air, Laurel crawls out of the safety of her warm cocoon of blankets. She stuffs her socked feet into her coziest slippers, grabs her robe, and looks over at the window leading out to the fire escape. She trudges over to look out into the alleyway, illuminated only by the streetlight over by the mouth of the alley. There are big flakes of snow falling soundlessly to the ground. It's a momentarily mesmerizing sight. Strangely calming and peaceful. Surprising, too. She watches the news every night and the local meteorologist never mentioned anything about an overnight snowfall, although a cold front was supposed to move into the city. She doubts any of this snow will stay for long. It rarely does here. It will most likely be melting slush by morning.

Looking out into the winter wonderland, she has a sudden urge to bundle herself up in her warmest clothes and go for a walk in the snow.

Luckily, she manages to curb that ridiculous urge.

She ties her robe shut and groggily makes her way out of the bedroom, pausing in the hallway to turn up the heat. She shivers lightly, pulling her robe tighter and tying it at the waist as she ambles into the living room. The television is on, playing, as expected, some mindless infomercial, but it has been muted. Without the sound, it looks like a silent movie, the over the top movements and sales pitches playing out like a wacky slapstick comedy. A goofy joke without a punchline.

Dean isn't watching the television. He's not passed out on the couch or washing the windows or pacing. He's sitting at the desk, tumbler full of booze in his hand, eyes on the screen of the laptop open in front of him. For a split second, not even, his slouched posture, the whiskey, and the intense, determined look on his face almost reminds her of her father. She presses her lips together unhappily. She's going to need that thought to vacate the premises ASAP.

She tip toes over to him, making sure to at least make a little noise so she doesn't want to startle him. She can tell just by the look on his face that he's already having a rough night. He looks up, bleary eyed and burdened by ghosts she cannot see. The harsh light of the computer lights up the dark circles under his eyes; makes him look eerily pale.

''Hey,'' she greets him softly, barely managing to stifle a yawn as she drops into the chair on the other side of the desk.

He leans back, away from the screen. Even without the light of the screen, he still doesn't look that great. He looks less sickly and gaunt without the hollow light playing tricks, but he still looks troubled. Haunted. Sometimes she wonders if there was ever a time where he wasn't haunted by something – or someone. He mumbles out a low, unfeeling, ''Hey,'' and then finishes his drink.

When he immediately reaches for the nearly half-empty bottle, she chooses to ignore it. ''Aren't you cold?''

''Not really,'' he says. ''Did you turn the heat up?''

''Yes.'' She looks over his shoulder at the window. ''It's snowing. Did you notice?''

He looks mildly surprised for about two seconds, but mostly he just looks disinterested. He glances over his shoulder. ''Huh,'' he says, and that's that.

''What are you doing up?''

''Nothing. Go back to bed.'' He doesn't say it rudely and there's no real demand in his voice, but it's still clear that it is a dismissal.

She is not impressed. ''Are you watching porn or something?''

He makes a noise that might be a laugh. ''Or something.''

She watches him silently for a moment, eyeing him closely as he goes back to staring at the computer screen. ''Are you okay?''

''I'm fine.''

Lie.

He does that a lot. He lies. She's always falling for the liars.

''Don't you have work in the morning?''

''I'll be fine.'' He doesn't look at her as he tilts his glass to his lips to take a greedy swig of the alcohol. ''Couldn't sleep,'' he says nonchalantly, as if it's no big deal he's sitting out here drinking himself into a stupor. At two in the morning. All by himself.

She doesn't bother to poke and prod about work or getting to sleep. She settles back in her chair and tries to relax, watching his eyes, which are still on the screen, tired and glassy, but focused. She worries at her bottom lip. She doesn't want to be an annoying nag. She used to do that with Oliver. He'd never let her on his phone and rarely did he let her use his computer. It was one of their recurring arguments. He thought she was being clingy, insecure, and controlling. She thought he was hiding something. Looking back on it, it was most likely a bit of both. There were other women, no doubt about that, and he was a lying, cheating slimeball, but routinely demanding to search through your partner's phone isn't exactly healthy behavior either.

To be honest, she's still learning how to be in a healthy relationship. She's never had one before. Dean has proven to be a patient man. And he's learning too. The hope is they learn and grow together. The fear is they grow in two different directions. It's a work in progress. They're still getting the feel of things. This is still new.

Because it's so new, she thinks it's only natural that she'd slip every now and then. ''What's got your attention?'' She asks, rising to her feet to shuffle behind the desk.

He doesn't seem to mind her snooping, even going so far as to lean back and turn the laptop over to her calmly. He seems more interested in his drink at the moment anyway.

She's not sure what she's expecting him to be looking at here, but she has to do a double take when she sees that he's looking at... Obituaries? She looks at him, confused, but he doesn't look back. She reads through a few of the obituaries, trying to see if there's a name she recognizes, a reason for him to be looking at this. Then she checks the other tabs he has open. They're all news articles. Stories about unexplained accidents, sudden deaths, oddities, just things that don't seem quite right. It takes her a minute to get it.

Her biggest fear had been that this had something to do with other women. That he was cheating on her. Maybe that shouldn't have been her concern with him. She doesn't have a lot of experience with his world, but even she knows what she's looking at. ''You're looking for a case.''

''It's not a big deal,'' he says.

''It's not?'' She tries to keep her tone and her expression calm, but she can feel her heart slowly sinking into her stomach. She moves away from him, sitting back down in her chair. ''I thought you were done with that.''

He just shrugs.

She swallows hard. ''I'm not trying to... I'm not mad,'' she says. ''I'm just confused. Are you thinking about going back to hunting?''

''I don't know,'' he says, noncommittally. ''Maybe.''

''Oh.'' She is trying so hard to stay calm about this. She knows it's selfish, but she doesn't want him to go back to hunting. It's not even the danger that scares her, as bad as that sounds. Obviously, it's a concern, but her father is a cop. She has lived with that kind of fear for as long as she can remember. If Dean goes back to hunting, she'll lose him. She knows that for sure. He'll fade away, slowly at first, but then he'll just be gone. He'll use it as his excuse. He'll say he doesn't want to put her in danger. He will run as fast and as far as he can. He'll go out there and he'll get lost and they'll never be able to find their way back to each other. They will be worlds apart. That is such a selfish line of thinking, she knows, but she can't help it. They haven't been together for long, but the thought of losing him already scares her. ''Dean, I want to be supportive here, but I don't know what's happening.''

''Can I ask you a question?'' He shuts the laptop and drains his glass once more. ''How long do you think this is going to last? How long do you honestly think we can keep this up?''

''Keep what up?''

''This. This whole...'' He gestures at nothing. ''Whatever we've got going on here.''

She narrows her eyes at him. ''You mean our relationship?''

''I'm just... I'm just saying...'' He looks around the apartment, a strange sort of incredulity shining in his eyes. ''This isn't my life.''

She is currently trying to decide between panic and anger. That seems to be an ongoing theme in her life. ''I don't understand.'' Her voice sounds weak even to her own ears.

''I'm a hunter,'' he stresses. ''That's what I'm good at. That's all I'm good at.''

She sighs tiredly. ''That's not true.''

''I don't want to drag you down.''

She screws her face up in confusion. ''Who says you're dragging me down?''

He scoffs at that. ''Babe, come on.''

''No,'' she snaps. ''Don't ''babe, come on'' me. What's going on? Where is this coming from? Did my dad say something to you?''

''Not lately.''

''Then what?'' She is aware she's beginning to sound desperate, but - well, she is desperate. This is not how she saw her night going. Not after how smooth things have been going for these past few months. Sure, there was an adjustment period. They're still in it, honestly. Yes, they've had their difficulties. But they've been doing great lately. Less than six hours ago, they were coming home from a date. She remembers he was laughing. She was happy. He seemed happy. They were good.

She downplays their relationship a lot and she knows he does too. They say they're just having fun. They're a lot alike, they get along, and the sex is good so they're taking advantage of what they have now, but who knows if it will go anywhere. They enjoy each other's company. Forever is not on the table. They're not thinking about anything serious. It probably won't even last. But... She wants it to last. She wants it to be serious. She wants to consider putting forever on the table.

She has made a terrible mistake with him. Stupid, optimistic, idealistic, romantic Laurel Lance. She's gone and fallen in love with this wreck of a man. She's made a place for him. She doesn't do that for just anyone.

''I don't understand,'' she tells him again. ''We - We were fine. Things have been so good with us lately. We've been...'' They're starting to fit, is what she wants to say. She wants to, but she doesn't. It has been four and a half months. If she tells him she thinks she might want to be with him forever, she will scare him off. She's scaring herself. None of this was supposed to happen. He was not supposed to happen. ''We were solid,'' she finally decides on. ''What changed?''

He either can't answer that or he doesn't want to. He looks away from her instead.

''Honey.'' She wants so badly to lean across the desk and take his hands, but she's not sure that's a good idea right now. ''I want to help you, but I don't know how. Please tell me how.''

''I didn't ask for your help,'' he fires back, harshly. ''You can't help,'' he adds, gentler, but unnervingly hopeless.

''I can try.'' It's her automatic response. She has to say it.

It doesn't seem to help. He slumps down in his chair, rubbing at his jaw. He looks frustrated that she's not listening to him and mad that he's even feeling this way. He looks listless, guilty, and miserable, all of it stuck on repeat. This whole thing is a deadly loop he can't seem to get out of. ''I don't think I can do this,'' he says.

The saddest part is that he might be right.

''This meaning us,'' she practically whispers.

''Meaning everything,'' he corrects. He pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. ''I don't do...this. I don't stay in one place for this long. I don't pull other people into my crap.'' He snatches his empty glass from the table, but doesn't fill it, choosing instead to clutch it close like some unhealthy security blanket. ''I was supposed to be here for two weeks,'' he says. ''Two weeks, Laurel. Now it's nearly Christmas and I have a job and we live together and go to holiday parties together and I don't know if I'm cut out for that.''

Laurel pushes a hand through her hair and swallows another sigh. She's trying to be sympathetic here, but something about that gets to her. If he doesn't want to go to holiday parties with her, he doesn't have to go. Frankly, she would rather not go to holiday parties either. She's not a fan of Christmas. Hasn't been for years. Christmas is about family. Christmas is Sara's birthday. It's just a cruel reminder of what she's lost now. Dean is not the only one who has lost someone. He's not the only one who isn't feeling the holiday spirit. ''Okay, so, what?'' She asks. ''You're afraid of commitment?''

''No,'' he denies. ''That's not... Look.'' He slams the glass back down on the desk so loudly it makes her jump. ''You want apple pie. You want the house and the wedding rings and the kids and the picket fence. I can't give that to you.''

''I have never once said that's what I want.''

''Isn't it?''

She's not sure what she can say to make him believe her. She's not even sure she would believe herself if she said that's not what she wants. Truth be told, she hasn't thought about what she wants in a long time. She's thought about her old life plans, the ones she made back when she was Oliver Queen's naive girlfriend, and yes, it did involve wedding rings and a kid, maybe two if the first was really well behaved, and maybe even a cat but she hasn't been that person for a long time.

''I don't want to string you along,'' he says. ''I don't want you to waste your time. You deserve better than that and you sure as hell deserve better than me.''

''Dean,'' she pleads. ''Stop it.''

''Think about it. What have I done for you? What have I given you?''

She gapes at him, open mouthed, completely aghast. ''Are you kidding me?'' She clenches her teeth. ''Stop it. Stop martyring yourself. Stop acting like this is about what I deserve. This isn't about me. This is about you. You want to know what I think?'' She props her hands up on her hips. ''I think you're starting to feel at home here and I think that scares you so you're going to turn tail and run.''

He stiffens up at that. ''Seems like you've got it all figured out then.''

''Tell me I'm wrong.'' He doesn't because he can't, but he slinks back, wounded. He retreats back to the bottle of Jack Daniels, pouring himself another couple fingers of the stuff. She notices, with growing concern, that while the hand that's pouring is steady, his other hand is trembling. He keeps clenching and unclenching it to get it under control, but the tremor persists. ''How much have you had to drink tonight?''

''Not nearly enough,'' he shoots back.

She watches him take a few slow sips. She realizes, quietly, that she doesn't know what to do. Should she make him stop? Would that help? Pour the rest of it down the drain? Would that make it worse? She doesn't know. She feels like she should know. Daughter of an alcoholic and all. Her father never gives her an option. He doesn't normally drink in front of her. He's just drunk. Maybe drinking in front of her is a cry for help? She honestly does not know. Is there a guidebook for this?

She approaches her next question with extreme caution and trepidation, wringing her hands. ''Is this about Sam?''

His response is immediate. ''I don't want to talk about Sam.''

''You can't just decide that you're going to throw everything away and up and leave in the middle of the night, out of fucking nowhere.''

''I can leave anytime I want,'' he fires back harshly. ''This is my life. I get to decide what I do with it.''

''You're right,'' she confirms, doing everything in her power to keep her voice even. ''This is your life. So what are you going to do with it?''

He can't seem to answer that question, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

After a moment, she hesitantly, very softly, asks, ''Do you want to leave?'' It's the most obvious question. It should have an easy answer.

He says nothing.

''Dean,'' she prods. ''Do you want to leave?''

He avoids her eyes and takes another gulp of his drink.

''If you want to leave, I'll - I'll let you go,'' she offers. ''I won't fight you on it. I won't make it harder. I don't want you to stay if this isn't what you want.'' She manages to catch his eye and refuses to let him look away. ''Do you want to leave?''

The look on his face pretty much gives her the answer to that question: No. He doesn't want to leave. It's not as much of a relief as it should be. He is silent for a long time before he answers, softly, ''I don't want you to end up like my mom.''

That's when it all clicks for her.

Today is December 9th. Mary Winchester's birthday was December 5th.

Damn it. She knew that too. It was in John Winchester's journal. She should have remembered. She should have marked it down somewhere like she did with Sam's birthday.

Sara's birthday is something that is seared into her memory. She remembers it before she remembers her own. It's a miserable day to get through, eclipsing the holiday season like a shadow, a ghost. He knows that. When the Christmas commercials started and the wrapping paper began filling the shelves at every department store, when Thanksgiving ended and people immediately started putting up their trees and lights, Dean made a point of asking her how she was. If she was okay. If she needed anything.

She couldn't even be bothered to remember his mother's birthday.

''I'm… I'm not your mom.'' That doesn't help. ''December 5th,'' she says. ''That's her birthday, right?''

He looks back at her, stunned. ''You remember that?''

Not in time to do anything about it. ''I remember everything you've told me about your family.''

Dean's shoulders slump. He closes his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes, he looks different somehow. Tired. Like all the fight has drained out of him. He sinks onto the couch. ''I don't want to leave.'' He says it like it's something he shouldn't be saying out loud.

She pinches her lips together to keep from saying anything. She sits down on the coffee table in front of the couch so she can look at him.

''I don't want you to get hurt either,'' he says. ''If I stay, you will get hurt.'' He sounds incredibly sure about that. ''It's not a question. I will get you killed. It doesn't matter if I'm active or retired. You'll suffer with me. Everyone does.''

She has to admit the level of surety he's displaying is unnerving. ''All right,'' she says slowly. ''What's telling you that? Logic or PTSD?''

He snorts out a humorless laugh. ''History.''

She hesitates before she says what she needs to say next. She's not sure if it's the right thing to bring up, but she feels like it's most definitely one of the things squirming around in his head. It always is. ''What happened to Sam was not your fault.''

He doesn't look surprised that she's brought that up. In fact, he even rolls his eyes.

''It wasn't,'' she insists. ''You were tools. Both of you. Your paths were chosen long before you were even born. All you did was live.''

''If I had made different choices - ''

''There were no choices,'' she says gently. She feels like a fraud talking about this with such finality. She doesn't know any of this for sure. She wasn't there. She didn't experience the apocalyptic cataclysm that destroyed his universe. That was before her. She had her own battleground to live through. Reading Carver Edlund's books, Winchester journals, listening to Dean and Bobby Singer's stories - None of that gives her proof of what she is saying. She's not even sure she has a right to say any of this.

But she says it. With conviction and everything. She understands the gist of what happened and she has front row seats to the aftermath. In the end, it was a story about love. She may not understand every aspect of what happened but that part... That part she gets. All stories are about love.

''It was always going to end badly,'' she says. ''I'm sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. You just played your part.''

''You weren't even there.'' It's a tired sigh. He rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands. ''You don't know any of that for sure.''

''I know what I've read,'' she says, because that's really all she's got here. ''I know what you've told me. Baby, your life...'' She sighs sadly. ''Even if you take out the apocalypse, your father still isolated you, brainwashed you, and forced you into the role of a parent at four years old.''

''My father did the best he could,'' he says, although he says it flatly, lacking any of the usual fiery defensiveness that usually crops up whenever John is mentioned.

She doesn't push the issue. ''My point is, you were always going to be - ''

''Doomed?''

''Hurt.'' She takes both of his hands in hers and meets his eyes. ''You didn't fail. You were failed.'' He gets the strangest look on his face when she says that. She can't tell if he wants to refute that claim or if he's just never thought about it before. He seems calmer now. There's no anger left. Or whatever that was. Mania, perhaps. Drunkenness. Exhaustion. Profound grief. She's not sure. One would think she would be able to relate to all of that. In the temporary quiet, she looks at him.

Dean Winchester is a lot like a dying star. He collapses and crumbles and sometimes it feels like he is a billion light years away from her. It's a sickness. This is Post Traumatic Stress. This is grief, depression, and shock. It's a heavy burden to carry all by yourself and he refuses to let anyone help him carry it. She can't save him. That will never be an option. He has to save himself. She would still like to help him. Whether it's a bad idea or not, an inevitable disaster or not, she loves him. She wants to be able to walk with him. If he will let her.

Carefully, she asks, ''Have you gotten any sleep tonight?''

''No.''

''You've just been sitting here drinking and stewing in your own thoughts?''

For some reason, he laughs at that. ''I tried reading.''

''Oh, how did that - ''

He points to something across the room.

She turns her head to follow his gaze. Lying on the ground next to a broken vase, a book is lying in between the television and the end table. ''I see.'' She blinks at the mess, curious. ''What book is that?''

''Pride and Prejudice.'' When she looks back at him, he points a finger at her and says, passionately, ''Everyone in that book is fuckin' unbearable.''

It's not a totally unfair assessment. She is a big Jane Austen fan and she unapologetically loves Pride and Prejudice, but he's not wrong. It's not exactly his cup of tea anyway. It's a peculiar choice for him. She's surprised he didn't just pull out his battered dog-eared copy of Slaughterhouse-Five or that Charles Bukowski book she's certain is tucked under the seat of the Impala. ''Maybe you should try some Lovecraft,'' she suggests. ''I know you like horror.''

He brushes that off. ''Read 'em all. Why do you think I have a thing about rats?''

Laurel, about as far from a horror fan as you can get, doesn't understand the reference.

''Tom Clancy?''

''No.''

''John Grisham?''

''Ugh. God no.''

''Robert Ludlum?''

''Why do you keep making suggestions like I'm a sixty five year old ex-cop retiring to the coast of Florida?''

''Ludlum wrote the Bourne Trilogy. You love the Bourne Trilogy.''

''Yeah, the movies.''

''What about Agatha Christie?''

He opens his mouth to shoot that down, but pauses, looking thoughtful. ''Well, I guess Agatha Christie.''

''Oooh, you know what?'' She snaps her fingers and points at him. ''You should try Neil Gaiman.'' She can't decide if he looks stunned or amused by her sudden excitement. ''I'm going to pick you up a copy of American Gods tomorrow,'' she says with a decisive nod. ''You'll love it. Maybe Good Omens too.''

He seems to settle on amusement, lips slowly pulling back into a smile. ''Okay,'' he says. ''You think you can also pick me up - ''

''Yes, I'll get you some Agatha Christie.''

''Great. And maybe some Ayn Rand?''

She stills, drawing back slightly. She looks at him dubiously, irked that she genuinely cannot tell if he is kidding or not.

He looks at her for a second, looking 100% serious, and then he laughs. ''I'm kidding,'' he admits. ''I just wanted to see your face.''

''Oh my god.'' She rolls her eyes, but can't stifle the laugh that escapes her lips. ''That's not funny. I was about to get up on my soapbox.''

''Fuck Ayn Rand,'' he says.

''Fuck Ayn Rand,'' she agrees wholeheartedly.

He starts laughing again and it's such a relief to see the lightness in his eyes that she can't help but laugh along with him. It's a temporary relief, she knows that. He's not feeling well and a single joke isn't going to fix that. But it's still nice to see that smile. ''I'm sorry to wake you up for this shit,'' he says after a minute, scrubbing a hand over his weary face. There is regret glimmering in his bloodshot eyes. He looks so tired. Between that and the alcohol she has no idea how he is even coherent right now.

She leans in close to him, both hands on his face, pressing her forehead to his. He instantly relaxes under her touch. ''You're just having a bad night, love.'' There is nothing else she can say. She doesn't want to intrude on his personal space too much right now because he's still vibrating with anxiety and hurt so she just gives him a soft, lingering kiss and then pulls away. ''Can I ask you a question?'' When he gestures for her to go on, she hesitates, and then asks, ''Have you given any thought to therapy?''

Dean gives her this cocky little smirk like he thinks that suggestion is a joke. ''What would that help? I can't exactly tell a therapist my life story. They'd lock me up and throw away the key. I'd have to lie.''

She bites her lip to keep from asking how that's different from what he's doing right now. He lies every day. To himself and everyone around him. He lies every time he says he's okay, he's fine, he doesn't need help, he's handling it on his own. Of course he's not okay. How can he be? This is too much for anyone to shoulder alone. ''You've been through a lot,'' she says. ''I'm just saying a therapist might be able to help you with that. Even if you have to fudge the truth a little.''

He looks down at his hands. ''You should go back to bed,'' is all he says. ''You have work in the morning.''

''So do you,'' she counters. ''And you work with heavy machinery so you need to get some rest.'' At least she's pretty sure he does. She is not entirely sure what his job entails. He works in construction right now. With a road crew, to be specific. They're doing some work over in Adams Heights.

It's a new job. He's only been there for just under two months. Up until tonight, she had been so sure it was helping him. He has friends now. Actual real life friends that have nothing to do with hunting and monsters. People he goes out for beers with, which has been great because, despite the grumpy old man shtick he tries too hard to project to the world, Dean really does enjoy people.

This is an unimportant thing to think about tonight. Except maybe it's not. Maybe that's what he needs right now. People who aren't her. ''What about a support group?''

He frowns in surprise. ''What?''

She nods, feeling prematurely excited and triumphant about her suggestion. ''Danny goes to these weekly meetings - ''

''Laurel.''

''It's a support group for people living with PTSD,'' she says, talking right over his protests. ''I think it's primarily veterans but I'm sure he said it was open to anyone. Even if it's not, you would still have a place there. You did fight in a war. Just not one you can openly talk about. You wouldn't have to there.'' She wants that to be the draw. ''You could just listen,'' she assures him. ''Maybe it could help you learn some coping skills. Breathing exercises or distraction techniques or mantras. Whatever works. Just something better than self-medication with bourbon.''

''It's whiskey.''

''I'm sure Danny would take you.''

He sighs. He doesn't sound aggravated exactly, but he's definitely not on board. ''I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it won't help.''

''How do you know if you've never tried?''

''I'm not a soldier, Laurel.'' Now he sounds aggravated. ''I didn't go through what they went through. It's not the same.''

''That doesn't mean you don't deserve help just as much as they do,'' she responds, voice soft. ''Do you think your mom and your brother would want you to be this miserable?''

He laughs. It's this sad, self-deprecating kind of chuckle. He drops his head into his hands, covering his face, but only for a moment. When he looks back up at her with those bloodshot eyes, he looks torn. He looks like that so often.

Dean is, as it turns out, a great boyfriend. He squeezes the toothpaste from the middle and never puts the cap back on and he doesn't put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and he never checks the mail and he has some bad habits - the drinking, mostly, and he rarely wears a seatbelt, which is infuriating - but he is patient and kind. He's loving, funny, supportive, and you know what? He's great in bed. She just has to put that out there. He is fantastic in bed. Like, greatest sex of her life level of fantastic. And he is hot as hell. And he cooks!

He's charming and intelligent - far more intelligent than people give him credit for - and he gets along with her friends. They're still working on chipping away her father's icy exterior when it comes to Dean, but Tommy and Joanna both love him and he and Danny are thick as thieves.

He ticks almost all of the boxes. At least she thinks he does. She'll admit she's not all that well versed in healthy relationships. He's really only the second actual relationship she's ever had. All she knows is that he fits. He fits here with her. They could have something. She's sure of it. But...

Dean is in pain. That has been made clear time and time again. He is in a lot of pain. He's coming off possibly the worst year of his life, he's lost his brother, and she is not be equipped to help him with this level of pain. She has never been through what he has been through. Her struggles seem to pale in comparison to what he's lived through. She wonders, on nights like these, if being in a relationship is even the healthiest thing for him right now. He shouldn't be alone, but trying to navigate someone else's heart must be an incredibly difficult thing to do when you're struggling just to keep breathing.

People have warned her about this. Even the ones who like him don't think it's such a good idea for her to be falling so hard so quick for someone with as much baggage as he has. Danny has repeatedly warned her that if she wants her relationship to work then Dean needs to be in treatment for his PTSD. And Danny would know.

The dissolution of his first marriage may not have been his fault but it's common knowledge that he was the reason Isobel left him. Their engagement couldn't survive the aftermath of his last tour in Iraq. He seems to be doing okay now. He's rocking the single dad thing, he and his son, Nate, both seem happy, and content with their lives, but Laurel knows that Isobel will always be the one that got away. They were together for years. She was the only mother Nate ever knew.

Danny's warnings have given her pause before. It's scary to think about getting in too deep with this relationship, falling hard, and then losing Dean to his own mind. It's a lot to deal with. But this is what she does. She falls. She jumps.

Dean makes a tired noise and collapses back against the couch, rubbing at his face, nearly pulling his hair out. ''I just want to get some sleep.''

It sounds so much like a plea that it breaks her heart. ''I know,'' she says, reaching out to rub his knee. ''I'm so sorry you're going through this.''

''I shouldn't have dragged you into this tonight,'' he says.

''Sweetheart, stop,'' she says. ''You didn't drag me anywhere. You have to stop saying that. I'm not being dragged anywhere. I am choosing to walk with you.''

He looks at her with this small, fleeting, disbelieving frown as if he doesn't understand why anyone would choose him. Maybe more accurately, why anyone would choose him now when he is so low he can't seem to get off the ground. ''Why?''

''Well.'' She's not sure what else she can do other than shrug. ''I love you.'' It sounds so simple. It's not.

He looks at her with an unreadable expression on his face. There is a part of her, perhaps a selfish part, that wants to believe it's about luck. Like he can't believe how lucky he is to have found her. Almost as lucky as she is to have found him. In all reality, he is most likely just tired and in pain and the look on his face is just that semi glazed over look people get when all they can feel is the hurt and not even love can break through. She wants to say something more. She wants to tell him something that will fix this. Take it all away. At least alleviate the pain. Nothing comes to her.

As usual, whenever she is lost, she goes to her grandmother.

''There is life after suffering,'' she says to him, ''and there's more to it than just survival.'' She hopes that means something to him. She hopes he needs this the way she did when Grandma said it to her. ''My grandmother told me that after my sister died,'' she says. ''I was a mess. I just...stopped. Completely stopped. I wasn't taking care of myself. I pushed people away. All I did was study, work, and occasionally get blackout drunk. I was miserable. And I was alone.'' She looks at him, meeting his eyes. ''I don't want you to be alone. I want to help you find your way. But I...'' She pauses, feeling regretful even though she has no reason to. ''I can't do the work for you,'' she says. ''Maybe therapy isn't the answer. Maybe a support group isn't your thing. But something has to give here, Dean. You can't keep living this way. You're hurting. You're... You've been wounded.''

''Wounded,'' he echoes. ''Wounds can be fixed. I don't...'' He moves his hands, gesturing around helplessly, emptily. ''I don't know how to fix this.''

''Maybe it's not about fixing. That will come, but maybe right now just has to be about managing the pain.''

He looks at her, first her face, maintaining eye contact effortlessly, and then he looks down at her hands. She wrings her hands when she's nervous. Twists her fingers. Wears rings she can fiddle with and spin. He knows that and he knows, now, looking at her red fingers, that he's made her nervous. She didn't want him to know that.

He lets out another sigh and closes his eyes. He pulls himself back, as far away from her as he can. ''I still think your life would be easier if I wasn't around.''

It's her turn to laugh this time. ''My life wasn't exactly easy before you came along. You know that.'' She makes an attempt at a smile. ''I hate to steal your thunder but you're not the only disaster in this relationship.'' She chuckles lowly. ''Aren't we a pair?''

''Peas in a pod,'' he says. He smiles but he's still looking at her like she is somehow better than him and he is nothing more than a homeless bum who stumbled into her home and took advantage of her kindness. Which may or may not be exactly how her father has described him. Numerous times.

She wants to find some way to help him. To at least make it clear to him that they're on the same level. They're even. She breathes out slowly and then she stands, just long enough to push the coffee table back, and then she sinks down onto her knees in front of him. She wants him to know, unequivocally, that she trusts him. She still doesn't know if that's a wise thing to do, but she trusts him. She doesn't think he understands that.

''Dean.'' She takes his hands in hers, squeezing gently. ''I want you to be happy.'' She smiles softly. ''That's all I want. Whether that's with me or someone else or even by yourself, it doesn't matter. I just want you to be happy. I know there's nothing I can say that will make your pain go away, but I want you to know that you deserve that.'' She rubs her thumb over his hand. ''You are not at war anymore, baby. You survived. You made it. And you deserve to feel joy and to laugh and smile. To love and be loved. I promise you, you do. I know it's scary to think about happiness when it seems so far out of reach but you deserve a whole life. Not just pieces of one.''

Dean is not looking at her. His eyes are focused on her hands holding his. Her thumb rubbing circles on his skin. He doesn't say anything, but when he does eventually lift his eyes back to her, she catches sight of something. Not healing, but a twinge, a spark. Hopefully enough to get him through the night. He releases a breath. ''I guess...'' He clears his throat. ''I guess I could give Danny a call in the morning.''

The relief is instantaneous. ''I think that's a great idea,'' she encourages. ''One step at a time, right?'' She lifts his hand up and tenderly kisses the back of it. She swears she sees him blush for a second there. She gives him a minute to gather himself together, rising to her feet and busying herself fixing her robe, untying it and tying it again. ''Now come on,'' she says. ''Let's go back to bed.'' She holds her hand out, waiting for him to take it. ''You don't have to sleep. We can just talk. I can read to you,'' she suggests brightly. ''Have you ever read A Christmas Carol?''

''Laur, I'm not five.''

''You think five year olds are lining up to read Dickens?''

''I don't need you to read to me.''

''But it's relaxing.''

He doesn't look sold on the idea. ''It is?''

''Sure,'' she nods. ''I think it's comforting to have someone read to me.''

He looks at her for a minute and then he takes her outstretched hand, letting her tug him to his feet. ''How about I read to you then?''

She's not sure why but there's something so touching about that offer. ''I'd like that.''

''Not readin' you any Dickens, though,'' he says. ''That old fart is about as interesting as an old boot.''

She has to swallow a sudden burst of surprised laughter. ''His books are iconic pieces of literature.''

He scoffs. ''Iconically boring.''

She feels like she can see where this is going. ''I'm okay with no Dickens but - ''

''Great!'' A wide - albeit tired and not fully convincing - grin spreads across his lips. ''The Shining or Pet Sematary?''

She groans loudly. ''Dean, you know I can't handle scary things. I'm a wuss. I jump when the doorbell rings.''

''You don't even have a doorbell.''

She huffs and crosses her arms, furrowing her brows thoughtfully. ''What about The Tell-Tale Heart? That's a horror.''

''Boring,'' he waves it off. ''Come into this century, sweetheart. What about The Silence of the Lambs? That's not even that scary.''

''He wore people's faces.''

''He wore one person's face.''

''Dean!''

''All right, what about The Haunting of Hill House? It's a classic, right?''

She pauses, wringing her hands. ''I've never read that one.''

''You've never...'' He frowns at her. ''Hill House? Famous book about a haunted house? Cup of stars? 'Whose hand was I holding?' Am I ringing any bells here?''

She shrugs helplessly.

''I think you own the book,'' he says. When he gets nothing in response, he throws her a stunned look. ''You've seriously never read it? I would've thought Shirley Jackson would be right up your alley.''

''Scaredy cat, remember?''

''Oh, you'll be fine. It's a tame book. And I'll be right there with you. Deal?''

She sighs. She doesn't understand why Dean likes the horror genre so much. One would think he would want to use fiction to escape that stuff, but no. It seems to give him some kind of pleasant adrenaline boost. Even right now, it seems to have lifted his spirits. ''Fine,'' she agrees. ''Read me your horror stories. But,'' she leans in close to him, drawing himself up onto her tiptoes so she's inches away from his lips. ''You better be ready to be my human teddy bear for the rest of the night, Winchester.''

He smiles, lopsided and tired. ''I'm always ready to be your teddy bear, Lance,'' he promises, leaning down to kiss her lips softly.

.

.

.

November, 2016

Laurel turns the shower on and watches the water cascade down into the tub, pooling and swirling into the drain.

She tries to tell herself, as her anxiety grows, It's just water. She hasn't taken many showers since coming home. She's only managed a few over the past week or two. She's been mostly sticking with baths. She still can't stand the spray of the water. It reminds her too much of the dirt pouring into her mouth and her eyes and her nose, choking her.

She steps back from the running water to let it warm up. She takes off her wedding rings and reluctantly removes the Saint Christopher medallion from around her neck. She looks down at her hands.

There is nothing wrong with her hands.

There hasn't been for hours. The wounds faded before they could even wash the blood away. By the time her father was searching for the first aid kit and Dean was hauling her into the bathroom to get her hands under the running water, she was healed. There was nothing left but dirt and blood.

Dean took the whole thing pretty well. He was calm. Just helped her wash the blood off and quietly listened to her tell him about the hallucination. Even when he called Cas, he stayed calm as he was explaining the situation. She is sure part of that was an act, but he stayed cool as a cucumber for her and Mary, the way he always does.

Mary kept asking how Mommy hurt herself but seemed otherwise okay.

Her father did not take it as well. He's never been one to hide his true feelings. His emotions are naked and raw. He is unafraid of vulnerability, far too comfortable with anger, and he doesn't hide anything. She has always been able to read him like a book because she's a lot like him. When she looks into his eyes now, all she can see is his fear. He tried to hide it, tried to smile for her and stay calm as she explained to him that the witch who did this had connected them with a blood spell and that her injuries were most likely her doing. He tried his best to be reassuring, to tell her that they were going to find the witch and that everything was going to be okay, and she loves him for that, but he was terrified. He spent the whole night watching her like a hawk. He barely even touched his dinner. She scared him.

She lets her hands fall to her sides. She has tried so hard to keep him away from all this crap. The man is an alcoholic with a weak heart. She hates that she keeps adding more stress to his life. It's not good for him.

She closes her eyes.

This witch is screwing with them; bending reality, sending hallucinations and illusions with the hope of destruction. She wants to break Laurel down. Wants her to splinter apart until there's nothing left. This is manipulation. What she is aiming for is fear. Laurel hates that she has so much of that to give.

She also hates that this witch…kind of has a point.

Laurel is different now. She is not being self-pitying when she says that. This is not self-recrimination or wallowing. She died. She was dead. As much as she wants to be here with her family, she is not the woman they laid to rest. She can pretend as much as she wants, but it's the truth. She still loves with her whole heart, but there are parts missing now. She has become something distant and chipped. Something separate. Possibly something dangerous. She left a part of herself in that grave. She left a part of herself in that hospital bed.

The witch knows that.

They are connected by blood. She haunts Laurel's mind like a poltergeist. She's toured the damage. It makes sense for her to use that. It makes sense for her to find the cracks and the vulnerabilities and make herself at home in the empty spaces. She wants to make sure her target is unmade, and Laurel is simply not sure she is going to be able to stop her. She's not sure there's enough of her left.

She opens her eyes. She lifts her head to look up at her reflection and then promptly has to do a double take. There is nothing wrong with her reflection. It's just her. But she could've sworn... For just a second...

She touches her face. No blood. No rot. There is nothing wrong with her reflection. Nothing at all. Just like there is nothing wrong with her hands. But the feeling of overwhelming wrongness persists. She looks away from the mirror and down at her left arm and the sprawling vines tattooed on her skin, marking the linking spell between her and Oliver. She rubs at the part of the tattoo that creeps down her left hand to her fingers and looks up at her reflection one more time. There is nothing wrong with her reflection.

With a shake of her head, she paces back over to the shower and tentatively sticks her hand in to check the temperature. She should just draw a bath. Tonight isn't the right time for this test. Defiantly, stubbornly, she unties her robe and shrugs out of it, draping it over the nearby towel rack. She steps onto the bathmat, takes in a breath, and climbs into the shower.

The second she feels the warm spray, her heart rate accelerates and her breathing speeds up. Well, she thinks she can probably mark this down as the dumbest thing she's done today. Really should've just had a bath. She tries to keep her eyes open because it's worse when she closes her eyes. Her face is the hardest part. She can wash her face in the sink. Get Dean to help her wash her hair later, just like he's been doing ever since she got back. She'll just focus on her body right now. That should be fine. She's trembling and her heart is beating so fast she's worried it's going to burst and there are tears of panic gathering in her eyes, but -

No, it's fine. She can do this. This is ridiculous. It's just a shower. It's water. It's not dirt. She turns her back to the spray and tries to breathe through the shudders. At least this is a good distraction from the fact that there is a witch in her head trying to drive her into insanity. She manages to get through lathering up her body with the aromatherapy body wash that Thea bought her because it's supposed to be ''relaxing.'' When she's soaping up, she can stand out of the spray and take her time. But when she has to rinse the soap off, there is no avoiding it. The water sprays down on her and all she can think about is the dirt pouring into that casket. She squeezes her eyes shut when she turns to face the spray and tries to think of anything else.

She tries to think of practical things. Like finances. What are they going to do about money? She seriously needs to get a job and take some of the weight off Dean's shoulders when it comes to money.

Bravely, mind sufficiently occupied, Laurel decides to attempt washing her hair.

Maybe they should ask Thea for a loan. She's already doing a lot for them financially - paying for Mary's various appointments, paying rent (more than she needs to), and she's been buying most of the groceries over the past couple weeks - and Laurel doesn't want to ask too much of her, but they need money. They are barely scraping by as it is and Christmas is right around the corner. Also, Thea is absurdly wealthy. And she'd be happy to do it. She has offered them money about a hundred times now. Every time they get a new bill in the mail, she offers to pay it.

Laurel makes it through shampooing and conditioning her hair without having a panic attack, successfully distracting herself by fretting about finances. She keeps her eyes shut tight as she washes the conditioner out of her hair and focuses on breathing. She is contemplating shaving her legs, eyes still shut, when she notices that something doesn't feel quite right.

The heavy, metallic scent of blood is hanging thickly in the steam filled air around her.

Her eyes snap open.

Viscous dark red blood is spouting from the shower head and raining down on her. It's thick and sticky, coating her body and leaving her a bloody mess. She looks down and there is blood gurgling up from the drain, pipes rattling in the walls, clunking and moaning. But it's the hands that send shivers down her spine. They come up from the drain at first, emerging - impossibly - from the bubbling blood, reaching for her.

A strangled, frightened noise escapes her lips and she backs up against the wall, trying to get away, but there is no way out. Hands melt out of the wall, too many hands, from every direction, and they wrap around her naked body. It's horrifying and violating the way the hands grab at her ankles, her legs, her chest, her face, trying to pull her back. It's what snaps her out of her stupor.

Struggling against the hands, she does the only thing she can think of. She opens her mouth and screams.

Of course, as soon as she does, it's all gone.

There is no blood, no hands, and given that Dean hasn't broken the door down, she's willing to bet she hasn't screamed. The only tangible evidence that something has happened here is the terror driven nausea roiling in her stomach. The water has gone cold at some point and she realizes that she has no idea how long she's been standing here. She swallows and reaches a shaky hand out to turn off the water.

She takes in a few breaths, waiting until she feels steady enough to move before she pulls back the shower curtain. She grabs her towel and wraps it around her body, stepping out. She feels burned out, like an adrenaline crash. She dries off quickly and slips back into her robe, intent on getting the hell out of this bathroom as fast as humanly possible.

She can still feel the hands on her, on her stomach, her breasts, her thighs, covering her eyes. Real or not, she can still feel the shiver inducing violation. She scrambles to towel dry her hair, slips her wedding rings back on and the chain around her neck, and then hightails it to the door. She has her hand on the doorknob when she stops. She stands there for a minute, breathing in and out. Then she backtracks. She steps back over to the sink.

At first glance, there is nothing overtly wrong with the reflection in the mirror. Laurel looks into the mirror and Laurel looks back. However, the woman in the mirror is smiling. It's a measured smile, nothing manic or arrogant about it, but it is not Laurel's smile. There is nothing in her eyes. They are hollow and joyless, a blank slate.

Laurel stares, chest tightening.

Her reflection's smile widens. Her reflection's smile is too wide. Her reflection's eyes are too big.

She takes a tiny step back, watching in muted horror as the image of the woman in the mirror distorts unnaturally, smiling widening until it is something not human. The eyes are no longer eyes but gaping holes that are getting bigger and bigger and then -

''Okay,'' she hisses. ''Okay, stop it. Stop it, you've got my attention.''

The petrifying image melts and dissolves, replaced by the harmless reflection of her wet hair and pale face. Her reflection, which is not actually her reflection at all, smiles at her, perfectly pleasant. ''About time.''

Laurel points a warning finger at the witch in the mirror. ''You better stay back, Toil and Trouble.''

''Relax,'' is the clipped response. ''I can't hurt you from where I am.'' The voice, despite the reflection, is not hers. The voice is not anyone's. There is something extremely wrong with it. It's a garbled, gurgling, gravelly hiss. Maybe it's just some sort of magic meant to conceal the witch's real voice the same way she so stubbornly conceals her face. Either way, something about the voice sends shivers up and down Laurel's spine.

Something is telling her, stirring unpleasantly in her gut, that she knows this voice. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind and glares. ''I was having a perfectly fine day until you decided to ruin it,'' she snaps. ''What do you want?''

The woman in the mirror cocks her head to the side. It's an oddly sharp, somehow stilted movement. Bird like, almost. It's even more disconcerting to see her own body do it. ''I'm fairly certain I made myself clear last time.'' She says it like she's speaking through clenched teeth. There's something decidedly eerie about it. ''I don't like repeating myself, Laurel.''

''Tough shit, you creepy bitch,'' Laurel growls, automatic. ''I don't like being psychically stalked by some coward too scared to show me her real face.''

The witch only smirks. ''You certainly are a brave moron,'' she says sardonically. She shakes her head. ''You don't realize what you're doing. We need each other, you and I.''

''I need you like I need a hole in the - ''

''Lung?''

''Kick rocks, you low budget horror movie villain.'' Laurel grips the sink and leans in close. ''I have a life.''

The witch's response is calm and perfectly even. ''No. You don't.''

It burns more than it should. ''Go to hell.''

''Already there, sweetheart.''

Laurel gives her a slow, appraising look. ''Why me?'' She finally questions. ''You have an army. Find someone else to do your bidding.''

''No can do, Canary,'' is the flippant response. ''I need that pretty little song of yours.''

''Why?'' Laurel stands straight. ''What is it you need the Cry for?''

All she gets in response is a bloody smile. ''Things are only going to get worse,'' the witch says, casual but cutting. ''You think you have a life here. You think you have something to go back to. You don't.''

''You don't know what you're talking about.'' ''Your life ended in April,'' the witch tells her, no mercy, straight to the point. ''I'm sorry for that. You may not believe me, but I am sorry it had to happen that way.''

''What do you mean it had to happen - ''

''I don't enjoy seeing you suffer. Contrary to what you may believe. But what's done is done,'' says the witch, voice firm. ''It's over. There's nothing left for you here. Whatever came back, whatever you are now, you will only hurt the people you love. You will only ever drag them down. You and I both know that. Don't you think you owe them more than that? Don't you think you owe them peace?''

Laurel looks up, fire in her eyes, fully intending to tell the witch to shut up and get out, but she's gone. Her reflection is, once again, only her own. No tricks. There is only her and the steam left over from the shower and the dull ache in her chest where the words hit. She allows herself one minute to breathe.

Whatever came back, she had said. Whatever you are now.

Laurel looks down at her unbroken hands. She swallows the rising scream. Numbly, she puts the towel on the hook behind the door and opens the bathroom door. She's so caught off guard by the whoosh of cold air that she doesn't notice Dean until she hears his voice.

''Who were you talking to?''

She jumps and gasps, turning around.

He is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

''No one,'' she lies. ''Just myself.''

He doesn't believe her.

Still shaken, she ignores his obvious disbelief and turns her back on him, hurrying to the bedroom. She is searching for something warm to wear when she looks up catches her own eye in the mirror of her vanity. It's just her, no hallucinations, but she is struck by the extremely disquieting thought that mirrors are no longer safe. She searches around in the closet until she finds an old fleece blanket. She's just draping it over the mirror when Dean strolls into the room. He says nothing when he sees what she's doing, but she can feel his eyes on her. She doesn't explain. She gets the vanity covered and then moves back over to the closet to take down the full length mirror hanging on the back of the door, turning it around and stuffing it into the closet. She removes every compact mirror from her makeup and her purses and shoves them in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed and waits. It's only when she starts setting every picture frame face down that he says her name. ''Laur.''

She picks up another frame and flips it over. ''She's in my head.'' She takes the picture from his nightstand, the one of her and Mary gardening, and flips it down. She gets the feeling that he has figured that out already because he doesn't ask any other questions.

He stands up and wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her close. ''How are your hands?'' He takes her hands gently, studying her palms and then the backs of her hands. ''How do you feel?''

She weighs the pros and cons of lying before she finally admits, ''Like I shouldn't be here.''

He looks, suddenly, terrified. ''Laurel - ''

''Oh no.'' She shakes her head quickly. ''I don't mean like that. I mean... Here.'' She looks around her. ''In this house. With you and Mary and Thea. She's in my head, Dean,'' she repeats. ''Doesn't that mean... What if I'm not safe to be around? She is making people do these things. She could make me - ''

''She's not going to make you do anything,'' he says vehemently.

''You don't know that. You can't.'' She moves away from him to collapse on the bed tiredly, running a hand through her hair. ''You don't understand,'' she says miserably. ''I can feel her. Squirming. She's in my blood.''

He's typically pretty good at keeping his game face on, but even he looks troubled by that.

''It's like there was all this fog in my head because of the damaged spell,'' she tries to explain. ''It was hiding her. I was so sick that I didn't notice her. Or maybe I was trying to ignore her. But... She's always been there. Right from the beginning. Ever since I came back. And now that the fog's gone...there's her. There's just her. And I made her angry,'' she confesses. ''When I had that - that dream about her and we talked, I fought back. I sent back the soul eater with that message for her. I'm not as compliant as her Dolls. I'm not as weak as she wants me to be, I'm not going to just let her take me, and she's pissed. She's upped her game.'' She twists at her wedding rings. ''She's making me see things. Today, earlier…I saw – I thought I saw…a spider. Crawling across Thea's face. There was no spider, but I saw it. The other day, I opened the fridge and it was full of maggots. They were everywhere. Crawling around, spilling onto the floor. Because everything had rotted overnight.'' She looks up at him. ''Except it hadn't.''

He tries so hard not to react to that but she can see the worry gleaming in his eyes.

''And then today...'' She takes in a few breaths. ''The hallucinations are one thing. What if the next step is making me do whatever she wants? I know her plan failed, I know I still have my soul, but she's in my head. If she gets stronger...'' She trails off, feeling agitated and restless. ''Or what if - what if she kills me?'' She throws her arms out. ''What if she's fed up with trying to take me in alive and she's decided to cut her losses? Kill me and start over. Bring me back as the soulless monster she wants me to be. She could do it. She has her stolen powers. She has Marlene. She could make me what she wants me to be.''

She thinks of, This is only going to get worse.

She tries to pretend she's not shivering.

''I don't know what she's capable of,'' she says. ''None of us do. But I know I'm going to find out. Is it so bad to not want Mary around that?'' Truthfully, the thought of leaving has been in the back of her mind ever since she got back. She keeps shoving the thought away because she doesn't want to leave. She would rather gnaw her own arm off than have to leave her daughter. But... What if? What if she's only making this worse? What if she is putting them all in terrible danger? This witch is ruthless. She will not stop until she gets what she wants. No matter who is standing in her way.

Laurel is not supposed to be here. That has been made clear. She is not supposed to be alive. Maybe that annoying witch is right. Maybe there's nothing left to go back to.

''I think I'm a bomb, Dean,'' she says.

But Dean, stubborn and protective, loves her too much to get out of the blast zone. ''Then let's cut the wires,'' he says, jaw set in determination. ''We'll find a way to get her out of your head and we'll do that together.''

''And if we can't?''

''Not an option.''

She smiles lightly, but it's weak. Oh god, she's married to Captain America.

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against the dresser beside the door. ''Where would you go?''

''Does it matter?''

''Yes, it fucking matters,'' he snaps. ''We have a child.''

''Exactly.''

''She just got you back. She - '' He breaks off in a frustrated near growl, running a hand over his mouth. ''You're her mother and she just got you back and now you want to walk out on her?''

She flinches, wounded. ''I want to keep her safe,'' she stresses, rising to her feet. ''That's all that matters. That's the only thing that matters. I don't want to leave.''

''Then don't.''

''What am I supposed to do when she comes to get me? Because she is coming to get me. We both know that. It's only a matter of time. What then?''

The answer, for him, is easy. ''Then we fight.''

''Yeah? What are we going to do?'' She challenges. ''Are we going to put a gun in our kid's hand the way your father put a gun in yours?'' It's too far. She realizes that the second the words come out of her mouth.

''...That's not what I said,'' he says quietly, staring at her with a carefully blank look.

He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand. He couldn't possibly. This witch is in her head, in her veins, her blood; a constant humming, a pulsating power, and she is going to come for what's hers. Laurel, unfortunately, happens to fall under that category. Even Dean Winchester won't be able to stop her.

''Kansas,'' she says. ''I could go to Kansas. The Men of Letters bunker. It's secure, right? Not just secure but magically secure. That might slow her down. Maybe I could turn myself into ARGUS,'' she suggests. ''Or Central City. I could get Barry to put me in the pipeline.''

''Stop it, Laurel. You're not going in the fucking pipeline.''

''Why not? It was good enough for Dinah.''

''That was different.''

''Was it?'' Not from where she's sitting. Dinah was locked up because she was an immediate threat. How is Laurel not an immediate threat right now? ''I wouldn't be able to hurt anyone there.''

''You're not going to hurt anyone.''

''We know she does something to these people after she takes their souls,'' she says. ''What if she can do that to me just because she's in my head? I just want to protect you.''

''She's not going to brainwash you,'' he tries to reassure her. ''If she could do that from a distance, she would've done it already. You said it yourself: she's been in your head from the beginning. This - what you're doing right now - this is what she wants. She's trying to scare you into isolating yourself. Get you all alone so she and her creepy Dolls can take you. That's not happening. I don't care how much power she has,'' he announces boldly. ''You are the Black Canary. You're stronger than her. Don't hand her the win.''

She moves away from him to get dressed, shimmying into underwear and throwing on an old, stretched out, threadbare t-shirt and a pair of pajama shorts. ''I do love you for trying,'' she says, throwing him a tiny smile. ''And I know you're - you're probably right,'' she has to admit. ''I'm letting her get to me. It's just really hard to not let her get to me. Everything is so...'' She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't have the words to explain how she feels right now. How everything around her keeps crumbling. She keeps putting a smile on her face, keeps trying to act normal, and something always squashes it. Something always happens. It feels like this is a trauma there is no way out of. It keeps coming and coming. Every time she thinks she's reached the surface, something drags her back under.

She pulls her wet hair out of her shirt and grabs her hairbrush to hastily drag it through her hair a couple of times. ''You know those stupid After School Specials from when you were a kid?'' She asks, putting the brush back down on top of her dresser. ''Like, the try hard ones that were supposed to teach kids about serious subjects? Something traumatic would happen and everyone would learn an important lesson and help would be readily available and then the character who went through the trauma would start to heal by the end of the episode.'' She turns back to face him. ''You remember those?''

He looks at her like he is sincerely worried she's starting to crack up, but he nods anyway. ''Shitty writing,'' he says. ''Even shittier acting. Subtle as anvils.''

''Those are the ones,'' she confirms with a small laugh. ''...I don't get a Very Special Episode,'' she states. That sounds so incredibly dumb when she says that out loud. ''I just mean that I… I got the brutalization. I got the messy trauma and the violence and the pain. But I don't get the healing. It's not there. There is no lesson. I just got to die bloody and scared and I got to come back wrong and now I get this. I get her.'' Her voice cracks and she shakes her head like she's trying to shake it away. ''And I'm not Oliver,'' she says brokenly. ''I don't have a long line of exes ready and waiting to give me some ego stroking pep talk. I don't have a team. I just have me. I... I took a hit, Dean,'' she sighs. ''I took a bad hit. And she knows that. She's going to use that. I'm not strong enough to beat her. Not right now. Not like this. She knows that.''

She sinks back down onto the edge of the bed. It's not like it should be news that she's struggling. This is all still so fresh for her. She is still at the very beginning, stuck in the trauma, far away from healing. She's not even at the point where she has good days and bad days yet. She has good moments, good hours maybe, but not good days. Look at today. Things were fine until they weren't. She's still lost right now. She doesn't have the strength to take down some all powerful pissed off witch. Victory, right now, for her, looks like getting out of bed in the mornings. Most of her expendable emotional energy is going into the most basic of functions: being a mom, personal hygiene, smiling, keeping up conversations, and, the big one, not drinking.

She cannot fight a witch. Especially not one that's in her head, knows all the nooks and crannies, the way to her heart, all her vulnerabilities and tells. She's just trying to keep her head above water and her mind off the stash of benzos that she now knows is in Oliver's bunker. This is survival mode. She can't do battlegrounds and magic and make all her Avengers Assemble and what have you. It won't end well if she tries.

Dean doesn't say anything for a long time, but when he does, his voice is soft. Determined and steady, but soft. ''First of all,'' he says, and she raises her eyes back to him. ''You didn't come back wrong. You were brought back for the wrong reasons. The spell that brought you back was wrong. You are not wrong. Let's get that fucking straight. Second of all...'' He crouches down in front of her, bringing a hand to her knee. ''What do you mean you don't have a team?'' He grins, and something in her chest feels, even momentarily, lighter. ''Pretty bird, I am your team. I will always be your team.''

That is, quite possibly, the one thing she knows to be unequivocally true.

''What you're going through right now is hell,'' he says. ''It's shit, and it's going to be shit for a long time. But you're doing amazing. You are,'' he insists when she rolls her eyes. ''You've been so brave through all of this. I mean it. This whole mountain of crap crashed down on you, and you're still you.'' He smiles at her again, this dazzling, encouraging smile. ''You've kept your kindness, your sense of humor, your wit, and your courage. You haven't had a single drop of alcohol. And you don't think that's strength? Laurel, you're the strongest person I know. I couldn't do half of what you've done. I didn't. You remember. You were there.''

She wants to cut in here, remind him that he was brave too, that he's still the bravest man she knows, will always be the bravest man she knows, but there's a rock in her throat the size of a softball. If she opens her mouth, she'll just start sobbing.

''She's just a witch, Laurel. She's just one witch. We are going to beat her,'' he says. He sounds so certain, so absolute. ''We're going to take her down and when we do, I will be right by your side. I promise you that. We all will. You're not alone in this. That's what I need you to understand, okay? This isn't a one woman fight. We're here. We're all here.''

She manages a nod. ''Okay,'' she gets out. She's not used to the idea of a team behind her. She knows what it's like to be part of a team. To fall in line and take orders. What she has never had is a team of her own. She doesn't think anyone's ever trusted her enough to follow her.

Except him.

''After we take care of that,'' he says, a bit more cautiously. ''We're going to get you some help to deal with everything you've been through. Sound good?''

''Yes.'' She lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. ''Yes, that sounds good. That sounds really good.'' She has no intention of suffering in silence this time. She is fully aware that she cannot do this by herself. She's tried that. She doesn't want to go down that road again. It doesn't lead anywhere good. She watched PTSD consume Dean, swallow Ollie whole, scar and twist Sara. She knows what it's like to live at the bottom of the ocean. This is something bigger than her. She would very much like some help.

''It'll hurt,'' Dean warns. ''It'll hurt like hell. Every day will be different. You'll have days where you feel okay, like you're rocking it, you're healing, and then you'll have days where you feel like you can't do it, like you're sinking in quicksand. But the days will keep coming. You'll keep waking up every morning. You'll keep going. Just like I did. And on those days,'' he adds, ''where you feel like you're drowning and you can't hold yourself up, just tag me in. I'll jump right in that water with you and hold you up.'' He stands up and softly, sweetly, with an abundance of tenderness, he leans in to kiss her forehead. ''There is life after suffering,'' he reminds her. ''I hope you haven't forgotten that.''

There's a quiet sob rising in her throat. She forces it out as a laugh instead. ''And you think you suck at motivational speeches.'' She looks over at him with a watery smirk. She wants him to be laughing with her, but he's not. He's smiling mildly, but he's looking at her with this heavy look in his eyes. It's not the first time she's seen that look and it won't be the last time, but this is the first time she doesn't know what to do with his devotion.

It can, on occasion, be overwhelming to be loved by Dean Winchester. Most of the time, she feels like the luckiest girl in the world. Other times...

When he loves you, he will pour every ounce of himself into that love. He will fight wars for you. He will destroy for you, kill for you, even die for you. He never even asks for anything in return. He just loves you. Unconditionally.

Right now, she is not sure it's in his best interest to love her. She knows that sounds melodramatic, but there is a storm coming and it's going to make landfall right on their doorstep. She doesn't want him doing anything Winchester-like because he loves her. He shouldn't have to fight in anymore wars. He's supposed to be retired. He's supposed to be at peace.

''I'm sorry,'' she says. ''This isn't how any of this should be.'' She doesn't want him to die for her. She knows he will if she lets him. She can't let him do that. All she's ever wanted is for him to live for her.

''We can still go wherever you want,'' he says. ''I promised you your house in the woods, remember?''

Of course he promises her this. Of course he does.

Her eyes dart to the vanity mirror, hidden behind the blanket. She licks her lips. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' she tells him. ''I just need you to promise me one thing. Just this one thing.'' She fiddles with the chain around her neck for a second and then looks up at him, bravely meeting his eyes. ''Mary,'' she breathes. ''If I can't trust my own mind, I can't be left alone with her. Please, Dean, please. I need you to do this for me.''

When Dean Winchester loves you, he will do anything for you. Anything you ask. Name it, and he will give it to you. She has always been extremely careful not to take advantage of that. Until now.

''All right,'' he agrees, quiet, unhappy. ''We'll work something out. You won't be alone with her.''

''Thank you.'' She gets to her feet, stepping over to the vanity. Absently, without paying much attention to what she's doing, she opens the top drawer to grab a small pot of night cream.

''You didn't tell me about the other day,'' Dean says.

She dabs some cream under her eyes. ''What?''

''The rotting food,'' he says. ''The maggots. You didn't tell me about that.''

''No,'' she admits. ''I didn't.''

''If we hadn't seen your hands today, would you have told me about it?''

She doesn't know what he wants her to say. She grabs another bottle of lotion and tries to squint at the words on the bottle to see how old it is, but there is no way she can read that tiny print without her contacts in. ''I guess we're both liars then.'' She doesn't mean to say it. At least not like that. As soon as it's out, she regrets it, wincing and sinking down into her seat. She can't even bring herself to face him.

Dean is silent behind her. He says nothing for a long time.

Like a coward, she stays rigid in her seat and offers no follow up.

''I should get dinner put away,'' he says eventually, and then he leaves. He doesn't even look at her.

Her shoulders slump. Yeah, she could've done better there. Definitely could've done better. In her defense... She's right. They are both liars. But he doesn't want to talk about that. In the past week, they have not broached the subject of what he kept from her. Not once. She's thought about bringing it up, but then Mary got sick and Sara went to Maine and the hallucinations ramped up and there were just so many other things to worry about. It does irritate her that he keeps brushing her off. Even now, underneath the sting of regret, she's annoyed that he just walked away from her. That might piss her off more than the lie. They're supposed to be better at communication. That's their thing. Unless that was just another lie.

Dejectedly, she props her elbow up on the vanity and drops her chin into the palm of her hand, staring at the blanket covered mirror. She meant what she said when she said they were both liars. That's all they do. They lie to each other, to everyone around them, and to themselves when they say they're okay. He didn't tell her that the spell was breaking down. She didn't tell him about the hallucinations. There were so many things he didn't tell her about back when he was hunting. The first time she went out as Black Canary, she didn't tell him about it until the next morning when he confronted her with the newspaper that donned the very first ''Woman in Black'' headline and the accompanying blurry picture. They're hypocrites, the both of them. Lying is what they do best.

It's easy to do when you tell yourself you're trying to protect people. It doesn't feel so much like a betrayal when you convince yourself that you're only lying for the good of the other person. That's what she told herself when she hid Sara's death from her father. Or when she didn't tell Dean and Tommy that she was communicating with the Hood.

She understands better than anyone why Dean lied.

It's not like she didn't know, on some level, that something was wrong with her. She tried to ignore it, she tried to wave it off as an adjustment period, she tried to act like she was really here, but she wasn't really here. Sometimes she's still not sure she's really here. The first few days after she got back were the worst. She felt so sick and so exhausted, she was still healing from her injuries, still struggling to swim through the shock, and sometimes, late at night, she'd wake up from a nightmare and just sit there, frozen, overwhelmed by the feeling that something was wrong. That she wasn't supposed to be alive.

It doesn't make what Dean did right, but this isn't quite as black and white as some of her friends want to think it is. She knows they think she should be angry with him, and maybe she is, but it's not about that. She's worried for him. He hasn't been himself. Not since her return. She misses him. She wants to make sure he's okay. Because she knows she sure as hell isn't. He has spent every day since she got back comforting her and taking care of her and giving her pep talks. She would like to be able to do the same for him. At the very least, she would like to check in with him and make sure that his pain isn't getting lost in the ever expanding mess that hers has created.

Laurel swivels around in her chair to squint at the alarm clock on Dean's nightstand. It's only five after seven. Way earlier than she thought it was. Too early for her to go to sleep, but Mary should be in bed, asleep, or almost asleep, in about twenty five minutes. Good thing it's not bath night or they would really be behind schedule. And Mary has school in the morning. She throws her damp hair up into a lazy top knot, puts her glasses on, and throws on a thick knit cardigan over her t-shirt and pajama shorts.

As soon as she steps out into the hallway, she can hear the sound of upbeat indie music coming from Thea's room. And laughter. Mary's laughter. It's followed closely but the sound of coughing, but she sounds happy.

''Babe, c'mon,'' Thea's voice says. ''Cover your mouth.''

Mary just laughs.

Then Thea says, ''British rose or hydrating cucumber?''

Laurel raises her eyebrows. She tip toes over to peek into Thea's room. Mary is lying on Thea's bed, tucked under the covers with her stuffed shark under one arm and Thea's old teddy bear under the other. Both Thea and Mary are fresh faced and in their pajamas, with headbands pulling their hair back from their faces.

''My mommy can do a British accent,'' Mary tells her, with a matter-of-fact nod. ''She makes her flowers talk.''

''Your mom's a nerd,'' says Thea. She's grinning, perched on her knees in the bed, holding a jar of clay face mask in one hand and a couple of sheet masks in the other. ''An adorable nerd,'' she adds, putting the jar on her nightstand. ''But. Still a nerd.''

''And Daddy too.''

Thea rips open a sheet mask. ''Oh yeah, that Trekkie is the nerdiest of them all,'' she laughs. ''Let's do the cucumber sheet mask. Less mess. Sound good?''

''I like cucumber,'' Mary declares. ''I like it in a salad. With ranch!''

''I'm afraid there's no ranch here,'' Thea chuckles, plucking the sheet mask out of the packet. ''Okay, are you ready?''

''Yes!'' Mary closes her eyes. She starts laughing as soon as Thea drapes the mask over her face, smoothing out the air pockets. She's quiet for a few minutes, wiggling her eyebrows and her nose, whispering something to Sharkie. It's only once Thea has put on her own sheet mask and set a timer that Mary decides to speak up. She waits until Thea has laid down next to her and then declares, ''Now we're fancy ladies!''

Thea dissolves into giggles pretty quickly at that one. It doesn't take Mary long to join her. They both look lighter right now. Carefree. Happy and full of life, relaxing with face masks and giggling together. The cheerful indie song is still playing, the male vocalist singing, I will never take back the words that I said then, I always knew I'd come back to you, and Laurel doesn't want to bother them. As long as Mary's lying down and in her pajamas, it's a win. She'll check back on them in fifteen when they're done with their face masks.

She doesn't find Dean in the kitchen, putting away leftovers as expected. She finds him in the garage, searching through the backseat of the Impala and mumbling expletives to himself.

She stops in the doorway for a minute before venturing further into the garage. The concrete ground is cold on her bare feet and even with the thick sweater she feels a chill, but she proceeds down the steps anyway. ''What are you doing?''

He doesn't seem at all surprised by her presence. ''Lookin' for somethin'.''

''I gathered that.'' She pulls the sleeves over her hands and crosses her arms. ''Anything in particular?''

He climbs out of the backseat but barely even gives her a second glance. ''A box.''

''A box,'' she repeats.

''Yes, it's - '' He looks over at her. ''Can you check the glove compartment?'' He asks, making his way over to the trunk.

''Sure, but I need to know what I'm looking for.'' She pulls open the passenger side door. ''What kind of box is this?''

''Just a plain box. Black. About this big.'' He makes a small shape with his hands. ''It has charms in it.''

''Charms?''

''Yeah, like protection charms.'' The trunk creaks open. ''They're from Bobby. He gave them to us - fuck, a long time ago. Nine years ago, I think? Didn't use 'em much,'' he mutters. ''I know they're in the car somewhere, but I can't remember where I put the damn box.''

Laurel slides into the passenger seat an pops open the glove compartment. She sifts through the contents of the compartment - John Winchester's old phone that Dean can't bring himself to throw out, a few random pens and hair ties of hers, some old receipts, his ''secret'' stash of candy that he thinks she doesn't know about, and...

She pulls out a small square photograph. There's a coffee ring on it and one of the edges is slightly bent but there's no mistaking that blurry black and white image. It's an ultrasound photo from when she was pregnant. One of the first ones. She looks down at the grainy still of the tiny bean looking thing that would eventually grow into that giggly girl of theirs. She pokes her head back out of the car. ''I didn't know you kept this,'' she says, holding it up.

He pauses in his attempts to rifle through the trunk to look over at what she's holding. ''Course I kept it,'' he says, going right back to what he was doing. ''That's my kid.''

She looks back down at the ultrasound picture, pushing her glasses up. In truth, though she's a little ashamed to admit it now, neither one of them handled her pregnancy very well at first. She was so sick and so miserable that she ping ponged between keeping the pregnancy or termination. She went through with it because she was afraid it would be her only chance to have a child. She felt protective of the baby, she did everything she was supposed to do, but actual want was a shaky thing. She can look back at it now and say that a large part of her indifference was fear. She was constantly afraid something was going to go wrong and she was going to lose the baby that she didn't bother getting attached and viewed her pregnancy as little more than an inconvenient illness. There were a lot of times she genuinely regretted choosing to go through with it. She doesn't now, obviously. Mary is the best thing that's ever happened to her. But it wasn't an easy decision to make for her.

But Dean...

If you ask him, he'll tell you something different. He'll tell you about the shitty choices he made in the beginning, about what a cowardly asshole he was, and maybe he was withdrawn in the early days, but she knows better. He was lost when she got pregnant; adrift, lonely, aimless, still hunting, still wading through the ruins of bitter grief, PTSD, and alcoholism, but he wanted that baby the second Laurel told him she was pregnant. Don't let him tell you any different. He may have been terrified, but she knows that man's heart better than she knows her own and she knows that he wanted that baby.

She won't go so far as to say she had the baby just for him and she will always, always categorically deny that she did it to get him to stay with her, but she'd be lying if she said those things didn't at least cross her mind when she was trying to make a decision.

Contrary to what some people think, she does believe they would still be together even if they hadn't had Mary. She's just not sure they would be happy. Or healthy. Definitely wouldn't have half the things they have now. They would most likely be the same depressed drunks they were back then. They'd love each other, but they would be stuck.

She looks back down at the ultrasound. Mary was the best thing to ever happen to him. She gave him a reason to save himself. Of course he kept this. ''That's your kid,'' she echoes under her breath, corners of her lips turning up into a small smile. She puts the picture back where she found it and shuts the glove compartment.

''Nothing here,'' she says, climbing out and shutting the door. ''Sorry.'' She perches in the backseat instead, pulling her feet up off the ice cold concrete, winding her arms around her knees. She listens to him moving things around in the trunk, grumbling to himself about the disorganized arsenal and grumbling that Sam ''never puts anything back where he found it'' and really just grumbling in general.

Finally, after a few minutes, he produces a box from the depths of the mess. ''Knew it was in there.'' He slams the trunk shut and makes his way over to her, already rummaging through the contents. It doesn't take long for his eyes to light up, a small, delighted sounding gasp escaping. ''Holy shit, I haven't seen this in years.'' He plucks a silver ring from the box, and she watches an adorable grin flash on his lips. ''I thought I lost this. I used to use this to open beers.''

She raises an eyebrow at him. ''You had a specially designated beer ring?''

He's still grinning. He looks very proud of himself. ''You bet your ass I did.'' He puts the box on top of the Impala and looks down at the ring in his hand. ''No idea what I'm going to do with it now.'' He narrows his eyes at it like he's debating whether or not it's worth it and then he slips it onto place on his right hand. ''It was my thing. Everyone's got a thing.''

''What's my thing?''

''Hmm.'' He rests his hand on top of the car, mulling over the question. ''Tattoos that also work as heavy handed metaphors?''

She blinks. ''What?''

''Cheesy one hit wonders from the 80's and 90's,'' he decides with a nod of his head. ''I've had that one General Public song stuck in my head for seven years.''

''Six and a half,'' she corrects. ''You always round up.''

His lips twitch. He grabs the box from the top of the car and ducks his head to hide his amused smile, sifting through the contents. ''I don't know if this will make much difference,'' he admits, pulling a couple small trinkets out of the box. ''I just know some of these are meant to protect against hexes and the like.'' He shakes the box and picks out one more. ''I don't think they'll knock her out of your noggin' completely,'' he says. ''But it might keep her from digging in deeper and taking control. If that's what you're worried about. Figure it's worth a shot.''

She opens her hand to let him drop a few of the charms into her palm. ''Couldn't hurt.'' She unclasps the chain from around her neck and adds two of the charms to the Saint Christopher token.

He snags the last one from her hand and flips it like a coin. ''I owe you a bracelet,'' he says with a wink.

''It's not a bird.'' She fastens the chain back around her neck. ''Boss might fire you.''

''Nah, I'm tenured.'' He heads over to the work bench on the other side of the car.

Reluctantly, she puts her feet back on the cold floor and stands, turning to look at him. He's pulling things from boxes and drawers. She pushes her glasses up and then rests her hands on top of the car to watch him for a minute. The silence should be easy and peaceful, but it's not. There's this thing looming in between them, hovering, taking up space.

''Dean,'' she says, because she can't just leave sleeping dogs lie. ''Why did you hide the problem with the spell from me?''

He stops what he's doing. She can see his posture stiffen, his hands still.

''We have to talk about it sometime,'' she says softly.

He doesn't respond. Slowly, he puts what's in his hands down on the work table. There's a breath, and then another, and then he turns around. He doesn't look surprised that she's brought that up. Just regretful. ''Laurel.''

''Listen,'' she has to offer, holding her hands up. ''I'm not going to berate you for something you're already beating yourself up for. You shouldn't have done it. You know that. I won't beat you over the head with what you already know. I just...'' She doesn't know where to go from here. She maybe hasn't thought this one through. ''I'd like to understand.''

He looks about as lost as she feels. ''It was a split second decision,'' he says. ''It was the wrong one.''

She stands taller. ''Yes,'' she agrees. ''It was. But that doesn't answer my question.''

''I don't know what else to tell you. I don't have a good answer for you.''

''Whether it's a good answer or a bad answer, I think I deserve to hear it.''

He looks pained. When he eventually moves, striding toward the door, she thinks he's going to flee. He doesn't. He quietly shuts the door. Then he takes a deep breath. Then he turns to look at her and he says, ''I didn't want you to be scared.''

She nearly laughs. ''I'm scared,'' she says. ''I've been scared. You can't protect me from that.''

''I'm sorry.'' Whatever else there is, whatever part of the story he refuses to give up, it's not something he wants her to hear. He walks back over to the table and calmly picks up where he left off.

Should have known this was going to be like pulling teeth. With an eye roll, she shuts the back door of the Impala. He tenses up, barely noticeable. She's not sure if he's expecting her to leave or yell at him, but she doesn't do either. She opens up the passenger side door, gets in, steals a bag of gummy bears from his stash, and props her bare feet up on the dash. He can stall as long as he wants. She's got all night. She pops a few pieces of candy into her mouth and looks over at him when she hears the power drill turn on.

She picks through the gummy bears, eating all the red ones. She's about to move onto the green ones when the driver's side door opens and Dean slips into his seat. He's still fiddling with what's in his hand, but she can't help but notice that some of the tension in his shoulders does ease up once he's safely back home behind the wheel of his Baby. He's even comfortable enough to throw her what looks to be a disapproving Dad Look when he sees her feet up on the dash. ''Get your feet off my dash, Lance.''

She smirks lightly, but moves her feet.

''Here.'' He leans over to tie the bracelet around her wrist. The gold charm is flat on one side, like a token, with a protection symbol carved into the surface, and he has drilled a hole on either side to fit the leather cord through. ''Now we're officially one of those yuppie couples who wear matching jewelry.''

''At least they're not matching pinky rings,'' she says. ''That would be really bad.''

He sits back, eyes downcast, focusing on attempting to braid two cords together, presumably for Mary.

She watches him struggle for like a minute and a half before she takes pity on him. She steals one more green gummy bear before handing him the bag. ''Trade.'' She swipes the pitiful bracelet from his hand and sits back, getting straight to work.

''Youtube makes braiding look so easy,'' he mutters darkly. ''Fuckin' liars.''

''It is easy.''

''It's not. Mary asked me to braid her hair for her first day of school and I fucked it up so bad that the braids fell out before we even got there.''

''Aww.'' She pats his arm. ''But you tried.''

He frowns down into the bag of gummy bears. ''Did you eat all the red ones?''

''Yes, and don't eat any of the green ones. They're mine.''

''Get your own candy,'' he complains, but when he shovels a handful into his mouth, he makes sure none of them are green.

''So,'' she says after a minute or two. ''What do you think my next career move should be?''

He raises an eyebrow. ''What?''

''Well, my law career is over for obvious reasons,'' she tries to say it as casually as possible, but it's hard to disguise the sting. ''I still need a job. What do you think I should do?''

''I don't know,'' he muses, tossing some more gummy bears into his mouth. ''You think that's something you should be worrying about right now?''

Not so much, no. She's just stalling. ''I could go back to waitressing,'' she suggests. ''I was good at that.''

He releases a small laugh. ''You were good at that, but it'd be weird to go into your local Applebee's and get the Black Canary as your server.''

''Oh god,'' she groans. ''That's true, isn't it?''

''Might be a good way to meet your fans,'' he jokes.

She presses her lips together to stifle a smile. ''I could be a hair dresser.''

He looks at her sharply. ''A hair dresser.''

''Or a PI,'' she grins. ''Come on. You know I'd make a great PI.''

''Whatever you say, Jessica Jones.'' He shakes his head, but he's smiling. He looks down into the bag of gummy bears, shaking it to find more orange ones. ''I think you should be a florist.''

''A florist.'' She smiles softly. ''I like that one. I could get on board with that.'' She works on Mary's bracelet for a minute, trying to work up the courage to say what she has to say. He sits beside her in silence, tossing gummy bears up into the air and catching them in his mouth. ''I didn't tell you about the hallucinations because I was scared,'' she blurts out eventually.

He looks up from the bag of gummy bears, but says nothing.

''For awhile,'' she continues. ''I couldn't figure out if it was her or if it had to do with the spell breaking down or even if I was going crazy. Now I'm sure it's her. She wants to weaken me. She's trying to turn my mind against me because she knows that's my weak spot.''

''That's not - ''

''She knows everything, Dean,'' she says calmly. ''The panic disorder, panic attacks, major depressive disorder, alcoholism.'' She licks her lips slowly. ''My suicide attempt. I think she even knows I was treated for postpartum depression. All of it. She's trying to use it as a weapon. I didn't tell you because I was - I am - scared. Terrified, even. And because I...'' She clears her throat nervously. ''I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want anyone to worry about me.'' She looks over at him. ''I'm guessing you can relate to that.''

His fingers curl around the steering wheel like an anxious reflex.

''You've been off since I got back,'' she says softly. ''I know you think I haven't noticed, but I have. I know it didn't just start when I came home. You're sleeping better than you were when I was gone, but you're still not sleeping great. You're exhausted all the time, you're short tempered and wildly overprotective - even more so than usual. The only time I ever really see you is when you're with Mary. Sometimes when you're with me.'' She finishes up the braid, fiddling with it needlessly until she finally looks up at him. ''You don't smile as much,'' she whispers. ''You're not who I left.''

''Well, you're not who left,'' he fires back. He looks like he regrets saying it as soon as it's out of his mouth.

''No,'' she agrees easily. ''I'm not.''

Out of all the things she has said, that's the one that leaves him looking stricken and, for some reason, vaguely sick. ''Let's not do this.''

She's quiet. ''Okay.''

He snaps his head up to look at her, part surprised, part suspicious.

She can't blame him. He is, without a doubt, used to people poking and prodding persistently. Trying to force him to open up and talk, even if that means pulling it out of him against his will. She likes to think she's better than that, but even she has fucked up over the years. ''I mean it,'' she says. ''This is as hard as I'm going to push. You don't have to talk if you're not ready to talk. I just want you to know that when you're ready, if you're ready, I'll be here to listen.'' She takes his hand and places the braided bracelet in it. ''I get why you kept it from me. I didn't tell my father about what happened to Sara for months. Believe me,'' she pats his knee. ''I understand.''

He looks relieved. But curious. ''And?''

''And...'' She relaxes back against the seat and fixes her glasses before they can slide down her nose. ''I think we should possibly work on our communication. Stop keeping things to ourselves. Trust each other a little more. But we'll be fine,'' she says that part with certainty, because she needs him to know this. ''We always are. Trust can be rebuilt. So we'll rebuild. Begin again.''

He closes his fist around the bracelet and sighs heavily.

She steals the gummy bears back from him. He's left all the green ones for her. Just as she's about to reach out and touch him, he wrenches open the door and gets out of the car. She fully expects him to run. Declare this conversation over and get as far away from it as he can. He presses the button to open the garage door instead, letting the chilly night air in, but he doesn't run.

After a minute, she follows. He's popped open the trunk again and he's rummaging around, shoving things out of the way to put the box of charms back where he got it from. She waits patiently for him to stop stalling. She looks out into the peaceful shadows of the suburban neighborhood, taking in a few breaths of the fresh night air. It's too quiet. Sometimes she misses the ambient noise of the city. It was like a comforting lullaby to her. She imagines it's different for him. Dean isn't really a city life kind of guy. He's a country boy through and through. He grew up in Kansas fields under the stars. Silence must feel like home to him.

She drifts over to the open garage door, but doesn't step out into the driveway. It's not even eight o'clock yet, but the neighborhood is already dark, still, and calm. There's no one outside. Nobody is out going for an evening walk after dinner. No one is walking home from work. There aren't even that many cars passing by. It's the weather, probably. It's not raining yet, but it feels like it might, and there is a freezing cold wind rustling the trees and whistling through the air. It brushes through her hair as she stands by the open door, looking out into the darkness.

Somewhere, above the sound of the wind, the sound of birds slices through the night.

Unexpectedly, very suddenly, this unpleasant and completely inexplicable feeling of utter terror slams into her. It's overwhelming. It's nonsensical. There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing is happening right now. But her breathing is speeding up and her fingers have gone numb and the staggering feeling of dread and panic is starting to take her over, make her vision blur. She feels woozy and clammy with absolute horror. Her stomach clenches and she thinks, for a second, that she might actually throw up. It's an unexplainable fear. It's not even comparable to a panic attack. It's worse. Much worse.

This is what she felt back in April, when she was standing frozen in Darhk's hold, choking, while he moved closer and closer with that arrow. It is the same exact feeling she felt when she knew what he was going to do and couldn't do anything to stop it. It is the lurching, unmistakable, dreadful feeling of knowing you are going to die.

It takes her far too long to understand why this is happening. It's the birds. The unseen ones in the trees outside. They're screaming.

There are no birds.

Behind her, the trunk of the Impala slams shut, the screaming stops, and she jumps, a small gasp breaking through her lips as the earth shattering feeling of distress melts away. It's gone in an instant. Like snapping out of a trance. She takes her glasses off and slips them into the pocket of her cardigan so she can rub at her eyes. She takes in a few breaths of the cold air and listens to the silence. Her tense shoulders relax and she slowly turns around.

Dean is leaning back against the back bumper of the car, watching her with a mixture of concern and curiosity on his face. ''What just happened?''

''What...'' She swallows. ''What do you mean?''

''I mean where did you go just now?''

''I was here,'' she says immediately. ''I just thought I...'' She turns to look over her shoulder, out into the shadows again. A shiver runs down her spine. She turns back to Dean. ''Did you hear birds?''

''No,'' he says. ''I didn't hear anything.''

She brings a hand up to touch the charms she has just added to the chain around her neck. The ones meant to protect against witchcraft. They are blazing hot. So hot that the heat is soaking through her shirt. She draws her hand back with a hiss the second her fingers brush them.

He instantly pushes off the car and hurries over to her. His hands move to her arms, then up to her shoulders, and then he brings his hand up to touch the charms.

''I'm fine,'' she says quickly, before he can say a word. ''Really, I'm okay. She's just...'' She pauses, placing a hand over his chest to feel his heartbeat. ''She's such a jerk,'' she says, exhausted. ''I told you. She wants to scare me.''

''With birds?''

She shakes her head. ''With panic, I think.''

He hesitates for a second and then reaches out to touch the charms again, lifting them up slightly. ''Fat lot of good these did, huh?''

''I wouldn't say that,'' she says, offering him a small smile. ''It was better this time. I think I'd take an auditory hallucination over a visual one.''

''Jesus.'' He moves a hand to massage the back of her neck. ''I'd rather you not have hallucinations at all.''

''Well, yeah. That'd be nice.''

He winces in sympathy, still massaging her neck, then her shoulder, working out the knots of tension that have formed. He looks deep in thought, and then he just looks tired. ''Okay,'' he says, after a minute or two. ''You really want to know?''

She tries not to perk up. ''...I do.''

His hand drops to his side. He examines her closely for a minute and then heads back over to the car to lean back against the bumper. ''I can't leave,'' he says. He says it quietly, but simply. ''I can't get away from it.''

''Away from what?''

''April 6th.''

Her lips thin. Her fingers twitch and she automatically moves her hand to her right side, rubbing at the scar. She stubbornly ignores the sudden shortness of breath.

''I'm still there,'' he admits. ''I've never left.''

She tries to swallow but her mouth is too dry. ''Neither have I.''

''I don't know how,'' he says. ''That's where I left you.'' He smiles at her, and it is a terribly, terribly sad thing. ''When you left, life went on,'' he tells her. ''People mourned and then they moved on. World kept spinning. I tried to spin with it. I took care of things. That's what I do, right?'' He lets out a strange sounding laugh. ''I tried to be there for Mary. I did all I could think of to help her. I talked about you, I put your pictures in her room, I got her into play therapy, I got her out of this city and taught her to swim and put her on a horse and made her laugh and sometimes I even laughed with her. But it wasn't enough.''

She wants to tell him that's not true, but she doesn't think he'd believe her.

His lips tick up into something resembling a small smile. ''I can live without you, Laurel. That's what I discovered. I can live without you. I can go on. But I don't want to.'' His shoulders are slumped, hands shoved into his pockets. ''I resented every day I had to spend without you.'' He moves in front of her, stepping into her space, hands on her hips. ''People kept telling me that the only thing that would help was time, but all time did was take me away from you. Every morning when I woke up, I'd think about every minute you were missing. Every sunrise, every sunset, every cup of coffee, every time our daughter smiled, and you weren't there to see it. Every room was just a room you weren't in. That's all there was.''

Something twists inside of him, an expression somewhere between immense grief and skittering fear flickering in his eyes. Everything he has said so far has been said calmly. Matter of fact. Until now. ''I spent my whole life wondering how my dad could have made the choices he made and then you died and I finally understood.'' He looks chilled by that. Guilty for some reason. ''I went down and I went down hard and I stayed there. And I kept everything, Laurel. All that grief and anger and guilt. I kept all of it because it was the only place you existed, and I wanted to be with you. I couldn't leave you.'' He shakes his head. ''I couldn't leave you,'' he says again. ''Just like he couldn't leave her.''

''Dean,'' she says, but says nothing else. She has nothing to make this better. There are no words that will take this grief away. Even her presence, her pulse, her beating heart, can't take this away.

He watched her leave. That's the thing she thinks people have forgotten in the months since April. Even she's forgotten it, too wrapped up in her own pain to think much about it. He may not have been there when she was stabbed. He may not have been covered in her blood. He still watched her die.

Death doesn't just happen to the dying. It happens to everyone around them. Trauma spreads. She has no doubt there were people who were extremely understanding of his sadness and his grief. She has a feeling everyone severely underestimated his trauma.

''I'm sorry,'' she says weakly. She wants to touch him, but she feels unusually afraid to. It won't make things better. ''I'm so sorry.''

''I tried and tried to get into my dad's head when I was a kid,'' he says, and eventually has to pull back, away from her. ''I tried to get to know the man. I tried to understand. But, uh, I never could.'' There's a bitter tilt to his mouth. Not a smile but something sharper. ''Then when Mary was born, I understood even less. I mean, I looked at her and it was like everything fell into place, you know?''

She nods. ''I do.''

''That girl is my whole world,'' he says. ''But my dad...'' He lets out a sigh. ''Only thing he was ever consistent with was choosing revenge over his kids. He had so many chances and he chose to put us last every time. How could that ever be understandable?'' He clears his throat. He moves his hands and takes a step back. ''But then you died,'' he says, ''and I just... I knew him.''

''You're not your father, Dean,'' she has to interject.

''I was.''

''No,'' she says. ''You weren't.'' She latches onto his arm. ''Hey,'' she demands. ''Look at me. Would you ever, under any circumstances, put a gun in our daughter's hand and tell her to shoot first, ask questions later?''

He falters. ''...I don't know.''

''Well, I do,'' she says. ''You would never do that. You would never put that on her. Not ever. You know why? Because you are not your father. You never were and you never will be.''

''You can't know that,'' he insists. ''You weren't here. What I did to Darhk - ''

''Was a one time thing,'' she says, patient. ''What if he had gotten away?'' She suggests when she sees him open his mouth to protest. ''What would you have done then? Would you have tossed Mary in the backseat and crisscrossed the country looking for revenge? Handed her off to Thea and left her here without you while you hunted him down?''

He looks skittish. ''I... I don't know.''

There is a heartbeat of silence before she looks him in the eye and says, with complete certainty, ''Yes, you do.'' She reaches out to put her hand on his arm for a minute. ''You would have put her first,'' she assures him. ''Like you always do. You would have chosen her the way your father should have chosen you and your brother.''

He still doesn't look placated.

For the first time since she learned of what happened to Darhk, Laurel wishes Dean had not done what he did. She is never a proponent of torture and murder, but what that man did to her... This whole time, all she's been able to think is that she's glad he's gone. It had been such a relief to know that he couldn't hurt anyone else, that he couldn't hurt her, and she didn't stop to think what killing him had done to Dean. Darhk wasn't a demon. He wasn't a monster or a creature or some otherwise inhuman thing. He was a man. A magically juiced up evil, evil man, but still just a man. And her husband tortured and murdered him.

''Dean,'' she tries. ''Baby - ''

''I'm supposed to go first,'' he cuts in. ''That's how this works. That's what we agreed on. I go first.''

''I don't think that's something we get to decide.''

''Look, you wanted the truth. This is the truth. I didn't tell you about the spell because I didn't want to think about it,'' he says. ''I didn't want to think about having to go through that again. I was being a selfish ass and I know that, but you can't...'' He stops. The look on his face tells her that he is perfectly aware he is being irrational right now, but he's scared. Something about those seven months and what he did during them scared him shitless. It bothers her that she can't comfort him because there's no way for her to understand what he went through. What he did while he was grieving. Nobody has told her the full story. She doubts they ever will. ''I can't go back to that place,'' he pleads. ''Do you understand? It can't be an option. I can't be that person again. I can't be my father and I sure as shit can't be Alastair. And with Darhk...'' He looks pale in the fluorescent light from overhead. ''I was both of them. I won't do it again. You have to let me go first.''

It seems like such a silly argument. None of them truly have control over things like that. And it's so stupid! He is not his father and he is not Alastair. She knows that. There's no chance. None. But she nods anyway, a little shakily, trying for a smile. ''Okay.'' She swallows thickly. ''You can go first.'' She doesn't know what else she can say to help him so she just wraps her arms around him in a hug and hopes that gives him something. ''I love you,'' she murmurs. ''I love you so much.''

He lets out a breath into her hair, tightening his hold on her. ''Ditto.''

She chokes out a tiny laugh. ''You wish you were Patrick Swayze.''

''I always wish I was Patrick Swayze.''

She doesn't want to let go. She closes her eyes and tightens her grip. Eventually, grudgingly, she lets go and pulls away. ''I still don't believe you're anything like your father,'' she says, because she has to say it. ''I never will. But,'' she allows. ''I understand that you were scared of going back to that place.''

''That, and,'' he shrugs. ''I didn't want to let you down again.''

''Let me down?''

''Darhk paralyzed your friend,'' he says. ''He kidnapped a kid. He brainwashed people. I should have stepped in a long time ago.''

''You were retired,'' she says. ''You were raising our child.''

''Yeah, and our child had a target painted on her back because that bastard wanted to get to your dad,'' he reminds her. ''He should've been dead by Christmas but instead I sat on my ass and you died because of it.'' He doesn't sound as emotional as he did before. Just blunt. Like his failure is just a fact. ''That won't happen again.''

''You didn't let me down,'' she says, even though she knows he won't listen. ''You stayed out of the situation because I asked you to.'' Maybe there's enough ''failure'' to go around. If she's being honest, she should have brought him into the situation. She should have brought all the Winchesters into the Darhk situation from the beginning. She could have. It would have been easy. If she had asked, they would have dropped everything to help her. She knows that. They know what they're doing. They could have helped with the magic angle, the strategies; even just the extra manpower and muscle would've been invaluable. But she wanted him to be safe. She wanted all of them to be safe. ''I wanted to protect you. Maybe we should stop doing that.''

''Stop protecting each other?'' He wanders over to close the garage door, but turns his head to throw her a doubtful look. ''Sounds unrealistic.''

''Maybe we should trust each other more,'' she clarifies. ''Work together. You know? Superhero team up.''

He laughs tiredly, but doesn't say anything. He heads back over to the Impala, reaching in to grab the gummy bears. ''I'm a superhero now?''

''You've always been a superhero to me,'' she says.

''You have to say that.'' He takes a gummy bear and then offers her the bag. ''You're my wife.''

''That wasn't in the vows,'' she says, accepting the bag of candy. ''You know, Dean, when all of this is over,'' she starts, waiting for him to look at her before she goes on. ''We have to come home. We have to leave that hospital room. You promised me,'' she adds. ''You promised me we would leave that place together. So let's leave.''

Dean looks at her for a long time and then he smiles. He reaches over to steal another gummy bear. ''I'll be right behind you whenever you're ready, pretty bird.''

.

.

.

June, 2014

''Hey, can you put the tortilla chips in that bowl over there? ...Oliver? Oliver!''

Oliver looks up from scrolling through his emails to stare blankly at Felicity.

She's looking at him expectantly, hands on her hips. ''Tortilla chips,'' she directs, pointing. ''Bowl.''

''Right.'' He slips his phone away and grabs the bag of chips. There's no point in endlessly refreshing his email anyway. There's nothing from Thea and it's unlikely she's going to be dropping him a line anytime soon. It's good that she's getting out of the city and doing some traveling, especially after the year they've had, but he wishes she would check in more often. She's smart and he knows she can take care of herself, but she's still a nineteen year old girl traveling alone. He doesn't think it's irrational to be concerned.

He tries to put it out of his mind for now, glancing over at Felicity. She's swatting bugs away from the cheese plate with a determined frown on her face. She has made it exceedingly clear that today is supposed to be about fun and relaxation. He can't say he's the greatest at either of those things these days, but he does want to try for her. She's trying so hard and she's been planning this ''team barbeque'' for weeks. Even now, she looks flushed and red faced from running around all day in the heat, setting everything up. She didn't need to do this, but she's made it her mission.

Honestly, if this whole thing ends in a disaster and she winds up heartbroken, he might have to kill someone. Nobody wants that.

''What do you think I should put out first?'' Felicity asks, holding up two bags of chips. ''Barbeque or sour cream and onion?''

Oliver tears open the bag of tortilla chips and dumps them into the blue plastic bowl. He grabs one of the chips and dips it into the nearby salsa. ''I like plain,'' he says, popping the chip into his mouth.

''God, you're dull,'' another voice says. Both Oliver and Felicity snap their attention to Roy, standing over by the comically large watermelon he's brought. He startles when they both turn to look at him, eyes widening. ''Did I say that out loud?'' He looks lost, cheeks slowly reddening. ''I was talking about the knife,'' he decides, holding up the knife in his hand. ''It's not sharp enough for this. I'll just go get another one,'' he says, and then lets out a nervous laugh before dashing back inside.

Oliver stares after him. ''He wasn't talking about the knife, was he?''

Felicity doesn't offer him any words of comfort, but she does hold out the bowl of barbeque chips to him.

He sighs, but accepts one.

She steps back from the table full of munchies to stare at it. She looks critical, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, with her head cocked to the side slightly. Her hair is down today, free of her trademark ponytail, and the slight breeze in the air keeps blowing her hair into her face. She looks really cute actually.

Oliver stifles a smile and clears his throat to get her attention. ''Something wrong, boss?''

''Do you think this is enough food?''

''You're kidding, right?'' He looks over at the table full of food. ''Felicity, there's going to be six of us.''

''Possibly eight,'' she corrects. ''Laurel might be bringing her husband and her ba - oh shit!'' She brings her hands up to her face, suddenly pale. ''What do babies eat?''

''Not barbeque chips, I can tell you that.''

''Well - Well maybe...'' She bites at her lower lip, wringing her hands. ''Maybe she's still breastfeeding? Is she still breastfeeding?''

''I...wouldn't know.''

''Does Laurel's baby even have teeth? How old is she?''

''She... Uh...'' Damn, he should know this, shouldn't he? ''I think she's one...ish? She was born on Halloween. I think. Right?''

''Well, I don't know!''

''It's Halloween,'' he declares, nodding. ''She was born on Halloween. So she's one and a half. Or one and - what month is it right now?''

''So.'' Felicity looks thoughtful. ''She probably has teeth then.''

''Probably, yes.''

''But... baby teeth.''

''Well, yeah.''

She looks at the big spread of goodies on the table, scanning each item and then her eyes light up. ''I have cheese!'' She picks up the plate full of cubed and individually toothpick skewered pieces of cheese. ''Cheese can be soft. Baby can gnaw on cheese. Plus, it's an excellent source of calcium. It'll make her bones grow nice and strong. And also, you know, it's cheese. Who doesn't love cheese?''

''Lactose intolerant people, probably,'' says Roy, stepping back outside.

''Oh god,'' Felicity swivels her gaze back to Oliver. ''Is the baby lactose intolerant?''

''Not that I'm aware of.''

''I feel like you guys should be more concerned with the fact that you apparently don't know this kid's name,'' Roy tells them.

''Oh, I know this one,'' Oliver says. ''Her name is Mary.''

''Mary.'' Felicity bobs her head up and down. ''Good to know. I'll remember that when poor little Mary is crying out in hunger because I, the world's worst hostess, don't have anything to feed her. And then Laurel will be pissed that I didn't accommodate her baby and she'll leave and you'll be mad she's gone and you'll stop watering the fern and I'll never get to go shoe shopping with her!''

Oliver stares at her for a long time. ''...What?''

''Laurel has amazing taste in shoes.''

''All right,'' he says slowly. ''While I don't feel qualified to comment on that part, I think I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that if Laurel brings her kid, she'll bring food for her. Parents do that. It's a thing. I'm sure of it.''

''Also, I water the fern,'' Roy says.

''But,'' Felicity starts, ''what if - ''

The back gate swings open and Felicity's caffeine riddled catastrophizing is cut off by John and Lyla's entrance. ''Hello, my pasty white friends,'' he greets cheerfully. ''We come bearing ice!''

''And hamburger patties,'' Lyla adds, hoisting up a small red cooler.

''Best burger you've ever tasted,'' John nods. ''I used my mama's secret seasoning mix.''

''It will change your life,'' she promises, patting the cooler lovingly.

''It will. Just do not ask for the recipe and do not, under any circumstances, try to recreate it on your own because my mother will come to your house and knock you upside the head.''

''Can confirm. I've witnessed it.''

There is a moment of silence and then Roy says, confused, ''Lotta ice, man.''

''First rule of parties,'' John says sagely. ''You can never have too much ice.''

''John Diggle, you're a mensch,'' Felicity chirps, bounding over to take two bags of ice from him. She kisses his cheek, then Lyla's, and then heads inside. Oliver moves to take the third bag and relieve Lyla of cooler duties but Roy gets there first.

''I'd offer you guys a drink,'' Oliver says, only daring to open his mouth once he is certain Felicity is inside and safely out of earshot. ''But I'm a little afraid to step on Felicity's toes here.''

''She does seem to be taking this team barbeque thing extremely seriously,'' John comments. ''And by seriously I mean obsessively. She called in the middle of the night to ask what my favourite fruit is.''

''It's mango,'' Oliver says with a nod, feeling very proud of himself for knowing that.

John looks at him, raising an eyebrow, but his lips quirk up into a smile anyway.

''She just wants to do something nice,'' Lyla pipes up. ''You two are her best friends and you've all had a rough year. She wants you to have a relaxing evening with little to no bloodshed.''

''Well, hell, I'm all for that,'' John declares. He heads over to the cooler on the tiny concrete patio to grab some drinks while Oliver fetches Lyla a chair. He returns with a can of ginger ale for Lyla (which she declines with a wave of her hand) and two beers, offering one to Oliver.

Oliver is not much of a beer drinker, but he accepts the bottle anyway because it seems like the thing to do.

''To minimal bloodshed,'' John says, clinking his bottle against Oliver's. ''And let's hope I didn't just jinx it by saying that out loud.''

''Fifty fifty chance,'' Oliver says. He looks over at the table of food. Something occurs to him then, and he tries not to wince.

Roy, just stepping back outside, catches the look. ''What's wrong?''

Oliver tries to remain impassive. ''What makes you think something's wrong?''

''Your face,'' says John.

''You're almost having an expression,'' Lyla adds. ''It's bizarre.''

''I don't care for it,'' Roy agrees.

''It's nothing,'' Oliver insists. ''But, hey, just out of curiosity, are beef burgers the only option for dinner?''

John does not look pleased. ''You don't want one of my mama's burgers?''

''No, of course I do. I love your mother!''

''You've never met her.''

''It's just...'' Oliver rubs at the back of his neck. ''Laurel doesn't eat red meat.''

After a pause, John crinkles his nose, looking offended, and asks, incredulous, ''But who doesn't eat burgers?''

''Well, vegetarians,'' Roy says, flopping down into the chair next to Lyla. ''Statistically speaking. And vegans.''

''Pescatarians,'' Lyla says. ''My sister's a pescatarian. You know this.''

''Red meat makes her sick,'' Oliver explains. ''She usually only eats poultry and fish. I think she can do pork in small doses. Bacon. I know she eats a little bit of bacon every now and then. Definitely no burgers.''

''Felicity!'' John calls out when he spots her coming back out onto the patio. ''Did you know Laurel doesn't eat red meat?''

''Oh yeah,'' she nods. ''She texted me yesterday to let me know. I picked up some veggie patties last night. She offered to bring her own food but I'm trying to be a good hostess and a good hostess provides for all her guests and - '' She stops, biting down on her lower lip and looking away. ''Oh my god,'' she whispers to herself. ''Am I my mother?''

''Uh,'' Oliver looks over at the others, but they offer him nothing. ''That should be fine,'' is all he winds up saying. ''I just wanted to make sure she had food.''

''So, can we address the elephant in the room for a minute here?'' John asks. ''I still can't believe you invited Laurel Lance.''

''I had to!'' She throws her arms out. ''She walked in on us talking about it! What was I supposed to do? I couldn't not invite her. That would've been a dick move.''

''I'm not criticizing,'' John says. ''I'm just saying things might get awkward.''

''Wait.'' Lyla holds a hand up. ''Why would things get awkward? Do we not like Laurel Lance?''

''We like her,'' Oliver says. Nobody backs him up on that one. He looks at his teammates, waiting for someone to agree with him, but they all just stare at him. A familiar, somewhat nostalgic, wave of indignation and protectiveness sweeps over him. ''We like her,'' he says again, louder this time, firm. An order. ''I think it might actually be physically impossible to dislike Laurel Lance,'' he says pointedly. ''It's at least a seriously stupid decision.''

''I like her fine,'' Roy says. ''Don't know her all that well, but Thea loves her like family. Good enough for me. Also, she kinda smells like my mom.''

John freezes with his beer halfway to his lips.

Oliver can literally feel his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

''I mean,'' Roy pauses, looking thoughtful. ''Before all the poverty and substance abuse.'' There is an extremely uncomfortable beat of silence and then he notices everyone staring at him and shrugs. ''What?''

''There's a lot to unpack there,'' Lyla says. ''We may not have time for all that.''

''So...'' Felicity blinks a few times and then shakes her head. ''Anyway. I don't not like her. I just don't know much about her. And I feel like it might be weird having someone else on the team.''

''Why?'' Roy asks. ''You made room for me.''

''That was different.''

''How?''

''Just...because. You know...'' She struggles for a minute. ''You know,'' she emphasizes. ''She's just so pretty,'' she blurts out. ''And...tall. And she's, like, infuriatingly nice and her hair is so shiny and - and she really does smell good and...'' She stops, pressing her lips together. ''I'm doing it again, aren't I?'' Nods all around. ''Right.'' She blushes. ''My bad.''

''I'm sorry,'' Roy says. ''Am I not pretty?''

Oliver rolls his eyes but has to take a swig of beer to hide his small smile.

'' 'Kay, so I know what Barbie and Ken think,'' Lyla says slowly. She turns to John. ''What about you? What's the problem?''

''No problem,'' he says lightly. It's a lie. ''She seems like a real nice lady.''

''Okay, so far what I've learned about Laurel Lance is that she seems like a real nice lady, she's pretty, and she smells like Roy's mom.'' She eyes Oliver. ''Is that an accurate description?''

''I can't speak to the last one,'' he says, ''but I'd say it's a fairly accurate assessment.''

''Great,'' Lyla says. ''She sounds harmless. So,'' she looks back at John, ''what's your damage, Heather?''

John looks at Oliver for a moment before answering. ''I just think she's going to complicate things.''

''He thinks she's my blind spot,'' Oliver says. He has gotten real sick and tired of the phrase ''blind spot.'' If he had ignored the needless needling of his team members, tossed the ''blind spot'' crap in the trash where it belongs, and listened to Laurel, they might have been able to catch Sebastian Blood sooner.

''Laurel's his ex-girlfriend,'' Felicity informs Lyla. ''He cheated on her with her sister and then he and the sister were presumed dead for five years. Six for her. And he was still hung up on Laurel when he first came home but by then she was married and having a baby.'' She leans in closer to Lyla to whisper, ''I think she was a point of contention between Dig and Oliver during the beginning because Oliver was always running after her.''

''I wasn't...'' Oliver scowls. ''I wasn't always running after her.''

Lyla looks at him with a disapproving gaze. ''You cheated on a girl with her sister?''

He sighs. ''Yes, I was a jerk.''

''A jerk,'' she snorts. ''That's putting it lightly. You sound like a full-blown douchebag.''

''I can accept that.''

''Are you still hung up on this girl?''

''No,'' he answers, instant. ''She's married. She's moved on. We both have.''

''Okay, good. Problem solved. Let it go, Johnny,'' she advises. ''Even if Oliver still has a thing for her - ''

''I don't still have a thing for her.''

'' - That's his problem, not hers.''

''Can I just - While I agree with that,'' Felicity says, sounding sheepish, ''I will say, um - well, it's not just that she's Oliver's ex.''

''Right,'' John nods. ''There's also the husband. He seems like he has the potential to be a thorn.''

Oliver's lip involuntarily curls up in disgust. Ugh. Winchester. Admittedly, he has been doing his best not to think about that complication. It's bad enough that Dean knows he's the Arrow. Oliver really does not like the idea of having to deal with that guy on the regular. Laurel, he can deal with. He knows her. She's not as unpredictable as people think.

Dean's the wild card.

Lyla looks confused. ''What about him?''

''We don't exactly see eye to eye on certain things,'' Oliver says. His attempt to be diplomatic lasts for that one single sentence. ''He's an ass. And possibly unstable.''

''He sprayed Oliver with a garden hose once,'' Felicity says.

''And punched him in the face,'' Roy tacks on.

Lyla swings her gaze over to Oliver. ''What'd you do to the guy?''

''Nothing,'' Oliver says. ''Laurel and I got - We had a - a spat,'' he gets out. ''Dean took it personally. He's hot headed like that. Deranged, really.''

''Ah, yes, because you're so level headed and calm.''

''I'm torn on the husband,'' Felicity says. ''On the one hand, there are obviously some legitimate concerns there. On the other hand, he's so gorgeous I want to cry.''

''Okay, that's...'' Oliver rolls his eyes. ''A gross overstatement.''

''You have a problem,'' Roy says to Felicity, shaking his head.

''What?!'' She yelps out defensively. ''He's an attractive man. We all know that!''

''He's not even - He's fine,'' Oliver grouches.

''No, seriously,'' Roy goes on, eyes still locked on Felicity. ''When's the last time you had a date?''

''I...I will admit it has... Been awhile.''

''Maybe try eHarmony? Or speed dating. You talk fast. That seems like it would be great for you.''

''You're not the first person to suggest that to me, actually. Do you think it would be a good idea?''

''He's adequate,'' Oliver says, totally ignoring Roy and Felicity's conversation. ''Average, even. There are plenty of better looking men out there. Look at Dig! Now this is an attractive man.''

''Agreed,'' Lyla says with a sunny smile.

John takes it in stride, clapping Oliver on the shoulder. ''Nice of you to notice, man.''

''What about me?'' Roy asks. ''Do you think I'm attractive?''

Oliver huffs. ''You're a baby,'' he says flatly.

''Aww,'' Lyla leans over to pinch Roy's cheeks. ''A baby!''

''For the record,'' Felicity says, ''the husband wasn't what I was going to bring up. I get that she's your friend, but how certain are we that she's trustworthy? That's my only issue. I want to make sure this team is safe.''

''We're safe,'' Oliver says. ''I trust her.''

''Then why didn't you tell her you were the Arrow?''

''Because I was trying to protect her.''

''Look, she seems like a good person,'' she says. ''And I know she says she's on our side, but she's also extremely smart and kind of, well, cunning.'' She looks uneasy when she says that, especially when she notices the way his jaw tightens, but she doesn't back down. ''Let's not forget that she hunted you, Oliver. For months.''

''That was before she knew who I was,'' he says, brushing it off.

''But does that matter?'' Felicity insists. ''She was determined to catch you. And she would have. Have we all just forgotten about that? The only reason you're not in jail - or, more likely, a padded cell - is because Sara intervened. How do we know Laurel's not playing the long game in order to finish what she started?''

He sighs tiredly. ''She's not.''

''I don't know,'' Roy says, albeit reluctantly. ''Felicity might have a point.''

''Even if she's not playing you, she could turn on you,'' John says. ''Just like she did before. If you piss her off, there's nothing stopping her from turning you into the cops. And you will piss her off. You do that. It's what you do.''

''It's not what I - ''

''Bringing her into this is a big risk,'' Felicity says. ''You have to know that.''

''It's a risk having all of you around,'' Oliver says. ''This isn't any different.''

''Except it is and you know it.''

''She's not going to turn on us.''

John and Felicity do not look satisfied with that. ''How can you be so sure?'' John asks.

Oliver's grip on the bottle of beer he's still nursing tightens. He's not going to say this out loud, but that's a dumb question. ''Because I know Laurel,'' he says, and that should be the end of it. Because he does. He has to. If there is one thing he knows, it's Laurel Lance. Like the back of his hand. Laurel is beautiful and bold and brave. She's idealistic and optimistic and a hopeless romantic at heart. He loves that about her. She sees the world in a way he wishes he could. She believes so deeply in the good in people. If she didn't, she wouldn't have stayed with him for so long.

Laurel likes trashy reality television and pulpy primetime dramas, but hates procedural cop shows. Her music tastes range from Fleetwood Mac and David Bowie to Britney Spears and the Spice Girls to random one hit wonders from the 80's and 90's. She cannot handle horror of any kind in fiction, be it movies or television shows or books, and she cannot cook to save her life. She tries, god love her, but the only thing she has ever successfully made is boxed mac and cheese. And apple tarts. There is not a soul in the world who can resist Laurel's apple tarts. She makes them every fall, and sometimes at Christmas, and they are amazing. He has no idea how she manages to produce such perfect desserts when she can barely boil water, but her apple tarts are delicious and highly addictive.

She is a proud workaholic, often arriving before everyone else and almost always staying later than anyone else. She puts 110% of herself into everything she does. That's who she is. She tries harder than anyone else he has ever met.

Her family is the center of her world and if you are ever lucky enough to fall into that category then you should know that you have won the lottery and you should do whatever is in your power to stay there. And you should bring her flowers. You should always bring her flowers.

He should have brought her flowers more often.

Laurel is the best part of Oliver. She's been the best part of him since they were fourteen years old. He first saw her at school. He remembers her hair was pulled back by a yellow headband and her shoes were white and when he saw her, it was like waking up. She is the only constant in his life. She's home. It doesn't matter if they're together, if they're friends, if she hates him. He knows her.

She is someone fiercely loyal and endlessly kind and unapologetically, boldly, loudly loving and she deserves, more than anything, to be happy. But she never will be. Not as long as there is injustice in the world and people to help. Her happiness has never been a priority for her. Her number one priority is, has always been, will always be: make it better.

So, no. No, he doesn't think they have to worry about her turning on them. Their goals are the same. They want the same thing for this city. Even if they didn't, taking him down would mean taking down Felicity and her puppy dog eyes, Roy, a kid from the Glades, and John, a soon-to-be father. She would never do that. If she did, she wouldn't be Laurel.

''I just don't get how you can brush off this past year like it was nothing,'' Felicity says, and he gets the feeling they're not just talking about Laurel anymore. They're talking about Slade. They're talking about his mother.

He doesn't know how to tell them that his grief over everything that has happened is not theirs to have.

''You guys,'' Lyla interjects, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head so she can stare at them. ''I'm so bored with this conversation.'' When they all just sort of stare at her, unsure how to react to that, she remains unapologetic. ''You sound like you don't want another girl in your super secret clubhouse and I'm getting annoyed.'' She points at John. ''Especially with you. You know better.''

''Lyla - ''

''If Laurel Lance wants to help your team, you take the help.'' She lets her sunglasses fall back into place. ''Let her earn a place at your table. If she truly was that close to catching this one,'' she jerks a thumb in Oliver's direction, ''before she even knew who he was, that seems like a damn good reason to keep her close. Make her your ally instead of your enemy because it sure doesn't sound like you want her for an enemy. This boy,'' she looks over at Roy, ''seems like he doesn't care which way this goes - ''

''I go both ways,'' he confirms with a nod and a shit-eating grin.

''But you two,'' Lyla looks in between John and Felicity. ''Are you going to give up this potential ally just because she's his ex, her husband has a temper, and you're afraid it might be awkward?'' She scoffs at them, waving a hand dismissively. ''Please. You want my advice? Grow up. Teams expand. Did you think it was just going to be the three of you forever?''

Oliver takes a sip of his beer and tries not to look too smug. Interpersonal issues like this is one of the many reasons he sometimes regrets bringing other people into this. He knows that, logically speaking, he needs some backup, but people are so annoying with all their emotions and stuff. Feelings get in the way of everything. It's all unnecessary baggage in a situation like this.

He looks over at John and Felicity. They both look sufficiently put in their place, but he knows their doubts about Laurel haven't gone anywhere. They won't be swayed for awhile. Not completely. He trusts Laurel will win them over because, you know, she's Laurel, but only time will tell.

Roy leans over to Lyla and extends his hand, offering her a square of chocolate that he has pulled seemingly out of nowhere. ''Chocolate?''

With that, the mood and the topic of conversation takes an abrupt left turn. Felicity lets out an extremely dramatic gasp and her entire body goes ramrod straight, stiffening up in what looks to be total and complete panic. ''Oliver.'' She reaches for him blindly, managing to grab his shirt in her fist. ''Oliver, I forgot about dessert.''

''Okay.'' He tries, briefly and unsuccessfully, to detangle her hand from his shirt. ''Well, there's fruit.''

''Fruit's not a dessert,'' she moans out despairingly. ''I can't believe I forgot about dessert. Who has a barbeque without sweet things?''

''What about me?'' Roy spreads his arms wide. ''I'm a sweet thing.''

''It's not that big of a deal, Felicity,'' John says comfortingly, placing a hand on her shoulder. ''We don't need - ''

''Popsicles!'' She blurts out. ''I think I have popsicles.''

''Ooooh, popsicles,'' Lyla nods in approval. ''I could go for a popsicle right about now. Do you have any red ones?''

From inside, barely audible, they can hear the sound of someone knocking on the front door. ''That must be Laurel,'' Felicity says. She turns to look inside for a second and then whirls around to face Oliver again, looking frighteningly determined. ''If she has some kind of dessert, I will 100% accept her as our new teammate, never bring up the whole ''hunting you down like a rabid dog'' thing, and I will also name my first born after her.''

''Well, there you go,'' Roy announces cheerfully, watching her hurry inside. ''Situation's been resolved. Happy endings all around. Unless Laurel doesn't have dessert. Then Felicity might snap and go full Nightmare Next Door on her.''

John furrows his brow. ''What?''

''It's a true crime show. I watch it all the time. Consequently, I have trust issues.''

''Oh yeah,'' Oliver says sarcastically, ''I'm sure that's the reason for your trust issues.'' He glances over at the house, looking through the glass panels of Felicity's back door. He can just manage to see Laurel and Felicity down the hall. It's not the best vantage point, but he can see that Laurel is wearing a pink dress, she has her daughter on her hip, and she's smiling. He looks at her for a minute, watching her smile.

Then he looks at Felicity, flowers in her hand, smiling back.

He is not fourteen anymore. He's not running after Laurel Lance. Running after her now would be like running in place. He can admit that having her in close quarters might be strange at first. He will even admit that there is a decent chance she could step on toes. She's...opinionated. She's not afraid to speak her mind. There is no doubt in his mind that she could get on their nerves. He just doesn't care.

Now that Laurel knows he's the Arrow, there is no version of this story where she stays out of this. That's not her. She's Laurel. She sticks her nose in where it doesn't belong and she nags and hounds and chases down danger like a dog chasing a bone because that is what she does.

If it means helping people, she jumps. If he can keep her close, jump with her, then maybe he will be able to protect her. That's the goal. That's why he's bringing her into this. He wants her safe. He wants her protected. He doesn't want her to end up like his mother.

She deserves better than that.

Maybe, if he's successful, he can give her that.

.

.

.

November, 2016

''What time is your flight tomorrow?''

''Seven,'' says Felicity. She leans forward in her seat to fiddle with the radio. ''Bright and early.'' She scrunches her nose up in that endearingly perplexed way of hers when all she gets from the radio is static, classical music, and what sounds like a telenovela that is completely in Spanish.

Oliver focuses his eyes back on the dark, tree-lined road stretching out in front of them. Something moves in the thick forest on either side of the car. It feels like there is always something moving in the woods. Reflexively, he eases off the gas pedal and flips on the high beams. ''Do you need a ride to the airport?'' He asks, trying to switch off his mounting unease.

''Billy's taking me.'' Felicity opts for the telenovela, turning up the volume and settling back in her seat. She appears to be listening intently to it. She does not know a single word of Spanish.

Oliver takes that to mean she doesn't want to talk to her ex-fiancé about her new boyfriend. Guess that's not unreasonable. ''You and your mom have anything special planned for Thanksgiving?''

She looks at him strangely, but ultimately chooses to humor him. ''Let's see,'' she begins. ''I'm going to go home, my mom's going to burn the turkey and spend the entire time pointedly not talking about Captain Lance and instead talking incessantly about you - ''

''Me?''

''She wants us to get back together.''

''Does she know you're seeing someone else?''

''That hardly matters,'' she scoffs. ''She thinks we're soulmates.''

''Soulmates,'' he echoes dumbly.

Right, yeah, okay, that does sound like Donna Smoak.

''Anyway,'' she waves that off. ''Then we'll eat store bought pie and she'll cave and ask how Captain Lance is doing and then she'll get sad and I'll have to agree to go to Ladies Night at the Bellagio to cheer her up and it will be one of the most awkward experiences of my life.''

Oliver blinks. He's not sure what to say to any of that so he just says, ''Huh.''

She nods her head. ''Yep,'' she agrees, popping the 'p.' ''But on the bright side, she did just get a new puppy. His name is Mortimer. He's a Pomeranian. So. At least the puppy cuddles will be nice. I'll send you pictures.''

He stares at the road. Then, ''Mortimer?''

She laughs and says, ''Don't ask. Be glad I managed to talk her out of Eugene.''

A smile crosses his face. ''Well, I hope you have fun with Mortimer. And Ladies Night.''

''Oh yeah, it'll be a real laugh riot,'' she says. She lights up instantly and looks over at him hopefully. ''Unless you need me to stay.''

''No, no,'' he shakes his head. ''It's a holiday. You should go home. Spend time with your mom.'' What he doesn't say is, I would give anything to spend Thanksgiving with my mom. He tries to swallow that thought down. ''Is Billy going with you?''

''No,'' she says, adamant. ''We are definitely not there yet. Gotta really hook him before I expose him to my mother,'' she jokes.

He chuckles and then, before he can stop himself, he asks, ''How's that going anyway? Aside from your mother's meddling.''

''Oh, you know.'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''It's...good. I think.''

''You think?''

''I mean, I like him,'' she says. ''I really like him. I think one day down the road I could even...'' She looks out the window for a moment. ''But I'm also constantly lying to him and that makes me feel like a jerk. And he's a cop too, which complicates things even more considering I'm technically engaging in illegal activities every night. With my ex-fiancé.''

''I'm also the Mayor,'' he tacks on helpfully. ''So kind of his boss.''

''Yes,'' she says. ''Thank you for adding on that complication.''

''You're welcome,'' he says lightly. He's not going to say this out loud because he doesn't want to make her feel bad and he very much does not want to piss her off but she does have a tendency to choose the most complicated relationships possible.

''I don't know,'' she sighs, looking down at her hands. ''Sometimes I wonder if it's even possible for people like us to have healthy relationships outside of - ''

''Each other?''

''Yes.'' Her eyes widen behind her glasses and she shrinks away from him, looking panicked. ''I mean no! When I say...each other... I don't - I don't mean like - Not you and me each other,'' she stutters, gesturing between them ''Because, wow, did that ever not go well. I just mean - ''

''Other people in the know.''

''Exactly.'' She slumps back in her seat. She's silent for a minute and so he is, keeping an eye out for the turn off. ''You know,'' she starts. ''I used to be so jealous of Laurel.''

He glances at her. ''Really?''

''Sure,'' she says. ''From where I was standing, she had it all. Gorgeous Laurel. Got to have her cake and eat it too. She worked with us and in the DA's office and she got to go home every night to her Disney Princess daughter and her super supportive really, really hot husband - ''

His expression sours. ''Well, that's...a bit much...''

''Who, might I add, despite your issues with him, seemed like a full on ten at the time.''

''I think that's overstating things.''

''She got to help people and have a picture perfect suburban home life.''

''When you think about it nobody's ever truly a ten...''

''But turns out her life? Not so normal. Not normal at all actually. Even before you started this, she was not living a normal life because the hot - ''

''You don't have to keep pointing out how attractive he is.''

'' - Stay at home husband is some sort of scarily competent supernatural action hero - ''

''I don't know if I would call him an action hero.''

'' - And she has super powers - ''

''He's more like a sidekick. One of the really annoying ones.''

'' - And honestly, she's sort of a mess. I mean no disrespect when I say that,'' she hurries to add. ''I love her all the more for her very human messiness.''

''He's like that horse from that movie.''

At that, Felicity stops cold and then slowly turns her head to stare at him. ''Excuse me?''

''Dean,'' Oliver says. ''He's like that annoying horse from Tangled.''

She stares at him for a long time. ''Okay,'' she finally says, and then pauses to shake her head. ''I have a lot of questions but for now let's just go with - you have time to watch Disney movies but not Stranger Things?''

''Disney movies put me to sleep,'' he says. ''And why do people keep pestering me about Stranger Things? It's like I can't get away from that show.''

''Anyway,'' she says. ''What I was saying earlier before you made everything all weird - ''

''I didn't make things weird.''

'' - Is that nobody's life is normal and perfect, but especially not lives like ours. Not with the lives we lead. I think we all gave that up when we chose this life and sometimes I wonder if I'm making things harder for myself by trying to force my relationships to be normal and perfect when I know I can't have those things.''

Oliver is halfway tempted to ask if she even wants normal and perfect but, selfishly, he doesn't want to know the answer.

''Sorry.'' She tosses him a sheepish smile. ''I went off on a tangent there.''

He smiles at her. ''I like your tangents.''

''My point is that all the successful couples I know are in this creepy crap together,'' she says. ''But with Billy...'' A breath leaves her lungs in a whoosh. ''I hate all the lies and I can't help but worry that I might be putting him in danger just by being with him. But,'' she gestures to nothing, ''on the other hand, if I don't date outside of our freaky little group who am I supposed to date? Thea? I can't go through siblings. That's your thing.''

''It's not my thing,'' he responds, and then flings her a look of horror. ''Do people think that's my thing?''

She smirks at him, adjusting her glasses.

He looks back at the road. ''If it helps,'' he offers after a minute. ''I think Dean's brother is single.''

Her eyebrows knit together.

''I'm joking,'' he says. ''I joke. I'm a jokester.''

She gives him a flat look. ''Since when?''

''Ouch.''

She grins at that and leans in to fiddle with the radio again, switching over to the classical music station.

He keeps his eyes on the road, speeding past the wet and dreary Pacific Northwest woods.

''I guess,'' she starts, and then sighs. ''Part of me wonders if I should even be with him. I worry about him getting hurt or in trouble because of me. I just...really like him.''

Sounds like every relationship he's had since he put on that hood. ''Maybe that should be all that matters for now,'' he says gently. ''You can figure out the rest later.''

She looks over at him, looking mildly surprised that he is the one offering her this wisdom, and then she smiles softly. ''Maybe.''

They travel along in silence for another couple of minutes and then he asks, extremely hesitant, ''Is he... You know... Nice to you?''

''Nice to me?'' She frowns curiously. ''You mean like in bed?''

Oliver actually has to take a minute there. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, wondering how on earth he can still be surprised by her. ''...I meant in general.''

Felicity, who has melted into a puddle of instant regret, slouches in the passenger seat and refuses to look at him. She flings a hand over her beet red face. ''Yes,'' she squeaks out, sounding mortified. ''He's nice to me.''

''Okay then.'' He decides the best course of action is to just not say anything else. ''Good talk.''

She doesn't move her hand from in front of her face, but she peeks through her fingers and uses her free hand to point out something ahead of them. ''Turn here.''

Oh, thank god.

He turns down the narrow driveway nearly hidden by trees and pushes away the nagging feeling of apprehension. He is not overly fond of forests. He never has been, but his time on Lian Yu didn't exactly help. Sure, he learned to compartmentalize but you know what else he learned? The trees have eyes. There are too many unknowns in the thick forest. Too many hiding places. It's impossible to clear. To know if you're safe.

The thick, disorienting fog blanketing the ground tonight does nothing to ease his concern nor does the drizzling rain. It's as if nature has conspired against him to make tonight as spine chilling as possible. The abandoned campground full of dilapidated and run down cabins that they've set the Moretti kids up in is about an hour outside the city, way out in the boonies. Nowhere anyone would think to look for them. Especially not people who aren't originally from Star City like Marlene and Dante.

He wouldn't say he's regretting the location - he was the one who jumped on it when Lance suggested it - but he is regretting heading out here this late. They should have planned better. It's almost midnight. Maybe if the stupid mall hadn't been a torturous hellscape, they would've been on the road sooner. His lips tighten ever so slightly but he tries his best to keep a blank, stoic look on his face. He keeps his eyes straight ahead of him as he eases the car down the winding gravel driveway. Maybe it's not the woods themselves that get to him. Maybe it's just that the damp, eerily quiet greenery reminds him too much of that damn island.

Around one bend, there is a sign nestled in the overgrowth. He's been here before - just once, years ago with the Lance family - and he knows that the sign is meant to be a cheerful encouragement. An arrow pointing to the entrance and red block letters that once read, DON'T TURN BACK NOW, CAMPERS! YOU'RE ALMOST THERE!

Unfortunately, over ten years' worth of untrimmed weeds have nearly swallowed the sign whole. Now it only reads one simple, ominous warning in faded, bleeding red letters:

TURN BACK

...It doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

''Oh, that's good,'' Felicity speaks up. She's going for sarcasm, he can tell, but her voice sounds hushed and there is a nervous waver to it. ''That's great. Not a bad omen at all. I feel totally comfortable right now. Not at all unsettled. Why would I feel unsettled? Do you feel unsettled?'' She asks him, only to immediately answer for him. ''No, of course you don't feel unsettled. You're never unsettled.''

''I'm not unsettled,'' he agrees, even though he is, he has to admit, a little unsettled. ''It's just a supply run, Felicity. We'll be in and out before you know it.''

After a minute or two longer of nothing but forest and gravel crunching under his tires, the trees open up and another sign - this one proclaiming WELCOME HOME in those trademark faded red letters - beckons them into the empty campground. Rows of decrepit cabins and vacant spaces meant for RVs and tents dot the landscape and just inside the entrance, next to the old office building, there is a car waiting for them. It's Lance.

Now he does not look the least bit unsettled.

He's sitting in his car with the door open, casually finishing up a cup of coffee. He looks comfortable even. He should be. He knows this place. This is where he and Mrs. Lance - or Ms. Drake - Professor Drake? - took the girls camping every summer.

Oliver doesn't have the same familiarity with the area. He's only been here once, back when he was seventeen and invited on the Lance family camping trip. He was not exactly a wilderness person. He spent two days complaining and then called his mother and got her to send a car for him. ...Sometimes he's not sure why Laurel stayed with him as long as she did. He was such a little shit.

He pulls the car into the entrance and Felicity is climbing out before he even cuts the engine. ''Hi, Captain Lance,'' she greets, cheerful, apparently over her previous nervousness. ''Spooky night, huh?''

The barest hint of a smile flickers on his lips when he sees her. Turns out no one is immune to Felicity Smoak's charm. ''You don't have to call me that, Smoak. I'm not the Captain anymore.''

''Yeah,'' she shrugs, ''but we like you so you'll always be the Captain of our hearts.'' She reaches out to pat his arm. ''Plus, Captain Mitchell's kind of a turkey.''

''Ike Mitchell is a dear friend of mine,'' Lance says, completely deadpan.

Felicity's eyes widen and her mouth forms an 'o' shape, cheeks reddening in embarrassment. ''Oh, well, I mean, I guess - I guess he's not a total dud. He can be - ''

''Nah, I'm just kidding,'' Lance says, lips curving into a smile. ''Guy's a miserable bastard.'' Wow.

Quentin Lance just made a joke.

Stop the presses.

''Have you been waiting long?'' Oliver asks, jumping into the conversation, coming to stand next to Felicity. There's a chill in the night air, the sharply cold promise of winter. When he speaks, his breath hangs in the air like thin wisps of smoke.

''A few minutes,'' says Lance. ''I've been preparing myself,'' he adds on with a long suffering sigh. ''I don't know how much time you've spent with these kids but I was here the other day and I can tell you they're annoying as all hell. They bicker like an old married couple.''

''They do seem sort of...enmeshed,'' Felicity says. She takes her phone out of her pocket and peers down at the screen unhappily. ''Oh, neat. No cell reception. That's fun.'' She slides her phone back in her pocket and looks up at Oliver. ''We really are in a horror movie.''

''We're not in a horror movie,'' he soothes. ''Everything's fine. We're just dropping off some food.''

''I hope you brought a lot of food,'' Lance says - more like grumbles. ''That boy eats like...'' He pauses, blinking. ''Well, a twenty year old ex-football player, I guess.''

''Hope he likes canned beans and Funyuns,'' Felicity chirps. ''Because that's basically all we got them.''

''We didn't just get them Funyuns,'' Oliver protests.

''No, no, of course not.'' She smiles brightly. ''We also got them protein bars, Red Bull, various types of jerky, and some saltines.''

''And gum!''

Felicity and Lance both turn to look at Oliver.

''...I don't know why that was an important add on,'' he admits.

''I'm about 98% sure Oliver just loaded up the car with his bachelor groceries.''

Lance looks at him dubiously. ''You eat crap like that and still look like,'' he gestures toward him, ''that?''

''I know,'' Felicity moans. ''Don't you hate him a little? His diet basically consists of coffee, Red Bull, gum, and whatever he can shove in his mouth the quickest and he still looks like Adonis. I ate Chipotle for lunch one time and somebody asked me if I was pregnant.''

''I work out,'' Oliver says.

''So do I.''

''I work out...a lot.''

''Is that all you brought?'' Lance asks, choosing to ignore every part of that. ''Funyuns and jerky?'' At their silence, he sighs heavily - again - and gives them both a look that makes them feel like naughty children being scolded by their dad. He does that a lot.

''We tried to pick up some sleeping bags,'' Oliver says. ''But the mall - ''

''I brought sleeping bags,'' Lance says. ''Sleeping bags, warm clothes, more blankets, flashlights and batteries, first aid kit, a few cases of bottled water, and I picked up some food because Hanna Moretti is a diabetic and needs to eat something other than jerky and gum. Didn't think you'd remember that.''

Well. Good call. Because Oliver had definitely forgotten that.

Felicity looks over at Oliver. ''That all sounds way better than Funyuns and Red Bull,'' she says. ''In my defense, I have never camped before so I have no idea what's needed. Does my mother look like someone who took her daughter camping?''

...No. No, she does not.

''How is your mother?'' Lance asks politely.

''Oh, she's good,'' she smiles. ''She's got a dog now. His name is Mortimer.''

''Mortimer?''

''Yeah, it's a thing.''

For a second, Oliver's worried things are about to get incredibly uncomfortable. That is generally the way things tend to go whenever Lance's ill-fated romance with Donna Smoak is mentioned. Nobody ever talks about it and it's widely accepted that the reason they broke up was because he was having a hard time coping with Laurel's death, he was drinking again, and Donna simply couldn't help him, but it's also widely known that the real reason for the breakup had something to do with his ex-wife.

Tonight, thankfully, Lance moves right past it. ''Cabin nine,'' he says, and then turns around and gets back into his car.

''Oh, I guess we're getting back in the car now,'' Felicity says, hurrying back around to the passenger side of the car. ''I didn't even get to ask him how Laurel's doing,'' she says once she settles back in her seat.

''She's fine,'' Oliver says automatically. ''Better. We had lunch today.''

Felicity swivels around to look at him. ''You had lunch with Laurel?''

''We did. She came by. We...talked.''

She gapes at him as the car eases through the fog. ''And you didn't mention this until now?''

''It didn't come up until now.'' He keeps his eyes on the red rearview lights of Lance's car in front of him.

Felicity drops the issue. It's uncharacteristic for her. He knows she desperately wants to push for more information but, for whatever reason, she doesn't. He's grateful for that. He's still trying to process his afternoon with Laurel, to be honest. It's not something he particularly wants to talk about right now. Certainly not with his ex-fiancée.

The cabin the Moretti kids are set up in is the last one on the row, down at the far end of the campground, at the edge of the woods. Oliver scans the cabins on the left side and the dark woods on the right as they pass by. When Lance rolls to a stop in front of cabin number nine, Oliver follows suit, looks over at the cabin - and that heavy, ominous feeling of dread comes crashing down.

''Um,'' Felicity says, looking at the wide open door of the cabin. ''That can't be a good sign.''

Oliver straightens his shoulders, sets his jaw, and the Green Arrow clicks into place. ''Stay here,'' he orders shortly, pushing open his door.

''But - ''

''Felicity,'' he barks out impatiently. ''Stay in the car.'' He yanks the keys out of the ignition, grabs his quiver from the backseat, and shuts the door behind him. He hits the button on the key fob to lock the doors and sends Felicity one last sharp look.

She glares at him through the window. He can't tell if the heated look in her eyes is anger or incredulity, but he doesn't care.

''Don't suppose they just opened the door to get some fresh air,'' Lance says dryly. He's already drawn his weapon, checking to see how many rounds he has left.

''I'm thinking not.'' Oliver moves ahead of him to creep up the steps. The top step creaks under his weight and his heart stutters in his chest at the noise. Slowly, bow and arrow at the ready, with Lance right behind him, he enters the cabin.

The space is small, cold, and dark, lit only by a small battery operated camping lantern. The whole place is in disarray. Broken glass, overturned furniture, and blood. A lot of blood. Splatters on the wall, on the floor, and there are droplets making a trail that leads out of the tiny living room and down the narrow hallway.

Oliver's first thought is friendly fire, honestly. He doesn't know these witches. He trusts them even less. He's grateful for what the girl did for Laurel, but she and her family were involved in some shady crap. He has no idea what she and her brother are capable of. They seem freakishly devoted to each other, but blood turns on blood all the time.

His second thought is, But they're witches, though. This may not be his wheelhouse, but he feels like if they were going to turn on each other they would just hex each other or something. It would be far less bloody.

He glances behind him at Lance, nodding at the blood.

Lance gestures down the hall and mouths, ''Bedroom. Right.''

Oliver tries to be as quiet as possible as they make their way down the hallway. With all this evidence of a violent attack, he's convinced he's going to find one or both of these kids dead. The question is whether the attacker is still in the cabin. And who that attacker is. As fucked up as it is, his money's on their father or their uncle.

There is only one bedroom in this cabin. It's tiny and smells like mothballs, dirt, and mold. It's empty except for the shotgun propped up beside the door that they didn't even have a chance to use, the disgusting yellowed mattress on the floor, and the bloodied body of Mattie Moretti lying beside it.

''Son of a - ''

Lance immediately holsters his weapon and rushes over to the kid. Oliver lowers his weapon reluctantly, inches closer, and -

Mattie's eyes snap open. There is a split second of unnerving silence and then he makes this wet, drawn out gasping noise that just sounds painful. The suddenness catches Lance off guard. Even Oliver startles. Mattie is in bad shape. There's a bullet wound in his shoulder, one in his gut, and he's choking on the blood. His skin is ashen, nearly gray, and he's gurgling. He is going to die. He's dying right now.

Oliver understands death. He knows what the rattle of it sounds like. He remembers the way his father's body smelled after a few days, Tommy's ashen skin, his mother's wet gasp, the way Laurel choked and gurgled, the gruesome bloody sight of Shado's body.

''Oh my god.''

He whirls around, drawing back his bow.

Felicity jumps at the sight of the arrow pointed at her, putting her hands up, but it's only for a second. Then she just looks annoyed.

''I told you to stay in the car,'' he snaps, lowering the weapon.

''Turns out you can't actually lock someone in a car,'' she responds. She doesn't say anything else. Just rushes past Oliver to help Lance with Mattie.

Oliver decides it's best to let them handle the first aid and the compassion. He's got his mind on other things. Like where the hell Hanna is. Or the window. He doesn't like that window. He clears the rest of the cabin, checking the small bathroom, the living room and kitchenette again, even the tiny linen closet. It's not a huge space. There's nowhere to hide. He checks the entire place twice anyway. He has no idea what witches can do. He has no idea what to expect. He doesn't even know if his arrows would do anything.

When he heads back to the bedroom, Felicity is down on her knees next to Lance, using her coat to stop the flow of blood. On the ground, glassy eyed and getting paler by the second, Mattie is groaning loudly, blood dribbling out of his mouth. Felicity and Lance are trying to comfort him, but he doesn't seem to care about their platitudes.

''H-Hanna,'' he gasps out, and Oliver snaps to attention. ''You have to...'' He swallows down blood. ''Help her.''

''Where is she?'' Oliver asks. ''Did someone take her?''

Mattie struggles to get words out around the blood in his mouth. ''R-Ran. I...I told...her.''

''You told her to run,'' Felicity translates.

He nods.

''That's good,'' Lance tells him. ''You probably gave her a good head start.''

''Mattie,'' Oliver says. ''Who did this?''

Mattie's mouth works silently for a few torturous seconds before he's finally able to get out, ''Mask.''

Oliver and Felicity share a look.

''The...The person was wearing a mask?'' She asks.

''Man or woman?'' Oliver questions.

Mattie doesn't answer the questions. Oliver's not sure he can. ''Please,'' the kid gets out. ''Please.''

Felicity looks pale and distressed. All Oliver wants to do is get her out of here. But she wouldn't leave. She's stubborn and stupidly brave like that. He watches her move her bloodstained hands away from Mattie's wounds, halting her futile attempts to save his life. She takes his hand instead. Curls her fingers around his cold hand and then cuts her eyes to Oliver. ''Go.''

''Felicity.''

''Go,'' she orders. She looks over at Lance. ''Both of you. Find Hanna. I'll stay with him. He shouldn't be alone.''

He shouldn't die alone, is what she doesn't say.

Oliver hesitates. It's just for a second. Then he looks to Lance. ''Check out the back and then clear the surrounding cabins. See if she's hiding in one. Be on the lookout for - ''

''A masked gunman,'' Lance finishes, rising to his feet. ''Got it.'' He looks down at Mattie, clearly reluctant to leave the poor kid, and then at Oliver. ''Be careful.''

Oliver nods shortly, grabbing the shotgun by the door. ''Lock the door behind us. Stay away from the window.'' He hands Felicity the gun. ''Shoot anyone that isn't us.''

And then he's gone.

He stays just long enough to hear her throw the lock on the door and then he's racing out the front door and down the steps. He scans the forest's edge, listening for something, anything, searching for any trace of Hanna Moretti. ''It had to be the woods,'' he mutters, slinging his quiver over his shoulder. He trudges into the dense, dark trees, leaving the cabin and the wide open, moonlit space behind.

He fucking hates the woods.

The forest muddies your senses. It confuses the rhythm of his body. There are a thousand eyes in the trees. It's hard to tell nature from danger. He stalks through the darkness on high alert, trying to avoid the branches on the ground. The quiet unnerves. It gets thicker as he weaves deeper into the trees. The trees muffle even the wind. They keep the moonlight out. Anything could happen here. Nobody would hear it. Nobody would see it.

There is a rustling noise from behind him and he whirls around, weapon drawn. Some small furry creature ambles along the foggy forest floor, harmless and completely indifferent to Oliver's presence. His lips tighten in annoyance, but he does relax, lowering his bow and arrow. Then -

A sharp crack pierces the heavy silence. A gunshot.

He doesn't even think twice. He takes off running, barreling through the brush in the direction of the gunshot. Up ahead, there is a small clearing in the trees, just enough for the moonlight to cut through and catch the two people there.

He approaches as silently as he can, staying hidden behind the trees.

Hanna is on the ground, crying, desperately trying to crawl away from her attacker, her fingernails clawing at the dirt. She's hurt and he can see that her blonde hair is matted with blood, but he can't tell how bad it is from here. The man standing above her with a gun in his hand is dressed in all black. Oliver can just make out the hood pulled over the man's head. A black ski mask with white concentric circles on it.

Holy shit.

Oliver ducks back behind the tree. It's the vigilante serial killer Barry called to warn him about. The one Laurel blasted out of Iris West's house. What did he call himself?

Onomatopoeia.

Oliver clenches his teeth. Great, now this psychopath is tied up in all this? When he pulled his disappearing act after Laurel unleashed her Cry on him, Barry sent out an alert to all vigilantes. Told them to watch their backs because this guy could strike at any time. The thought had been that he was most likely injured and possibly holed up somewhere recovering. Maybe that's not what happened. Maybe he just found other employment.

Oliver has been expecting him to show up. Star City would be an appealing target for a jackass like him. He just hadn't expected him to pop up like this.

When Hanna lets out a pitiful sounding shriek, he peeks around the tree. Onomatopoeia is yanking her toward him by the ankle. She scrambles to grab at something, pulling at the leaves and the dirt. ''Please,'' she's sobbing. ''Please don't.'' She sounds terrified and so, so young. Eighteen years old, he reminds himself. She is only eighteen years old. Somewhere in between Thea and William. A powerful witch, but still a kid.

He runs through his options. He waits a second longer than he'd like to, just long enough to line up a shot. He draws in a breath as he draws back his bow, and then he releases. The arrow sails through the air with a whoosh. It should take one second for it to hit its intended target. Less than.

In that one millisecond, Onomatopoeia stiffens, stands straight, turns, and catches the arrow. In less than a fucking second, he turns and he catches the speeding arrow with one hand. It is inches away from his eye and he just plucks it from midair effortlessly.

Oliver halts, lips parting in shock.

All right.

He did not see that one coming.

Onomatopoeia looks at the arrow in his hand curiously. Then he snaps it in half. Also with one hand.

Oliver's gut twists in alarm. That is...not right.

Onomatopoeia raises his gun, a standard issue Glock by the looks of it, and fires.

Oliver ducks back behind the tree, narrowly avoiding the bullet that whizzes right past his ear. ''Damn it,'' he grinds out.

Thankfully, the momentary distraction of the arrow is enough. When Oliver peeks back out, Hanna's eyes are glowing, illuminating her fear and anger. Without a word, she raises her hands, and twists her wrists in one quick movement. There's a sudden gust of tremendous wind and then a thunderous boom as what looks like lightning bolts are released from her hands. They slam right into Onomatopoeia's chest, sending him crashing back into the leaves and the darkness.

Hanna scrambles to her feet and goes running in Oliver's direction. He doesn't want to lower his weapon at this point, but he does, reaching a hand out and grabbing her around the waist, yanking her to him. She starts to say something but he frantically pulls her to him and puts his hand over her mouth. ''Be quiet,'' he whispers harshly. He tries to peer out around the tree again, but he can't see anything but darkness. He doesn't know where Onomatopoeia is. He doesn't know if he's alive or dead or injured or picking himself up right now and getting ready to strike again. ''What did you do to him?'' He takes the risk and removes his hand, glancing over at her.

''Elemental magic,'' she breathes out, sounding shaky, wheezing slightly. There's blood running from her nose and her face is damp with sweat and tears, but she'll live. ''My mom always tells us not to mess with that stuff, but I didn't know what else to do.'' Fresh tears make tracks down her dirt streaked face. ''My brother,'' she chokes out. ''My brother. He's hurt. We have to - ''

''Hanna.'' He cuts her off, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. He doesn't want to be an ass about this, but he needs her to focus on her own survival right now. ''I know you're scared, but I need you to be quiet and stay behind me.''

She doesn't argue.

He pushes her behind him and raises the bow and arrow again. He still doesn't see Onomatopoeia. There's no rumbling dark shape melting out of the shadows. There's not even the shuffle of feet in the fallen leaves. ''Where...'' Hanna's voice trembles. ''Where did he - ''

A twig snaps behind them and there's a disturbing growl-like noise. Oliver turns, keeping the girl behind him. In the blackened woods, Onomatopoeia is on his feet once more. He's struggling. Whatever Hanna has done to him has left a mark. Blue electric sparks seem to sizzle right out of him, body shuddering and heaving in what looks like pain. But it's not enough. It slows him down. It doesn't stop him.

His body trembles and he hunches over, straining against some invisible bonds, fists clenched, and then the sparks just seem to dissipate. Breathing hard, but free of whatever Hanna did to him, Onomatopoeia snaps his head up. His eyes may be lost in the darkness, face covered with a mask, but it's obvious his focus is on Hanna, and his rage is palpable.

She lets out a soft gasp, her grip on Oliver's jacket tightening.

He is going to go ahead and guess that it's a big deal that this guy has managed to free himself of her elemental magic. ''Hanna,'' he says, voice steady. ''Run.''

''But - ''

''Go!''

She hesitates, loosening her grip, but when Onomatopoeia looks at her, she backs up, and then she runs. The man in black takes a step, as if he is going to run after her. An arrow embeds itself in his shoulder instead. It throws him off, but beyond a grunt and a step back, he shows little signs of injury.

''Onomatopoeia,'' Oliver greets. ''Right?'' He keeps the arrow trained on him. ''That's quite a mouthful.'' His mouth settles into a grim line. ''Care to share what business you have with the Moretti kids?''

Onomatopoeia inclines his head slightly in what appears to be a curious movement.

''Are you working for this witch?'' Oliver demands, taking a step in the other man's direction.

There is no reaction to that. Onomatopoeia does not seem at all intimidated by the arrow pointed at his jugular or the man pointing it at him. He hasn't charged after Hanna either, but he's clearly not fearing for his life. Judging by his body language, he almost seems...entertained. He stares at Oliver for an unnerving amount of time, not attacking, not even moving, and then he wraps a gloved hand around the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

Oliver thinks this dude might actually be insane. ''I wouldn't recommend - ''

Onomatopoeia pulls out the arrow without so much as a groan.

Definitely insane.

It's hard to tell much about him in this darkness; what he looks like, how big he is under all that tactical gear he's swathed in, how many weapons he has, even how tall he is. Oliver doesn't even know what his voice sounds like. His jaw ticks. That really irritates him. ''I'll ask again,'' he bites out impatiently. ''What do you want with - ''

Onomatopoeia puts a finger to his lips and whispers, barely audible, ''Sshh.''

Just like that, Oliver's voice is gone.

He tries to form words, he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He tries to clear his throat. Still nothing. He does not, in all honesty, need his voice and the loss shouldn't be as distracting as it is, but all he can think is that this is nothing like what Barry warned him about. Barry warned him of a human serial killer. This man is not human. At least not anymore. His shock only lasts about ten seconds, but it's ten seconds too long and he knows that. He knows better. Ten seconds is more than enough time for Onomatopoeia to discard the arrow, pull out his side arm, and start shooting.

Oliver moves as fast as humanly possible, yanking his bow back. The first bullet hits the bow, ripping it out of his hand. The second bullet hits him in the shoulder. The pain is blinding and shocks him enough to send him to the ground. Instinctively, he brings a hand up to his shoulder to put pressure on the wound. Hot blood leaks through his fingers and, for a second, the pain is so bad that his vision blurs. It is not something he has time for. He'll worry about the injuries later.

There are footsteps coming toward him, crunching through the leaves, unhurried and calm. If he dies, so does Laurel. He cannot have that. He gropes around for his quiver, manages to grab an arrow, pulls himself to his feet, and spins around, bringing the arrow down.

Onomatopoeia catches his wrist with an almost lazy kind of ease - and an alarmingly strong grip. He looks mildly inconvenienced at the most. He twists Oliver's wrist until the arrow falls and then he catches it.

Oliver has mere seconds to react. Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, he moves as fast as he can, catching the other man's wrist with both hands. Onomatopoeia is freakishly, unnaturally strong, struggling against his grip, still trying to drive the arrow into Oliver's eye. Oliver has to use every ounce of strength to keep the arrow away from him. Somehow, by some miracle, he manages to get the masked man to drop the arrow. He's not quite fast enough to keep him from grabbing onto his shoulder and pressing down hard on his wound.

The agony is white hot, radiating all the way down his arm to the tips of his fingers. Black spots dance in front of his eyes and he gasps pathetically, unable to scream or speak or anything.

Above the noise of his roaring blood, there is a voice. A laugh. ''I expected better from the notorious Green Arrow.''

Oliver recognizes it instantly. A spike of adrenaline rushes through him and he throws himself forward, using one hand to claw at the mask covering Onomatopoeia's face. Against all odds, he manages to tear the hood off. The sudden unmasking must catch the guy off guard because he lets go and staggers back, turning away like he's trying to hide. Whatever he did to Oliver must wear off in the ensuing shock because when he presses a hand to his wound to keep pressure on it, a groan slips through his lips.

For a second, all is quiet.

He stares at the man in front of him, trying to make sense of what the hell is happening. Onomatopoeia has turned away from him slightly, only his profile visible. In the dark, face obscured by shadows, it's hard to tell what he looks like. Oliver can almost manage to convince that what he heard was just his mind playing tricks on him. The illusion doesn't last long.

The man turns, and Dean Winchester's face stares at him through the darkness.

Oliver gapes in disbelief, breath hanging in the air. ''...Dean?''

Dean - or at least the man that looks like him - doesn't answer. He doesn't look pleased that his mask has been torn off. He looks full of rage. But he looks like Dean. Scruffier than usual, clearly more homicidal, but still undeniably Dean Winchester. He takes one step toward Oliver, one single step, and that is as far as he gets.

''Dean!''

All eyes go to Lance, standing by the edge of the clearing with his gun drawn and trained on Dean. Hanna is standing behind him, eyes fixated on the unmasked attacker, looking torn between terror and utter disbelief.

''Dean'' actually pauses when he sees Lance standing there. For one brief second, he looks shocked. It's not about the gun. It's about the man. He is surprised to see Quentin Lance standing there. Then he smiles. Chuckles lowly. ''Quentin Lance,'' he greets. ''Look at you. Alive and well, huh? This place really is different.''

Lance hesitates with his finger on the trigger. He's not going to shoot. There may be a fair amount of animosity between Lance and Dean, but Quentin Lance is a good man. He's not going to put a bullet in his son in law's head. ''Dean,'' he says again, softer, desperate. ''Put the gun down.''

Dean does not put the gun down. He does look faintly interested in where this is going, but he doesn't put the gun down.

Lance asks, ''You know who I am?''

No answer.

''Listen,'' he keeps going. ''Whatever this is, whatever's happened, we can fix it. We can help you.''

''I don't know,'' Dean shrugs, tossing him a careless smirk. ''I think I'm doing fine on my own. Thanks, though. Awful kind of you to offer. Your daughter was right about you. You were a good man.'' He grins, and there's something wrong with his grin. It doesn't look like Dean's face as much when he smiles.

It happens in a split second.

Dean - fake Dean - raises the gun and points it at Lance. He never gets the chance to shoot it. There is a loud crack, the sound of a shotgun blast, and then he's on the ground, unmoving, with a hole in his chest.

Everyone turns to look at the newcomer. Felicity, pale and shocked, hands still stained with Mattie Moretti's blood, drops the shotgun. ''Oh my god,'' she manages to get out.

Oliver is on his feet in seconds. His shoulder is throbbing and bleeding and his shirt is wet with blood and sticking to his skin, but he doesn't give a shit. Lance is already hurrying over to kick the gun away from Dean's prone form. Oliver just needs to get to Felicity.

She's shaking her head in horror, eyes huge behind her glasses. ''Oh my god,'' she repeats, trembling. ''Oh my god, I shot Laurel's husband!''

''Felicity.'' He puts a hand on her shoulder, trying not to move the other one. ''I don't think you did.''

''I did!'' She insists. ''I did! I shot him! Look at him! He's - ''

Over his shoulder, Hanna lets out an ear-splitting scream. He spins, watching as she lunges forward to pull Lance back, grabbing at his jacket. On the ground, Dean is struggling to his feet. He looks murderous, blood splattered, and there's...there's something wrong with his eyes. Maybe it's just a trick of the light. Maybe it's just the shadows. In the darkness of the forest, his eyes look black.

Oliver doesn't have long to formulate a plan of attack. He shoves Felicity behind him but before he has a chance to go for his weapon, there is a familiar explosion of sound.

The Canary Cry.

His first instinct is to grab Felicity and protect her body with his, covering her from the wave of sonic noise. Except it's not a wave this time. This is not as widespread as that time in the bunker. It's more controlled. Like a weapon. A sharpened and expertly handled knife. The noise is loud to him, but not painfully so. It's confined to one narrow blast and it's directed right at Dean.

When the noise dies down, Oliver stands straight, turns, and there's Laurel.

She's standing over by a tree, breath coming in harsh pants, eyes like fire. She looks unsteady, one hand braced against the tree, the other pressed against a bleeding wound in her abdomen. Her lip is split, she's got a nasty black eye, her hair looks wet and stringy, and her clothes are damp. There is something off about the expression on her face. Something is oddly foreign about it. She doesn't look like herself in these shadows.

Dean is nowhere to be seen.

Oliver grabs his bow and arrow, eyes on the trees, waiting for him to pop up again like the world's most annoying jack in the box. The shocked silence stretches out in the sudden absence of danger.

It's broken, naturally, by Felicity. ''Hang on a minute. Did he have a beard?'' She asks, brows furrowed, nose wrinkled. ''When did he have time to grow a beard?''

Oliver doesn't respond nor is he particularly thrown by the question. He is well aware of how she responds to shock and trauma.

Hanna Moretti is not. ''That's the part you're focusing on?!'' She shrieks out. ''Dean Winchester just tried to kill us!''

''No,'' Lance snaps, already shaking his head adamantly. ''No, that couldn't have been... It was a trick,'' he decides.

''It wasn't a trick,'' says Laurel. Then, to Oliver, she offers a flippant, ''Don't bother looking for him. He's gone.''

''How do you - ''

''I know him.'' She stands straight, taking her eyes off everyone to search her pockets for something. She looks steadier now, not quite as fatigued and pained, but she also looks annoyed. She hasn't bothered to ask if everyone's okay. She hasn't asked about the Moretti kids. She hasn't even looked at her father. ''He'll need time to regroup, heal, and come up with a new strategy to put a cap in your ass. But he will be back. You can count on that. If you don't want to be strangled by your own intestines, I'd suggest you run.'' She sounds uncharacteristically blasé about the whole thing. And blunt. Very blunt. It's not like her.

One would think she would be more, you know, bothered by this turn of events. The husband she is hopelessly, nauseatingly devoted to, the ''love of her life'' or whatever, just went rogue. Not just rogue. He went off the deep end. He tried to kill a whole bunch of people. He tried to kill her father. He did kill Mattie Moretti. That's not overstating things. They literally just ripped the mask off the bad guy and it was Dean - her Dean - the whole time.

And she doesn't even look surprised.

Maybe she's in shock?

''The witch,'' Lance says. He sounds more devastated about this than Laurel does and he doesn't even like Dean. ''It's the witch. It has to be. She's done something to him. Dean wouldn't - He wouldn't do any of this.''

''Sure he would,'' Laurel says blithely. ''Guy's a fucking asshole. Total monster. He gets off on shit like this.''

''Um,'' Felicity narrows her eyes. ''He... He does?'' She looks apprehensive. ''That doesn't sound right.'' She leans over to Oliver to whisper, ''Is it just me or has their relationship changed radically since we last saw them?''

''That wasn't your Dean,'' Laurel informs them, still avoiding looking at her dad, still disconcertingly disinterested in this whole thing. She pats down her pockets some more, finally managing to produce something from the pocket of her tan leather jacket. A pack of cigarettes.

Laurel doesn't smoke.

Also, she looks...skinnier. And there's something off about her...face. Her eyes don't look like her eyes. The curve of her mouth is all wrong. He doesn't remember her ever owning a jacket that color.

''Wait.'' Felicity holds her bloodstained hands up. ''What do you mean he's not our Dean?''

''What the fuck you think I mean, sweet cheeks?'' Laurel flings a look of derision in Felicity's general direction. ''I mean he's not your Dean.'' She opens up the pack of cigarettes only to upend it with a disgruntled wrinkle of her nose. Water dribbles out and she fishes a soggy, limp cigarette out of the pack. With a huff, she throws the pack to the ground, tossing her hands up in exasperation.

Aside from the issue of littering, Oliver gets a look at her hands. She is wearing a wedding ring, but it's not her wedding ring, just a plain gold band. There is no mark on the back of her left hand, no tattoo indicating the energy spell that has been done. That's when he knows for sure. ''And you're not our Laurel,'' he accuses, pointing an arrow at her. ''Are you, Siren?''

She look at him, then at the arrow, and then she laughs. ''Well, look at you,'' she practically purrs. ''You ungrateful shit. I just saved your stupid ass and this is the thanks I get?''

''Oliver,'' Lance urges. ''Oliver, what's going on?''

He doesn't answer. He keeps the arrow pointed right at Siren's throat. ''How did you get out of the pipeline?''

''Point that thing somewhere else,'' she scowls. ''You're not going to shoot me, Ollie. You could never hurt me.''

''How did you get out of the pipeline?'' She regards him silently for a moment, giving him a critical onceover. ''They really didn't tell you?''

''Tell me what?''

''A little birdie let me out.''

''You're lying,'' he snarls.

She is completely unfazed by his anger. ''Why would I lie about that? Pretty easy to verify, big guy.''

''She would have told me.''

''Yeah?'' The corner of her lip quirks up for a split second into an amused half smirk. ''You think?''

He falters. No, no, she would have... Laurel would have told him. Even if she didn't, Barry would have told him. People tell him things like this. People are supposed to tell him things like this.

''Oliver,'' Lance says his name again. ''You need to start talking.''

When Oliver does not promptly start talking, the Laurel who isn't Laurel huffs, rolls her eyes, and finally drags her eyes over to Lance. ''Dinah Laurel Lance,'' she points to herself. ''Earth Two.'' She gestures out at the darkness. ''Dean Winchester. Also Earth Two. I take it nobody told you about me.'' She looks at him for a second, and there is a barely noticeable softening in her hardened gaze. ''Hi, Daddy.''

''Earth... Earth Two...?'' Lance looks...probably more horrified than necessary at that, taking a step back, away from her.

She looks, for a split second, hurt. Then she glowers and looks right back to Oliver and the arrow is he still stubbornly pointing at her. ''You keep pointing that thing at me and I'm going to shove it up your ass, meathead.''

He ignores her. He also ignores the throbbing in his wounded shoulder. ''Why would Laurel let you out of the pipeline?'' He demands. ''She knows how dangerous you are.''

''That's exactly why they let me out,'' she says simply. ''That, and I get the feeling I'm expendable.'' She shrugs, seemingly unbothered by this. ''I really thought they would've told you. But.'' She cocks her head to the side, amused. ''Funnier that they didn't. See, Ollie, I'm Plan B. I was hired to do a job. Protect these nitwit kids.'' A slow smile spreads across her lips. ''Guess she didn't trust you to do it.''

''Because you've done such a bang up job,'' Hanna cuts in. Her voice is a growl, but a shaky one. She sounds like she's about to start sobbing again. ''If you were supposed to protect us,'' her voice cracks, ''you fucking failed.''

''Because that bastard beat me, stabbed me, and threw me in the Sound,'' Siren informs her crisply. ''Sorry for not pulling myself out at a speed that you find acceptable, Hannah Montana.'' She looks over at her father for a second, flinches when he looks away from her, and then turns back to Oliver, forcing him to meet her eyes. ''Look, you don't believe me. That's fine. Call Laurel. Call Dean. Hell, call Barry or someone from ARGUS. This is a sanctioned mission. I'm on the fucking payroll. Now,'' her expression darkens, ''for the last time: lower your weapon before I take it from you.''

Oliver stares at her blankly. Frankly, he doesn't believe a word she's saying. He has never met Black Siren face to face. He was informed of her presence. He calls Barry to check in on her once a month just to make sure she's not causing them too much trouble. He's avoided the idea of meeting her entirely. Hasn't even told anyone else that she exists. It's not a can of worms he wants to open. But he knows what she's done. He knows she was working for Zoom. He knows she's killed people. He knows she's a manipulative, violent, cunning criminal.

There is no way she's telling the truth about this.

She expects him to believe that Laurel, Dean, Barry, and all of ARGUS are all in on this and he wasn't informed? She expects him to believe that she's been set loose in his city and no one at least sent him a fucking email? No. No, that is not how this works. Someone would have told him. This is his city. It belongs to him. He knows what's going on here.

But. Then again.

There are a lot of things Laurel didn't tell him for a long time. Oliver swallows his pride and his bruised ego. He lowers his weapon. ''Felicity,'' he says, but doesn't take his eyes off the smirking Siren in front of him. ''Get Laurel on the phone. Now.''

.

.

.

At a quarter to midnight, Laurel jerks awake from a nightmare with Ave Maria echoing in her head.

It's the strangest thing.

She can't remember the last time she heard Ave Maria. It's not exactly a song she has in her repertoire. But there it is, bouncing around in her head along with these awful flashes, the phantom sensation of pain, and the metallic taste of blood.

She blinks, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. She rolls onto her back and looks up at the ceiling. When she lifts a hand to brush her hair out of her face, her hand is shaking like a leaf. Adrenaline hums beneath her skin like a physical reminder of her puzzling nightmare. Her entire body is trembling.

She remembers Darhk. Remembers Iron Heights and the arrow. She remembers being trapped six feet underground, clawing at her casket. All the standard things for her nightmares.

But she also remembers...flickers.

Ave Maria was one of them, warbling through her warped nightmare like a twisted theme song. Blood splattered on wet, dark concrete, twisted metal, the moon just a sliver of light in the sky, the smell of gasoline, and screaming. The memory of the screaming turns her stomach. She has never heard screaming like that before.

She exhales shakily, blinking back the tears that unexpectedly prick at her eyes. She turns her head to look at her husband. He is fast asleep beside her, body angled toward her ever so slightly. For a moment, she longs to wake up him and just have him hold her. It's somewhat baffling. There is this thick, heavy sadness that has blanketed her without warning, without explanation, and she has no idea what to do with it. She can't shake the bizarre feeling that it is not her sadness. This is someone else's sadness, someone else's grief, someone else's trauma.

She takes in a few deep breaths and closes her eyes. The second she does, those same images from her dream flicker behind her eyelids, every one of them punctuated by the sound of screaming and the haunting echo of Ave Maria. She opens her eyes. She tries to sift through her memories. Tries to pinpoint what moment of her life her subconscious is plucking these images from. She comes up empty.

These fragments do not belong to her.

Her fingers tighten around the comforter.

Maybe it has something to do with Oliver? God, she hopes they're not dreamwalking in each other's heads. Talk about awkward. But no. That doesn't make sense. None of these pieces aligns with anything Oliver related. Plus, surely Hanna would have mentioned if this was a potential side effect.

The witch.

It has to be the witch. It's the only thing that makes sense. They're connected, and a connection goes both ways. It still doesn't quite explain it. Nothing like this has happened before. She highly doubts the witch wanted her to see these things. It doesn't feel like one of her games. They're pieces of vulnerabilities. A glitch in her system. A way in. Laurel fiddles with the chain around her neck nervously.

Maybe she's not the only one losing control here.

She releases a breath and tries to put that out of her mind for now, working instead on trying to quell the shaking. She looks back over at Dean. He looks better tonight. He's sleeping a little more peacefully. She is not naive enough to think that one conversation could ever be enough to lift all that weight he has been carrying around for all these months, but it's at least enough to ease the burden and allow him to sleep tonight.

Well.

That, and the sex. The sex probably helped too.

Generally speaking, she tends to sleep better after an orgasm. After two, she's drooling and basically comatose. Even that hasn't been enough to stave off the nightmares that have been plaguing her since her return. Not to mention ever since the energy linking spell, she's been way, way too overly energetic. Downright sprightly. She has all this energy to burn and no way to burn it off when she's cooped up inside these same four walls. Maybe she should start going for late night runs.

She looks at Dean with a frown, feeling unfairly resentful of his REM sleep. He just looks so tranquil. He's also shirtless, which is surprising. Not because he never sleeps shirtless (though he usually reserves that for the warmer months) but because it is so cold. She doesn't remember it being so cold when she went to sleep, but she's freezing now. She has stolen most of the blankets in her sleep and she's pulled them up to her chin. Her teeth are practically chattering in the cold air. She halfway expects to see her breath in the air when she breathes out. Meanwhile, his blanket situation is sparse thanks to her theft and he seems perfectly comfortable. Maybe it's just because he generally tends to run warm.

Or maybe it's something else.

A haunted house, she thinks.

She is a haunted house.

She may be technically alive (for now), but she is trapped in a dying body and an evil witch is writhing around in the depths of her mind, drudging up past hurt and dirty little secrets. Sometimes it's hard to even feel human when she knows she's only here because of flawed dark magic. It's not like she was reborn. She was created. Accidentally, no less. She wasn't created particularly well either. She was stitched together by idiots, thrown together hastily, all sloppy patchwork and duct tape. The energy boost Oliver is giving her is keeping her functioning, reducing the symptoms, preventing her from vomiting up her internal organs, but the spell is still dying, and so is she. Unless Hanna Moretti comes through in the clutch with the resurrection seal, Laurel will die at the end of this story.

It's hard not to think about that these days. Nobody wants to talk about it, but it is always there in the back of her mind. She is living on borrowed time. She knows there is a failsafe here. She knows Nyssa will not stop searching for another Lazarus Pit until she finds one. She knows there is good reason to hope. It's just...

She has never been this close to death before, at least not like this, and it has never been so entirely out of her hands. Even in April, she was still the one who made the choice to walk into that fight. This is different. Whatever is going to happen to her will happen to her regardless of the choices she makes. It is terrifying and wrong and she tries not to think about it, but it's impossible to forget how utterly helpless and out of control she is right now.

It feels violating.

It makes her really want a vodka martini.

Eventually, after a few minutes of deep breathing, she does manage to get the shaking under control, pushing the cravings and the thoughts of impending doom to the back of her mind for now. She still feels wide awake. Too electrified to sleep.

As carefully as possible, not wanting to wake Dean, she sits up, back against the headboard. She grabs her glass of water from her nightstand and swallows a few mouthfuls to soothe her dry throat and rinse out the phantom taste of blood. There is no way she's going to be able to get back to sleep.

She could take advantage of Sara's absence and set up camp in the living room to binge watch some Netflix. She does have a lot to catch up on. She could go pick through the leftovers. Or she could continue what she's been doing the past few nights: reading articles about herself. She leans over to pull open her drawer only to frown when she sees the tablet isn't where she left it. She lets out a long suffering sigh and shuts the drawer, leaning back against the headboard.

Now, was the tablet removed because someone needed it for something or did Dean hide it from her to prevent her from reading more articles about Black Canary's Unmasking? That's the real question here.

Or did Mary steal it to watch Paw Patrol in bed?

Also likely.

It was a terrible idea to teach her how to use that damn tablet.

She crosses her arms over her chest. She wishes she had a phone. She has a shitty burner right now but all it does it text and call. Her old phone was - well, for starters, a piece of crap. Even if it wasn't, Dean cancelled it months ago. No use wasting money keeping it in service when she was dead. It was a practical decision. But now she's not dead and she misses her phone. Technically speaking, she's a millennial and millennials need their phones. Without their phones, they die. How else can they ignore the world going to hell in a handbasket? What else is she supposed to do when she can't sleep?

Last night, she read two profiles on herself (one factual but emotionally manipulative and clearly written with the intent of tugging at readers' heartstrings for clicks, the other in desperate need of some fact checking - why is there so much debate over whether she was born in Star City or Gotham?), watched the Dateline special on her (Hanna was right - it was dry and unoriginal) and logged into her Instagram account for the first time since coming home.

Turns out, she is indeed verified and her follower count has gone waaay up. She does not have, as Dean said, half a million followers, but it's still an absurdly high number for a dead woman who had 15 followers mere months ago. She doesn't know what these people are expecting from her. She's dead. Do they want a zombie selfie or are they just following her for clout?

Also, Kim Kardashian follows her. So that's wild.

She was so alarmed by that random fact that she wound up going down an internet rabbit hole and eventually learned that during the month of Black Canary movie rumors, Kim Kardashian expressed interest in playing Black Canary on the big screen because she was, in her own words, ''like, totally obsessed with her.''

Laurel's going to think about that at least once a day for the rest of her life.

Listen, no hate to Kim - she turned a sex tape into a multi-billion dollar empire, evidently she is a shrewd businesswoman, and also her kids are cute - but she is not an actress. She can barely emote in real life. Kim Kardashian West playing Dinah Laurel Lance in some big budget Michael Bay summer blockbuster would be so laughably bad for so many reasons that Laurel...kind of wants it to happen actually. Maybe it would be such a disaster that people would finally move on from this silly Black Canary craze.

She looks over at the phone on Dean's nightstand. If she's careful, she might be able to reach it. She presses her lips together and weighs her options. Nah, not worth it.

She wishes Sara would call. Neither she nor Sam have called since they got to Maine and every time Laurel thinks about the possible reasons for the radio silence, her anxiety spikes. Chances are they're fine. She just worries.

She runs a hand through her hair. She's warmed up some, but there's still a chill that seems to be surrounding her and only her. She fixes the blankets and leans her head back, absently twisting her rings. She's having a hard time remembering the breathing exercises her therapist taught her to help her manage her stress and panic attacks, but she can remember some of the meditation techniques Nyssa taught her. That would occupy her time and hopefully chill her out.

She adjusts her position, sitting up, back straight, crossing her legs. She relaxes her breathing and closes her eyes. The problem with this particular meditation technique is that it has never actually relaxed her. It's supposed to heighten her connection to herself, make her mind and body one, but it's only ever made her hyper aware of the silence. Which is great for when she's patrolling the streets, but not so great for calming down.

In the stillness of the dark bedroom, she can hear every little noise. The distant sound of a car driving down the street, the sound of Dean's steady breathing, the barely audible groans of this old house, and the quiet pitter patter of footsteps, followed by the sound of the bedroom door being pushed open.

Laurel's eyes fly open.

Her heart rate speeds up, breath hitching, irrational fear settling in her stomach like a rock. It's another hallucination. That's all she can think. It's happening again. She peers over at the door, where the dim light from the hallway is now spilling into the bedroom. Feeling both terrified and resigned, she is fully expecting to see some sort of Grudge-esque horror movie bullshit. Or maybe even Damien Darhk, standing in the doorway with a bloody arrow and a smug smile.

She sees nothing like that at all.

It's just Mary.

She's standing there with one hand on the doorknob, eyes scanning the room. She pauses for maybe a second when she sees her mom sitting there, but her eyes quickly sweep over to Dean. ''Daddy,'' she whispers, and then stops to cough. ''Daddy, I need help.''

Laurel notices the tiniest shift in his body language. She spots the way he tenses, the flickering of his eyelids. It's eerie how light of a sleeper he is. He was dead asleep only seconds ago.

In an inevitably pointless attempt to keep him from fully waking up - because at least one of them should get a good night's sleep - she places a hand on his shoulder and turns her eyes to Mary. ''What do you need, sweetheart?''

Mary rubs at her eyes with her tiny fists. She looks incredibly confused as to why she is having to deal with Mom right now when Dad is right there. She looks suspicious and offended by the whole thing. ''I need to go potty,'' she announces, still eyeing Laurel warily.

''Okay,'' Laurel smiles. ''No problem, sweetie.'' She moves to get up, but Dean, without even opening his eyes, clamps a hand down on her thigh.

''You can do that by yourself,'' he says.

Mary stares blankly for a minute and then scurries over to climb up on the bed. She crawls in between them, leans right down into his personal space, and says, loudly, ''What?''

He opens one eye. ''You can do that by yourself,'' he tells her again, calm and reassuring. ''You've done it before. You're a big girl.''

She laughs at him as if that is the single funniest thing she has ever heard. Then she just says, simply, ''No.''

''I can take you,'' Laurel tries, because - really, she's sitting right here.

Mary shakes her head. ''Nope, gotta be Daddy. I need Daddy.''

''Mary,'' Laurel sighs out. She reaches around, attempting to prevent Mary from pulling on Dean's arm. ''Daddy's sleeping.''

''Daddy, wake up,'' Mary whines, swatting away Laurel's hands to reach over and shake him, even though he is quite clearly awake now. ''Waaaaake uuuuup.''

''Mary,'' Laurel warns sternly.

Mary huffs and grunts like a grouchy puppy dog. She coughs again, but whines and shoves her mother's hands away from her when Laurel tries to rub her back. Pouting miserably, she crosses her arms over her chest and hunches over. She lets out a keening whining noise and looks to Dean with the most pitiful expression. ''I need to go pooooop,'' she tells him, and then sniffles for added effect, despite the fact that she is nowhere near crying.

He seems resigned to his fate at this point, already sitting up, but then he makes the fatal mistake of pausing to yawn.

Mary jumps on the silence. ''I need you to help meeee,'' she demands, still in that squeaky whine. She pushes herself to her feet on the bed. Normally, this would be the part where she starts tugging at his shirt but since he's not wearing a shirt, she goes straight for his hair. ''Daddy, pleeeease.''

The hair pulling seems to catch even him off guard because he hisses and then blurts out, half asleep, ''Ow, what the fuck.''

''Mary!'' Laurel winds an arm around Mary's waist, pulling her into her lap and away from Dean. ''Do not pull on someone's hair. That's not nice.''

Mary whips her head around to send her mother a truly withering glare, but says nothing, turning back to Dean. ''I need you,'' she pleads. ''Mama doesn't know the song.''

Laurel's first thought is wow, she hasn't called me ''mama'' since she was two. Her second thought is - ''Wait.'' Her nose wrinkles in confusion. ''There's a song?''

Mary nods enthusiastically. ''Daddy made it for me!''

''There's - '' He tries to say something, but he obviously doesn't know what to say. ''It's not a song. It's just...'' For a second, he almost looks like he's going to blush, but ultimately he just shrugs. ''Whatever, yeah, there's a song. No regrets.'' With some reluctance, he climbs out of bed. ''This isn't a battle I want to fight,'' he says, looking over at Mary. ''Let's go, hair puller.''

All at once, Mary's grumpiness disappears and she smiles brightly. She crawls over to the end of the bed, scampering along happily, but neglects to realize that her ankle has gotten twisted up in the blankets. When she tries to climb off the bed, she goes tumbling off instead, letting out a startled squeak right before she hits the ground with a thud.

Laurel is on her feet immediately. ''Sweetie - ''

But, just as fast, Mary jumps right back up, throws her hands up, and declares, ''I'm okay!''

''Thatta girl,'' Dean encourages. ''Now get your stinky butt to the bathroom. I'll be right behind you.''

Mary rears back in what looks like extreme offense. ''I'm not stinky,'' she declares. ''You're stinky. You're a stinky butt!'' Her dramatic declaration is followed by a giggle and then she turns on her heel and marches out of the bedroom. She makes it like three steps out of the bedroom and then starts singing at the top of her lungs, ''DADDY'S A STINKY BUTT!''

Both parents stare after her for a second before Dean turns to Laurel and asks, ''Why is she so awake?''

Laurel just shrugs. ''She's Mary,'' is all she can come up with. She thinks, as explanations go, it's a pretty good one.

''Five bucks says she doesn't even have to go,'' he says tiredly, pulling a shirt over his head. ''She probably just can't sleep.''

''So she wants to - what? Sit in the bathroom with you?'' Laurel perches on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over the other. ''She wouldn't do that.''

''Uh, yeah, she would. She does this all the time.''

''She... What?'' She narrows her eyes in confusion, shaking her head. ''No, she doesn't.'' She looks up at him dubiously. ''Does she?''

''Yeah, I guess I've always told her not to wake you up when she does it.''

''Oh.'' It's not a logical response to such a small thing, but, for some reason, that makes her feel unspeakably guilty. These past few weeks have really highlighted just how bad she was at being a mom before. Maybe she wasn't the world's worst mother, but she certainly wasn't the best either. When she was dead and safely sequestered away in her corner of the afterlife with Henry, the little boy she conjured up because she was lonely, she did it all. She was all he had so they managed. Figured things out together. There are no real problems in the afterlife, she realizes that, but it honestly feels pathetic to know that she was essentially a single parent for lifetimes there and meanwhile, in the real world, all she has ever done for Mary is give birth to her and hand her over to Dean.

She should work on that.

Dean hasn't noticed the shift in her mood whatsoever. ''Sleep deprivation aside,'' he pauses to yawn again. ''This quirk is a hell of a lot less annoying than that phase she went through where she only listened to that one Taylor Swift song on repeat.''

A smile crosses her face at that. Now that one she knows. ''Out of the Woods.''

''I'm sure there were other words to that song,'' he says, ''but our kid's rendition of the damn thing just consisted of her yelling ''are we out of the woods'' as loud as she possibly could for hours.''

''Daddy!'' Mary's singsong voice shouts from the bathroom. ''Hurry up!''

He pokes his head out the door to call out a quick, ''I'm coming, kid, just sit tight for a minute!'' He pauses in the doorway, eyes narrowed slightly, undoubtedly wondering if Mary even heard that (unlikely, in all honesty) and then turns back to Laurel.

Before he has a chance to say anything, she blurts out, ''Did you really make up a song about pooping?''

''Once you've sucked the snot out of your kid's nose with a glorified straw, nothing is off limits,'' he says. His lips split into a wide grin and then he starts laughing. ''And you know what? It worked.''

''But what does that mean?''

''She was afraid of the toilet,'' he shrugs. ''She thought she was going to fall in and get flushed. The song took her mind off the fear.''

''That's adorable,'' she laughs. ''Teach me the song.''

''Tomorrow,'' he promises. ''Were you awake when she came in?''

''Couldn't sleep,'' she says. ''I'm still wired, I guess. All that extra energy to burn.''

''Hey,'' he tosses her a tired smirk. ''If you need something to do there's always laundry to be done in this place. I think our house might be where all the dirty laundry in the universe ends up.''

She tries not to shudder at the thought of having to go back into that laundry room. ''As much as that sounds like a party,'' she says. ''I'm probably just going to go watch TV in the living room. Maybe I'll watch The Princess Bride. It's always a good time to watch The Princess Bride.''

''You're going to watch The Princess Bride without me?''

''Or Clue. I could watch Clue.''

''You're going to watch Clue without me?''

''I'm beginning to see where Mary gets that from,'' she says.

''Listen, as long as you don't watch This Is Spinal Tap without me. That's divorce worthy, in my opinion.''

''Maybe I'll just go eat all the leftovers then.''

''Full disclosure: Thea ate your other chicken breast when she got home. There's just pot roast left. I mean, I guess you could eat it but you know you'll regret it later.''

She stands up, bending down to grab the blankets from the ground. ''Eh, I was more thinking something along the lines of garlic mashed potatoes spread on a piece of toasted French bread. Maybe with cheese on top.''

''That sounds disgusting,'' he says. ''And that's so many carbs. You're lucky Nyssa's not here.''

''Nyssa?'' She scoffs. ''Please. I'm lucky Ted's not here. He would have my head for even thinking about eating all those carbs.'' She tilts her head to the side. ''I miss Ted,'' she says. ''Do you know if he's still in Coast City with his sister?''

''Seattle, last I heard,'' Dean says, leaning against the doorframe. ''I think that's where Jake is. Coincidentally, Joanna's been thinking about accepting a job offer that would put her in Seattle and he offered her a place to stay if she accepts so maybe your whole matchmaking thing actually worked.''

''Aww, I miss Jo,'' she says, but then, ''Also, I knew it.'' She gives him a pointed look. ''See, sometimes meddling is okay.'' She makes her way over to him, grabbing his shirt and leaning in close, inches away from his lips. ''And you thought I was being a pest.''

''Daddy!'' Mary's voice is not as singsong-y this time. It's more of an annoyed bark. There's a pause, and then, ''What the fuck!''

Laurel erupts into laughter. She valiantly attempts to keep it in, but she can't help it.

Dean, meanwhile, groans and drops his head onto her shoulder. ''All right, that one's on me,'' he mumbles. ''That's my bad.''

She desperately tries to contain her giggles, rubbing his back comfortingly. ''At least she used it correctly?''

He lets out a snort and raises his head with a heavy sigh. ''Guess I gotta go deal with that now.'' He presses a kiss to the side of her head. ''I might not make it back to the bedroom tonight.''

She crosses her arms, watching him head over to the bathroom door. ''Hey,'' she says, and he pauses. ''Pass her off to me when you two are done in there,'' she suggests. ''I can go lie down in her bed with her if she can't sleep and you can get some rest.''

''That would be good,'' he says, although she can't help but notice some hesitation in his voice. ''I don't think I can handle reading Where the Wild Things Are again. I think I read it six times tonight.'' He opens the bathroom door to get to Mary, and Laurel starts to go back into the bedroom. ''Okay, little sailor,'' she hears him saying. ''I'm going to need you to - '' And then he stops. Abruptly. She sticks her head back out of the bedroom just in time to see him slowly step out of the bathroom and shut the door.

That cannot be a good sign.

With a look on his face that seems to be torn between shock and amazement, Dean looks back to Laurel. ''Uh.'' He blinks a few times, still stunned. ''Do you remember when we had sex earlier?''

''I have a dim memory,'' she jokes.

''And do you remember when you went to the bathroom after?''

''Oh, yeah, well.'' She shrugs. ''Clean up, Dean. You know this. I don't want to get a UTI.''

''Did you, by any chance, happen to put the lube in the bathroom? Like maybe on the counter?''

''I - '' A horrible thought occurs to her. ''Oh no.''

He nods. ''Oh yes.''

''No.''

''Yes.''

Laurel hurries over to the bathroom door, practically falling in the door to get a look at the inevitable havoc their daughter has wreaked in the bathroom.

Mary is standing by the counter with the open bottle of lube and it is everywhere. It's on her hands, her pajamas, her face, her hair, the counter, the toilet, the wall. There's even some on the mirror. She can't even reach the mirror.

''Mary,'' Laurel manages to croak out. ''...What...''

Mary turns to her mother with a big grin on her face. ''Mommy, look!'' She holds up her lubed up hands. ''I found slime! I didn't even have to make it,'' she marvels with big eyes. ''It was just there!''

Laurel lets out a nervous, slightly hysterical giggle and turns her sheepish gaze back to Dean. ''Okay,'' she says. ''I didn't see that one coming.'' She frowns thoughtfully. ''In hindsight, given her past actions within the perimeter of the bathroom, I should have.''

''I told you she didn't really have to go,'' he says, and then lets out a heavy sigh. ''All right, you pint sized wrecking ball,'' he declares, striding into the bathroom, expertly avoiding any spills of lube on the floor. ''No more slime for you.'' He takes the bottle of lube out of Mary's hands and drops it into the sink before picking her up and depositing her in the bathtub. ''That was Mom and Dad's slime, you know. Now we have no more slime.''

Mary's face falls. She looks very, very sad for her parents and their lack of slime. ''...No more slime?''

''No more slime,'' he says.

''Yeah, and it was organic,'' Laurel adds. ''And expensive. We might have to take some money out of your allowance to buy some more.''

''She doesn't get an allowance,'' he says, distracted by all the lube.

''She doesn't? I thought she did.''

''No allowance. Sometimes I give her a quarter because she likes to play heads or tails.'' In a swift tone shift, he turns to look at her with this adorably worried look on his face. ''Should we be giving her an allowance? When do kids normally start getting an allowance? I never got an allowance.''

''I don't know. Um, I think I was like...'' She hums thoughtfully, trying to think back. ''Six-ish maybe? Seven?''

''So we've got a couple more years,'' he says, waving it off.

''What's an a-llo-wance?'' Mary asks, saying the word ''allowance'' slowly, syllable by syllable.

Dean says, easily, ''Something you don't have.''

She nods, like she understands, and then holds her hands up again. ''I got slime though.'' Then she smashes her hands together, delighted by the squelching noise it makes, and holds them up to him, wiggling her slimy fingers and giggling somewhat manically.

He looks at her for a minute and then signs, Why do you do things like this?

She sobers, thinks about the question, and then says, '' 'Cause it's fun.''

''Okie dokie.'' Laurel lets her hand linger on Dean's shoulder for a moment. ''I'm going to go get her some clean pajamas and - '' she looks around the bathroom, shaking her head. She has no idea how they're going to clean this up. ''Some old towels or something. You,'' she points a finger at Mary, giving her her best Mom Look. ''It's bedtime, little miss. No more slime.''

''But I love slime!''

Laurel shakes her head and has to turn away, pressing her lips together tightly to keep from laughing. She doubts laughing would send the right message. She leaves Dean to peel Mary out of her lubed up pajamas and makes her way into Mary's bedroom. The room is dark except for the little night light shaped like a horse and the faint glow of the stars on the ceiling. She rummages around in the top drawer of Mary's dresser for a clean pair of pajamas and is struck, not for the first time, that she doesn't know what fits and what doesn't anymore.

She tries not to think about it most days, but she's been back for weeks now and she still finds herself astonished by how different Mary is now. She's taller, her language skills are incredible, her sign language has improved by leaps and bounds, and she's getting so good at lip reading. She grew up so much in those seven months, and Laurel missed it all. Half a year of her baby's life just - gone. It all happened without her.

She wonders, as she's searching for some pajamas that will fit her now four-year-old, if that ache will ever go away.

She pulls out a nightgown with Queen Elsa on it that she is about 95% certain still fits, grabs Mary's hooded towel from the hook on the back of the door, and goes back to the bathroom just in time for Mary to let out a screech. Quite loudly. She pushes open the bathroom door quickly, eyes falling on her daughter in the tub, stripped down, shrieking, and bouncing from foot to foot under the spray of the shower.

''Cold!'' Mary squawks. ''Cold, Daddy, cold!''

Dean moves the showerhead away from her to wait for the water to warm up, but only offers her an unapologetic, ''Shouldn't have destroyed the bathroom and doused yourself with our lube then.''

She looks at him quizzically and tilts her head to the side. ''What's lube?''

Laurel decides that's where she should step in. ''Honeybee,'' she says kindly, not bothering to stifle her amused grin. ''This good?'' She asks, holding up the nightgown.

Mary nods agreeably. ''I like Elsa,'' she declares. ''Daddy, do you like Elsa?''

Dean gives a small ''hmm'' of acknowledgment, but is otherwise too busy with trying to find that kids' body wash with the fake green apple scent that she likes.

Laurel plucks it from the cupboard underneath the sink and hands it to him over his shoulder. ''Her towel's on the door,'' she tells him. ''Nightgown's on the shower rack. I'm going to go check on Thea and I'll be back with something to clean up the rest of the - the slime.''

He starts to say ''okay'' but barely gets halfway through the word - which is very short to begin with - before Mary gasps loudly - and dramatically. ''Daddy,'' she yelps, breaking off in a cough. ''Where's my turtles?''

''You don't need your turtles,'' he says patiently.

''Yes, I do! I need my turtles, I need my turtles!''

''You're not having a bath.''

She considers this. For about a second. Then, ''I NEED MY TURTLES!''

''I will get your turtles, Mary,'' Laurel says, ''but you need to be quiet. It's really late.''

''Okay,'' Mary whispers. ''But I - ''

''Need your turtles,'' Laurel nods. ''I got it.''

''Daddy,'' Mary calls out over the spray of the shower, apparently ''forgetting'' about the whole being quiet thing. ''Can we have McDonalds for lunch?''

Dean looks at her for a second, and then sprays her with the showerhead. She gasps, flapping her hands, and then shrieks in laughter, jumping up and down on the no slip mat. ''Well, first of all,'' he tells her, getting started on the lube in her hair. ''You need to sleep before lunch can even happen. Second of all, probably not, no. You're supposed to be going to school tomorrow.''

''What about breakfast?''

''I don't know, Mary. I'll think about it.''

Mary's jaw drops. She looks flabbergasted that she was not immediately given what she wants. The last thing Laurel hears as she backs out of the bathroom is her little girl's squeal of, ''What the fuck!''

Laurel pretends she didn't hear that, closing the door and desperately trying to quiet her giggles.

Let's be real: making it all the way to four without any major swearing incidents is a win. Especially given that Mary spends most of her time with Dean. Every other word out of his mouth is an expletive.

Definitely never should've left that kid alone in the bathroom, though. That was a bad decision. It's not like this is the first time she's destroyed that bathroom. One time, she ruined hundreds of dollars' worth of Thea's makeup. Thea hadn't been too put out because she is technically a millionaire and can afford new makeup, but she sure doesn't keep her makeup in the bathroom anymore.

Laurel makes her way down the hall to Thea's room. It's only midnight so it's unlikely she's asleep, but it couldn't hurt to check on her. There has been a lot of commotion and hollering. She knocks on the door softly and when there's no answer, she turns the doorknob and pokes her head in.

Surprisingly, Thea is fast asleep, curled up in bed with her headphones on. The light is on and there are a few file folders and some papers strewn out on the bed along with a tablet. Laurel steps further into the room, avoiding the squeaky floorboard. She's reluctant to touch what is obviously work related paperwork - personnel files from the looks of it - but she gathers it up anyway, flipping the files shut and stacking the work and the tablet on top of the dresser. Gently, careful not to wake her, she slides the headphones off Thea's head and grabs her phone. She sets Thea's alarms for the next morning and plugs it into charge before draping a blanket over her.

Thea stirs slightly, but only to turn and burrow her head deeper into her pillow. It's unusual for her to be asleep so early. She's usually up until one or two in the morning, firing off emails and obsessively checking Oliver's social media accounts to make sure he's not doing anything stupid and not making any messes she'll need to clean up. Considering how early she wakes up, Laurel has no idea how the girl is not a walking zombie. She knows she used to work similar hours, but... Well, she has no idea how she did that either.

Hopefully a night of proper sleep will do Thea good.

Laurel clicks the lamp off and tip toes out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She heads over to the linen closet to scrounge around for some old towels or rags or something to mop up the mess of lube. She listens to the sound of the shower running and Mary's voice. She's singing - and coughing. Laurel's getting a little worried about that cough. She knows Mary is just getting over a cold, but it's such a miserable sounding cough. She stops what she's doing to listen a little closer, poking her head around the closet door, a small smile slowly worming across her lips. ''I'll be damned,'' she murmurs to herself. ''There is a song.''

Mary does not sound tired at all. It's not necessarily surprising because she's always been a problem sleeper, but it's going to be a long night.

Laurel swallows down a sigh. Guess she knows what she's going to be doing with her energy boost tonight. She means to hurry. She means to grab something from the linen closet and get back into the bathroom to help Dean, but something catches her eye. Leaving the closet door open, she walks down the hall, giving the laundry room a wide berth on her way to the back door.

The lights in the backyard are still on.

A few days ago, Dean put up lights. Every single strand of twinkle lights he could find, he put out in the backyard. Strung them up on the roof, around the fence, the shed, even in the apple tree. It was something he did for her. He knows she's getting restless from being cooped up in the house so he wanted to do something to make it a little more bearable. Mary loved it almost more than Laurel did. She calls the backyard a ''fairy garden'' now.

Laurel could have sworn the lights were turned off before bed. But... Maybe they weren't? Tonight's schedule was off. They could've been forgotten about. Mary's gotten in the habit of waving and calling out ''night night, fairies'' over her shoulder as she is being herded into bed and Laurel's taken to whispering the same thing under her breath when she turns them off later after her nightly cup of chamomile tea. She doesn't remember doing that tonight. She skipped the tea in favor of sex. Although Dean swore he had turned them off.

He probably forgot.

She hurries back into the bedroom, pulling on her Converse sneakers quickly. She swipes Dean's denim button down shirt from the hamper and throws it on over the thin t-shirt she's wearing, but doesn't bother rummaging around for pants to pull on over the tiny shorts. She'll be quick.

When she steps out onto the back porch, it's like stepping into another realm. She does love the fairy lights. It was such a small gesture, just something to make the unofficial house arrest tolerable, but it was so sweet. And festive. Christmas is coming up fast. It's right around the corner. It's nearly time to put up a tree and drag out those tacky blow up lawn decorations that Mary loves. The lights will fit right in with the season.

Laurel takes a moment to breath in the crisp night air, standing there under the lights. Everything is calm tonight. There is a cold breeze rustling the branches of the apple tree and there are clouds in the sky, but it's not raining like she thought it was going to. The lights make everything seem so peaceful. She could stay out here all night. But it doesn't take long for her to start shivering in the cold and she's got a dead tired husband and weirdly hyper kid to get back to so she figures she better hurry up and get her butt back inside.

She steps off the deck and treads through the damp grass over to the side of the house where the main outlet is. She makes it all the way there and then she freezes the second she sees it. There is nothing plugged into the outlet. Her heart stutters in her chest, the cold feeling of dread slowly icing her over, seeping into her veins. She turns, craning her neck to check the other outlet by the back door. Nothing is plugged in there either.

The lights are off. The lights should be off.

She looks up at the bright lights that now feel sinister rather than magical. The backyard doesn't feel much like a fairy realm anymore. It feels like a graveyard. The lights flicker, and then blink off entirely, leaving her in darkness. On the other side of the yard, there is a familiar squeak, and she whirls around, catching sight of a figure slipping out the back gate. The body is familiar; the gait, the hands, the broad shoulders, and when she sees the profile, the angle of the chin, the nose, her suspicions are confirmed.

Even in the shadows, she knows exactly who that is.

When the lights wink on again, flashing like lightning, she gets a glimpse of the familiar but unusually hollowed out eyes. She can't even begin to describe the emotion that wells up inside of her when she sees him. It doesn't make any sense for him to be here, but here he is.

''Henry.''

The lights collapse into darkness and she takes off running, sprinting across the lawn to get to him. She races out the back gate and onto the sidewalk of the side street, but there's no one there. There's no evidence anyone ever was. It's dark. It's too dark. The streetlights have all gone out.

Laurel steps off the cub and onto the street, looking both ways, searching in vain for a boy who isn't real and cannot possibly be here. There are no lights on. Not anywhere. The entire neighborhood has been plunged into black nothingness. ''This - This isn't real,'' she tries to tell herself, although she doesn't believe it. ''This is a hallucination,'' she says, even though she knows it's not. This is... What is this? Is this a nightmare? Did she even wake up earlier or is she still sleeping?

This is not a hallucination. No, that would be too easy. This is something else.

She looks down the shadowy, tree-lined street and something stirs in her chest. It runs through her entire body, a shocking jolt of ice in her veins that stops her short, a pang in her heart that has her breath catching. Fear. It's pitch black and she's not wearing her glasses and the terror and adrenaline is making her vision shaky, but she can just barely make out the shape of a figure standing down the road, leaning casually against a tree. It's a woman, that much she can tell, and there's...there's something about her...

A shiver runs down her spin.

Abruptly, she understands why today has been so bad. Why the hallucinations have been so intense. Why the witch upped her game today. She was getting ready for something. She was getting ready for this.

Laurel needs to get back inside. She needs to go back where it's warm and safe. She turns around just in time to see the back gate slam shut, keeping her out. Instinctively, she whirls around to look back at the figure down the street. There is no one there.

The cold, cold breeze combs through her hair like ghostly findings, igniting a twisting panic that engulfs her. It overwhelms all other senses until she's fuzzy with it. Until she's distracted. Too distracted to notice anything else. She hasn't felt this way in a long time. Not since she put on that mask. It's a familiar feeling, one she hoped to never feel again. It's the feeling of being a damsel.

She turns back around to go home. She doesn't make it far. The second she turns around, she collides with someone else. Her eyes travel up to the person's face, and terror settles in her gut like a rolling storm.

''Hey, neighbor,'' Ricky Moretti says, grinning from ear to ear. ''Long time no see.''

She never even gets the chance to fight back. It's another familiarity. Darhk never let her fight back either. Moretti lunges forward to clamp his hand over her mouth, preventing her from screaming, and someone else - his brother, she presumes - pulls her back into a body. She thinks, in the second she gets to think of anything, that they almost remind her of the Winchester brothers. Violent, brute strength, skilled precision, camaraderie and brotherhood and years of training and being so fluent in each other that words are unnecessary. All that, and this is what they use it for? What a waste.

If she had time, maybe she would tell them that. Maybe she would do a lot of things. If she had time, she would fight, she would scream, but everything happens far too quickly for her to do anything at all.

There is a pinching prick in her neck, a burning sensation followed by this pleasant numbness, a spinning feeling she's missed, and her vision blurs, the world tilting. The last thing she sees over Moretti's shoulder is her safe little home in the suburbs where her family is, the place she almost made it home to, and then there's darkness -

- only darkness.

end part eleven

---

AN: Additional (spoilery) warnings for this chapter: Non-con touching warning. There is a scene where Laurel is in the shower and hallucinates hands coming out of the walls and grabbing at her naked body and she understandably feels violated and immensely creeped out. Later on in the chapter, a minor character death happens when Mattie Moretti is killed by Onomatopoeia.

Songs featured in this chapter: All Eyes on You by St. Lucia (the song Mary and Thea are listening to as they're chilling with their cucumber face masks) and Tenderness by General Public (the song Dean has had stuck in his head for ''seven'' years).