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.

12. Lessons in Hunger

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: A large part of this chapter is told from the POV of Dinah (aka Black Siren) and she is canonically an unapologetic ableist, especially toward her E1 counterpart, and so there is a warning for casual ableism in this chapter.

Also in this chapter: mentions of torture, mentions of past child death, a very brief scene involving vomiting, and very heavy mentions of addiction - specifically relapsing.

---

How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

.

.

.

Part Twelve

Lessons in Hunger

.

.

.

Laurel is dreaming of stillness.

Of peace.

A bright sun shining down from the clear blue skies, fresh daisies, and the smell of the ocean. She can't see anything over the light of the sun, but she can hear the sound of children laughing somewhere close by and she can feel the weight of a familiar strong hand holding onto hers.

It is such a drastic change from the brutal nightmares she has been forced to wade through over the past few weeks that she feels like she could cry with relief. The feeling of safety, of light and warmth and grace is so welcoming and she is so hungry for something other than pain that she wants to stay here forever. She could stay floating here in the in between for the rest of her existence and she would be okay. She would be happy.

Then she wakes up.

She drifts back into consciousness slowly, languidly, and then all at once, so sudden it's almost violent. Her body feels somehow heavy and weightless at the same time. She doesn't even feel like she's in her body. She feels like she is hovering somewhere nearby, and she doesn't want to go back. She doesn't want to leave this place, this feeling. She knows this feeling. At least something close to it. It's been a long time. She wants to chase this unattainable peace, this stillness that never stays. The need for it is a physical ache, like a pit in her stomach, a void in her chest.

But the euphoria doesn't last. It never does.

Her stomach heaves and her fingertips tingle and it's like being catapulted back into her body. She opens her eyes with a gasp, her vision instantly blurring and spinning, like the world is tipping sideways. Her body is spasming with tremors, cramping all over, and she wants to move, to sit up, but she's still too boneless and she can't move her arms. Her stomach jolts dangerously again and she can't catch her breath, still gasping pathetically, unable to get air to her lungs. Her heart is racing in her chest. She can't even see straight.

She doesn't feel like herself. She feels woozy, confused, feverish, sick, and uncontrollably emotional for some reason. There are tears running down her cheeks and she can't seem to stop them. Distantly, she's aware that her hands are cuffed in front of her and there's something around her neck, but she hardly cares at the moment. She's struggling just to breathe.

She remembers, dimly, that pin prick feeling in her neck. That burning feeling. The numbness. The way her legs gave out and the world whirled around her.

They drugged her. The Moretti brothers. Those fucking rats. They drugged her.

''Shit,'' she pants out. ''Shit.''

She squeezes her eyes shut to block out the unsteady world and lies still for a moment, breathing deeply, still struggling to come out of the drug induced haze. The breathing exercise doesn't work. She can feel that awful, overwhelming feeling of impending doom taking over and there is nothing she can do to stop it.

Ketamine.

They injected her with ketamine. That's what Dante, the veterinarian, has access to. That's what they were going to use that night in the graveyard, that's what they were going to use when they broke into her house, and that must be what they used tonight.

Ketamine can induce panic attacks.

Awesome.

She's handcuffed, she's locked in some dark dungeon, she's having a panic attack, and she's pretty sure she's fucking high.

This panic attack is not like her normal panic attacks. There is no dissociation or losing time. There is no build up. It happens instantly, too quickly to try any sort of prevention. It's like being punched in the gut. It slams into her and then she can't breathe and she's sobbing and her entire body is trembling. She knows her panic attacks. She belongs to them. Whether she likes it or not. She knows them. They're the same every time. Breathlessness and gasping, unable to get air to her burning lungs, followed by violent, hysterical sobs that wrack her entire body, and then, finally, uncontrollable shaking from the adrenaline.

This is different. This is all of it - all at once.

Those bastards.

Laurel struggles to surface for breath. She claws for steady ground, gasping and wheezing, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. It's an exhausting fight, more so than usual with the ketamine still in her system, but she needs to get herself together because she needs to get out of here. Wherever here is. Even under the crushing weight of panic, she does understand that. She tries to ground herself in anger. Grits her teeth and tries to force herself to be angry enough to overthrow the panic.

The panic attack - the wheezing and shaking, coughing and gasping for breath - does pass. The unbearable weight on her chest eases. The sobs, however, take longer to subside. The memory of being lured out of her house and out of her backyard is fuzzy. It feels like something that happened a long time ago. But she still vividly remembers who was used to get her to wander out into that street.

Henry.

That witch used her son's face to trap her.

Laurel brings her cuffed hands up to cover her face, trying, with mounting rage, to stop crying. She should have known better. Henry wasn't even real. She does not have a son. She has never had a son. He was just something she made up in her head because she couldn't take the solitude of the afterlife. He wasn't real. Ever since she came back, she's been trying to convince herself of that fact. She's been trying to forget. She should have known it was a trick. She closes her eyes again. She sucks in a few gulps of cool, musty air and pushes the thought of him to the back of her head, exactly what she's been trying to do over the past few weeks.

She's cold. That's the first thing that comes to her as her body starts to calm. She's cold. Her bare legs are covered in goosebumps and there is a freezing wind coming from somewhere. She can still smell the ocean.

She opens her eyes cautiously. She still feels woozy and nauseated, but her breathing is better and that's as good as it's going to get for right now. It's just... There's something in her throat. That's the only thing. There's something stuck in her throat. She brings her hands up to wipe at her tear-streaked face and looks at her surroundings. It's not hard to figure out that she's in a shipping container. She turns her head to where the breeze is coming from. The door is wide open, giving her a view of dim yellow lights and wet gravel.

It's odd that the door is open, isn't it?

She squints her eyes at the light. The docks. She's down at the docks. Ricky Moretti, back when he was Andrew Denton, worked at the docks. Importing and exporting. He hasn't for at least a year, not since he was let go, but that doesn't mean he doesn't still have access to the place. He likely squirreled away a set of copied keys.

The pressure in her throat is increasing. She tries to rub at her throat with her cuffed hands.

Okay, okay. Time to take stock of the situation. Let's review the facts:

- She has been drugged and kidnapped by the Moretti brothers, presumably on the orders of this mysterious witch.

- She is down at the docks in a shipping container.

- She has no idea how anyone will find her. Dean will find her, she has no doubt about that, but for right now, she is on her own so she needs to plan this solo.

- Her hands are cuffed, which is bad.

- Her legs are not, which is good.

- She needs to scream. Also not good.

What she has learned about the Ellard curse so far is that - well, it sucks. The scream can be controlled, but it takes a lot to be able to master that. It took Faye nearly half her life to be able to control it. Edie never had a chance. Evidently neither did Dinah Ellard. It hurts to keep the scream in. Both physically and mentally. It's not like holding in a sneeze. It's like holding in a storm. It makes you sick. It muddies your brain. You feel like you're going to explode. There's all this pressure and all this noise in your head and your every nerve feels like a live wire. When it all comes down to it, your options are to suffer endlessly or unleash a wave of destruction that could hurt, if not kill, a lot of people.

She can understand how that might drive someone insane. How easy it would be to make the wrong choices, to go down the wrong road, drown it with booze, isolate yourself to keep others safe, even if that meant giving up your children. She understands how this could corrupt someone. She understands how fragile this could make someone.

She considers herself lucky.

She has something the other firstborns didn't. She has Black Siren. On her earth, this curse wasn't hidden away like a shameful secret in the Ellard/Drake family. It was embraced. It was seen as power to covet. A weapon to wield. The women in their family trained when they received their inheritance. They learned. They were unafraid.

Laurel hasn't had many one on one conversations with Dinah since stationing her with the Moretti kids, but she's been trying to pick her brain whenever she can. Dinah's response when she had asked if she was doomed to lose her mind like the others had been...unkind. To say the least.

Yeah, you'll probably go batshit, she'd said, but it won't be because of the scream, birdbrain. It'll be because you're a fucking crazy junkie.

Dinah is not, as it turns out, a very nice person.

Although, honestly, even her tactless response had somehow been reassuring. She says that the only reason someone would ever lose their mind over this would be if they refused to let the scream out. Which is unnecessary if you know what you're doing. You just need to learn control, she says. It's a skill, not an impossibility.

Dean also has a theory that she might be better off than the other firstborns because of her panic disorder. She has spent years and years of her life in therapy, learning how to control impossible discomfort and ride the uncontrollable waves. Who says those tools can't be applied to this as well?

She's still scared of herself and what she could do, but with all the support she has, hopefully with the help of Dinah, she won't end up like Edie or Faye or Dinah Ellard. In her life, the scream could even be an asset. Laurel is lucky, extraordinarily lucky, and she knows it.

She doesn't feel all that lucky right now. There is a sonic dampening collar around her neck, keeping the scream stuck in her throat, rooting her to that discomfort, and all the breathing exercises in the world cannot help her. She needs to get this thing off so she can calm down.

Or, alternatively: She can get this collar off, track down the Moretti brothers, and let the scream have them. That is also an option. Yeah. Yeah, she likes that plan.

Sluggishly, Laurel struggles to sit up, gritting her teeth against another wave of nausea. She chokes down a whimper, squeezing her eyes shut against the dizziness. She manages to turn her body so she's facing the open door, but doesn't attempt to stand and walk out just yet. She takes a minute to breathe, waiting for the nausea to subside, and then she gets to work.

She looks out at the open door, straining to hear anything. There is nothing but the distant sound of waves. She doesn't like that the door has been left open and seemingly unguarded. It feels wrong. It's not how hostage taking works. It could possibly be warded by witchcraft, but it feels more like a trap. She brings her hands up to feel for the chain around her neck.

There is no chain around her neck.

She swears her heart stops beating for a second. That Saint Christopher medallion is part of what is keeping her alive. If it's destroyed, she's dead. Frantically, she pulls up the sleeve of the denim shirt to look down at her left arm, letting out an exhale of relief when she sees the tattoo, unchanged. All right. Okay. Good. That means she's safe for now. But she doesn't know what's worse: the idea that they took it off and left it in the street to be run over by a car or the idea that they've given it to the witch.

She really needs to get out of here.

She looks around at the bare shipping container and then pats down her clothes halfheartedly. Why did she have to be wearing pajamas when they took her? There are no pockets in her teeny tiny shorts. She's not wearing a bra she can steal the wire out of. She's not even wearing underwear! ...That last part isn't important, she just doesn't want to die or have her soul sucked out of her while she's not wearing underwear. It seems undignified.

Wait.

She looks down at her clothes. The shirt. Dean's shirt. He never checks his shirt pockets before he tosses his clothes in the general direction of the laundry hamper. He checks his pants pockets, but never his shirt pockets. She tries not to make a big deal out of it because she's not typically the one doing the laundry, but it has definitely caused some bickering in the past after she's accidentally washed a pack of gum or some used tissues. One time she washed half a Snickers. That was ugly. If there is something in this shirt that will help her get out of these handcuffs, she will never again nag him about leaving things in his shirt pockets. She's still going to hound him about never checking the mail and squeezing the toothpaste from the middle and his ridiculous (and illegal) stubborn old man mentality about seatbelts, but she'll leave the laundry stuff alone.

''Come on, baby,'' she whispers, fumbling with the button on the pocket. ''Come on, please, please help me out here.'' She finally manages to get the pocket unbuttoned, digging her fingers inside and -

A pen!

There is a ballpoint pen in the pocket, cap and all. ''Oh,'' she breathes out, relieved. ''Thank you, love.'' She steals the cap from the pen, but slips the pen back in the pocket. Just as she's about to start attempting to pick the lock with the pen cap, she hears something.

She looks up sharply. There is still no one in her line of sight, but she could have sworn she just heard footsteps in the gravel. She closes her fist around the pen cap, hiding it from view. ''Hello?'' She squints, trying to look out into the night. ''Crazy neighbors?'' She knows there is someone right there. She can see their shadow. It doesn't look like a Moretti brother. Maybe Marlene? Assuming she's not still possessed by the soul eater, she would be one of the soulless Dolls right about now, right? Maybe she's on guard duty. ''Marlene?''

Nothing.

Her frustration mounts. What - they can kidnap her, but they can't face her? ''Hey,'' she snaps out. ''If you weasels are out there, you better - ''

A tiny face pops around the corner and Laurel's voice dies in her throat.

Well.

That is certainly not what she had been expecting.

Just as quick as she appeared, the child in the doorway ducks back out of view.

Laurel is still speechless. Up until now, she has been seething with rage. Pissed off and restless, freezing cold, fighting off drug induced panic attacks, trying to figure out how the hell to get out of here. Now she's... She has just been reminded of Hanna Moretti telling them she thought there was a kid involved in all of this.

They had brushed it off.

She's feeling pretty damn guilty about that right about now.

There was no evidence whatsoever that there was a child in the mix. All Hanna said was that she thought she heard a child. She never saw one. She said she looked, but she never found one. And Hanna... They're all still teetering when it comes to trusting her. It just hadn't seemed like a possibility at the time. It seemed ludicrous. What would this witch want with a child? She doesn't particularly seem like the mothering type. It's possible she might have taken someone who has a child for her creepy soulless army, but why would she also take the child? It seems like a liability. A foolish one. They crossed that concern off their list.

Evidently, that was the wrong move.

A quiet moment goes by and then the kid peeks around the corner again.

Laurel softens immediately. ''Hi there,'' she greets, keeping her voice low. ''What are you doing out here all by yourself?''

The child - a little girl - looks over her shoulder and then steps inside, out of the cold.

Laurel scans the entryway, checking for any visible shadows, listening intently for any footfalls. Nothing. She opts to focus on the girl. The neighbors from hell can wait. The first thing that strikes her about this girl is that she is so little. She's Asian, with strands of dark, stringy, greasy hair poking out from under the hood of her gray hoodie, she looks to be about Mary's age, give or take, and she's so scrawny. She looks like she hasn't eaten a decent meal in...well, ever. The pajamas she's wearing - white with purple polka dots - need a wash and they don't fit her properly. The hoodie she's wearing looks about seven sizes too big for her, hanging off her tiny body like a curtain, full of holes. Her itty bitty velcro sneakers are well worn. Her skin is sallow and sickly looking, dark circles under her eyes.

She doesn't look cared for. There is no evidence of nurture anywhere on her. Laurel hones in on it like a beacon, that lack of love, the complete absence of compassion. It makes something twist inside of her. She can't decide if it's anger or sadness, but it gnaws away at her. She is no stranger to child abuse. She's the Black Canary. Before that, she ran a legal aid clinic. She has seen the dark side of humanity time and time again. It doesn't get easier with time. People say it does, but it doesn't. It never stops surprising you. What people can do.

She is also a mother. Her daughter is around the same age as this little girl. Not only does seeing children in distress cut even deeper than it did prior to having Mary, but she knows what a child this young is like. She knows how deeply they need; how easily and completely they love and trust the person who is supposed to care for them.

Someone is failing this child. The neglect is right there in bold print. The flags could not get any redder. The worst part of it is that she has no idea what she can possibly do about it. She's a hostage. She has no upper hand.

She does her best to put on a smile for the girl. ''Hi, sweetheart,'' she says again, watching as the kid inches forward. ''Are you here with your mom?'

The girl shakes her head.

''Your dad?''

Another shake of the head.

''Who are you here with?''

The girl looks nervous. Her wild eyes dart from side to side and then she drops her head. Her tiny fingers pluck something out of the pocket of her hoodie and she clutches it to her chest. Upon closer inspection, it's the Black Canary Barbie. It's not in the best shape - it's missing the shoes and the hair has been shorn off, giving her a choppy pixie cut looking thing - but the girl is clinging to it like it's her lifeline. She looks up at Laurel for a second, then back down at the doll, and then back at Laurel with something akin to amazement in her eyes. ''A-Are...'' Her little voice is shaking, high pitched and squeaky, but hoarse as if she doesn't get the chance to use it much. ''Are you Black Canary?''

''I - '' Laurel clamps her mouth shut. She tries to ignore the slightly electric buzzing feeling, the heaviness of her bones and the cold sweat as her body works to come down from the ketamine with a scream trapped in her throat. ''Yes,'' she says strongly. ''I am.''

For a minute there, the girl looks positively thrilled. Maybe even hopeful. Her tiny fingers clutch the doll close and she gapes at Laurel in wonder. Then she looks over her shoulder again. She peers out into the dark night worriedly and her face falls. When she looks back to Laurel, she just looks sad and tired. She backs up against the wall of the shipping container, away from Laurel, and slides down until she's on her bottom, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Laurel looks out into the dark again, anxiety curling in her chest. There is still no sight of anyone else but she feels uneasy. There is a prickling on the back of her neck and a nasty gnawing feeling at the center of her. There is someone out there. She may not be able to see them, but they're there. She has a terrible feeling this poor kid is being used as a tool here. ''Did...'' She nods to the doll now resting in the girl's lap. ''Did you get that for your birthday?''

The girl looks down at the doll, then grabs it, and holds it to her chest protectively as if she's afraid it's going to be taken from her. She doesn't answer the question, but she does look at Laurel a little more critically, eyeing what she's wearing in confusion. ''Not wearing your suit.''

''No,'' Laurel agrees softly. ''I'm, um...'' She kind of wishes she was. There may be nothing restricting her movements right now, but there is also nothing protecting her. And she's really fucking cold. ''That suit...'' She hasn't seen that suit since she got back. It's in a duffel bag that has been stuffed to the back of the bedroom closet. She hasn't bothered to open it. She pulled it out once, a few days after getting back, but she couldn't bring herself to open the bag. She just kept thinking about the arrow. How it tore through that suit – the thing meant to protect her - like it was nothing. How much blood there must be on that black leather. They had to cut it off her in the emergency room. It's probably a mess. They could possibly repair it, but. Some things are better off buried. ''It's gone,'' she says.

The girl looks disappointed. ''No more suit?''

''No more suit.''

The girl frowns and looks at the doll. She holds it up for Laurel to see, pointing to the face. ''Mask?''

''I still have it,'' Laurel says, ''but I don't really need it anymore, do I? People know my name.'' Not usually something she boasts about, but... ''Do you know my name?''

''...Canary.''

''Actually, it's Laurel,'' she says softly. ''Black Canary is my code name, but my real name is Laurel. Dinah Laurel Lance. I go by my middle name.''

The girl looks mind blown. For about a second. Then she just looks confused. She scrunches up her cute button nose. ''Why?''

''Well, my mom's name is also Dinah,'' Laurel says. ''I go by Laurel so it doesn't get confusing.'' She takes a long look at the girl. She's not a threat as of right now. She's undoubtedly being used for something, but she's just a baby. Laurel opens her fist and takes the pen cap. She gets to work on picking the lock on the handcuffs. The girl watches quietly, following along with every move, but she makes no move to stop her or alert anyone. ''What about you?'' Laurel asks conversationally. ''What's your name?''

The little girl shies away from the question.

Laurel moves past it. ''My husband calls me Laur,'' she says, keeping her voice light and easy. ''It's a nickname. Do you have a nickname?''

The girl shakes her head. Her eyes are still locked firmly on Laurel's hands, watching with intense fascination as the famed Black Canary works to get free.

''No? What do people call you then?''

The girl drops her head down, hiding her eyes from view. She plays with the doll's hair, strands of her own unwashed black hair poking out of her hood. When she answers the question, her voice is thin and wavering. ''Pig.''

Laurel stops what she's doing, jerking her head up to stare. It shouldn't shock her nearly as much as it does, but it leaves her feeling winded. Anger settles in her chest. ''That's not a name.'' The venom in her voice might be too much because the little girl startles, fearful. Laurel does her best to smother her anger. ''I'm sorry,'' she apologizes. ''I'm sorry, honey. I don't want to scare you. I just - I want you to... Nobody should call you that. Not ever. It's not a nice thing to say.''

The little girl looks up. She still looks frightened, drawing herself away from Laurel as much as she can, but she also looks surprised. Maybe even interested. ''Mother calls me that.'' She stops, frowning, and shakes her head. ''Used to. No more.''

''Your mom used to - ''

''No,'' the girl shakes her head adamantly. ''Mother.''

''Your mother.''

''Just Mother.''

''Okay,'' Laurel nods, even though she has no idea what that means. ''Is she here?''

The girl shakes her head.

Laurel asks, gently and with caution, ''Who brought you here?''

No answer. But the girl turns her head away from Laurel, bringing a hand up to rub at her eye. She's crying. Very quietly and just a little, but she's crying. Laurel wants so badly to go over to her and hug her, but she doesn't want to spook the poor kid.

Time to reassess.

There is a child involved in this. She doesn't know how or why, where she fits into the picture, who she belongs to, but, somehow, there is a child involved in this. An abused child, by the looks of it. They need to work faster now. No more sitting on their asses waiting for the witch to attack. This kid is so young and so scared. She deserves better than this hell.

Laurel works the cap of the pen into the lock of the handcuffs, risking a glance out into the cold night air. Lock picking is not an area she is particularly skilled in. She's okay, but she's not as quick as Dean or Sam or Sara. Dean makes it look like an art. He's so skilled that he can be out of a pair of cuffs so fast it was like he was never in them at all. With Laurel, it takes a few minutes. Tonight, with her unsteady hands and foggy brain, it takes even longer. She does get it, though. Eventually, she hears that telltale click, and then she's shaking the handcuffs off, free at last.

The best thing to do would be to run. Just get out of here as fast as she can. That is not what she does. The handcuffs hit the floor of the metal container with a noisy clang and the still unnamed little girl lifts her head up. Her glassy eyes widen when she sees Laurel, now free of her cuffs.

Laurel shakes out her sore wrists, checks them for bruises, and then looks at her with a gentle smile. ''It's late, you know,'' she says. ''You should be in bed. Are you tired?''

The girl is still staring in amazement at the useless cuffs on the ground.

''What about cold?'' Laurel asks, scooting closer to the girl. ''Are you cold?''

The girl's bottom lip wobbles, but she stubbornly raises her chin up and blinks away the tears in her eyes. She doesn't answer the question, doesn't offer a nod or a shake of her head, but she straightens up and puts on a brave face. Something about that is indescribably sad. This girl is barely older than Mary by the looks of it. She shouldn't have to be strong in the face of insurmountable fear. She shouldn't have to pretend she's not tired or cold or hungry. She should be safely tucked into a warm, comfortable bed with a fully belly, clothes without holes, a night light, and parents who love her.

Laurel bites down on her bottom lip and thinks, This is a bad idea.

It might even possibly be kidnapping. Feels…maybe a little white savior-ish too. But come on. This is not where a child should be. She needs to get the girl out.

''Sweetheart.'' Tentatively, she reaches out to touch the girl's hand. Much to her surprise, the skittish child does not jerk away. She looks down at Laurel's hand covering hers and she shudders, staunchly avoiding looking at Laurel's face. She's not sure if it's the warmth of her hand or the warmth of her kindness that does it, but suddenly, this touch starved little girl looks hungrier than ever before. There is a tired sense of maturity in her eyes, the kind that comes from pain, and Laurel just wants to cry. Frankly, with the ketamine still in her system and her emotions going haywire, she's not sure how she manages to avoid it. ''Do you remember what you said about me earlier?'' She asks. ''About how I help people?''

A shaky nod.

''I'd really like to help you,'' Laurel says.

The girl looks apprehensive. She tugs her hand out from under Laurel's and presses her small body up against the wall.

Laurel does her best to stay patient. Under normal circumstances, she would be perfectly fine with staying here for as long as it takes, but this is not a normal circumstance. They need to get out of here. She does not want to pick this child up without her explicit consent because it is abundantly clear that this poor kid is an abuse victim and unwanted touching is a huge no-no, but she's beginning to think that might be the only way to get them both out of here. ''How about you and I go find some warm blankets?'' She suggests. ''And maybe some food. Are you hungry?''

The expression on the girl's face shifts into this wild, feverish hunger. She still looks distrustful and scared, but the promise of food isn't something she can pass up. She nods slowly, still unsure.

Laurel smiles. ''Well, let's go find some food,'' she proposes. ''Just you and me.''

There is a horribly sad sense of intense longing in the girl's exhausted brown eyes; this fragile hope that just radiates off her in waves whenever Laurel looks at her. It hurts to see.

''I know you're scared,'' Laurel says, as gently as possible. ''That's okay. This is scary, isn't it?''

The little girl's eyes dart around wildly. She looks out the door again and then back to Laurel. She nods. ''Scary.''

''I know,'' Laurel reassures her. ''Can I tell you a secret?'' She leans in to whisper. ''I'm scared too.''

The girl looks like she wants to scoff at the idea of the Black Canary feeling scared of anything. She peers up at Laurel questioningly.

''Everyone gets scared,'' Laurel says. ''Sometimes I get so scared I can't breathe. It's okay to be scared. You just have to know that it won't always be like this. You won't always be scared. It's hard to believe, I know, but good things will come and you will be happy.''

''I don't think so,'' the girl responds glumly. She sounds absolute. 100% positive that nothing good will ever come and that she will never be unafraid. ''Fear is a lesson.''

''No,'' Laurel says instantly. ''It's not. It's just a feeling.'' She frowns. ''Who told you it was a lesson?''

No answer.

''Honey,'' Laurel murmurs. She hauls herself to her feet with some difficulty, looking down at the child. ''Do you want to get out of this place?''

A slow nod.

''Me too. We're going to need to be strong to do that. You and me, okay? I know that sounds scary, but we can do this. We'll be brave.'' She smiles again and holds out her hand. ''We'll be brave together. Can you do that?''

The little girl looks at Laurel's outstretched hand. Then she looks at the Black Canary doll held tight in her hand. She rises to her feet, and takes Laurel's hand.

''What a good girl.'' Automatically, one of those Mom Reflexes she's gotten used to, she crouches down to make sure that the girl's hoodie is on properly, keeping her as warm as possible. ''You're really brave,'' she says, tucking the girl's hair into her hood.

The girl asks, still clinging to her Barbie, ''Brave like Canary?''

Laurel nods, standing straight. ''Just like a Canary,'' she winks.

The girl gapes at her, stunned, and then, still somewhat uncertain, she smiles. It's such a sweet and adorable smile.

Laurel keeps a tight grip on the girl's hand as they walk out into the shipyard, keeping her slightly behind her in case they're jumped the second they step out into the night air. They're not. It's a quiet night. She can hear nothing but the wind, the waves lapping against the docks, and the squalls of a lone seagull flying overhead. There is no one to be seen. No one to be heard. It's impossible to tell if they're truly alone because the place is like a maze, full of heavy machinery and other shipping containers, but... It sure seems like they're alone.

She takes a few steps with the little girl trailing behind her. The sound of the gravel crunching under their feet seems abnormally loud and her shoulder tense with every step she takes. She's trying to be stealthy and soundless, but it's nearly impossible.

She tries to calculate the distance between the docks and the nearest payphone. She needs to call in the cavalry. There aren't many payphones left in the city and even the few that remain are highly unreliable. There's one in the park by the bay, up by the disgusting public washrooms. It's about two blocks away. She can do that no problem, but she worries about her tiny companion. There are a lot of things to worry about with this new sidekick.

Is it even a good idea to just...take her? She has no idea what her plan is here. She needs to get this girl out of here, but then what? Take her home? Drop her off at social services? She doesn't even know who she is. If she's tied up in something to do with witchcraft, a social worker is not going to be able to protect her.

None of these concerns end up mattering anyway. They make it maybe five steps away from the container they were in. They don't make it any further.

''Black Canary!''

Aw, for fuck's sake.

Laurel bristles at the sound of the unfamiliar, booming voice, breath catching. She draws in a breath and turns around, subtly pushing the girl behind her.

There is a woman standing on top of the nearest shipping container, silhouetted by the moonlight and the dim lights, black hair billowing behind her in the breeze, bo staff propped up on her shoulder. It is a strangely intimidating sight. Just the self-assured way the woman stands, the faint amusement and fascination on her face when she steps into the light.

Laurel does her best to look uninterested, raising an eyebrow in question. ''Random woman,'' she greets, voice dull.

The ''random woman'' on top of the shipping container looks down at Laurel, and smiles. It's extremely unnerving. ''I have been waiting for you for a long time, Canary.''

There is nothing about that sentence that isn't completely terrifying. It has nothing to do with the words themselves. It's the tone. The conniving sense of glee, the shudder of longing.

''Oh,'' Laurel nods her head. ''Neat.''

When the woman steps forward into the light a bit more, Laurel gets a better look at her face. There is nothing overtly frightening about this woman. She's tall and willowy looking, Asian, with long dark hair, wearing dark jeans, a red shirt, and a black leather jacket that looks like it costs more than Laurel's mortgage, and she's quite beautiful. Stunning, really. Full on supermodel gorgeous. But... She's cold. Ice cold, to be exact. The smile on her dark red lips looks genuine enough, but there is something predatory about it. Something ravenous. Her eyes are harsh, completely devoid of compassion, and there is a certain glint of cruelty there; the promise of brutality. Most of all, it's the power that just seems to ooze from her.

This is not the witch. Laurel's not sure how she knows that. She just - She knows. This is not the witch that has been haunting her. This is the female bodyguard Hanna warned them about.

This is trouble.

''That was an appalling display,'' the woman calls down from her perch above them. There is a slight note of an accent to her voice - Chinese, Laurel thinks. ''You should have been out of your restraints fifteen minutes ago. I had to send the girl in just to make sure you hadn't choked on your own vomit. Pathetic.''

Laurel slides her gaze to the tiny kid holding onto her hand so tightly. She's cringing, grimacing and trying to slink away from Laurel's gaze, looking guilty and fearful. She seems shocked and utterly confused when she looks up, expecting disappointment and Laurel just smiles at her.

''Didn't know I had someone waiting on me,'' she says, managing - to her own surprise - to sound nonchalant and indifferent. ''I would've hurried. I'm normally very punctual. Ask anyone.''

The woman laughs, sounding disconcertingly pleasant. In one effortlessly graceful move, she steps off the container and jumps down to the ground. She lands in a crouch, kicking up dust, and when she lifts her eyes to them, there is no sign of pain or exertion anywhere on her face. She looks at the little girl peeking out from behind Laurel and says something, sharply, in what sounds like Chinese.

Man, Laurel really should have taken Nyssa up on her offer to help her learn some other languages.

The girl whispers something back in the same language, but doesn't leave Laurel's side. In fact, she leans in closer, hiding her face in Laurel's shirt.

Something about the small act of attachment makes the woman's lips tighten. ''You've done well tonight, Sin,'' she says calmly. ''You may take your leave.'' It's a calm and even order, but it's still a noticeable dismissal.

There is a second where the poor kid almost looks happy at the miniscule praise, but then she just looks visibly torn, caught halfway between terrified and resigned. There is nothing Laurel can do for her. The realization burns. Her stomach clenches painfully. She looks down at the scrawny girl she cannot save. ''Hey,'' she whispers, putting a smile on her face. ''It's okay. Go inside. Get warmed up.''

The girl - Sin, her name is Sin - looks devastated. Her bottom lip trembles. She tries to hold tighter to Laurel's hand, but she looks over at the nameless woman staring at them with thinly veiled impatience. She sniffles, wipes at her eyes, and lets go of Laurel's hand.

''I will see you again, Sin,'' Laurel says quietly, but firmly. ''I promise.'' It isn't a promise she should make. But it's one she intends to keep.

Sin looks up at her with innocent, trusting eyes, but doesn't say a word. She nods, a resolute look of strength shifting into place. It's too old of an expression for such a young girl. She hurries away from them almost faster than her little feet can take her. Laurel watches her scamper away in her dirty pajamas, her worn out shoes, holding tight to her doll, and all she can think is that she is so small. She's the same size as Mary, and Mary is tiny. She's just a child. Children shouldn't be caught up in this.

A red hot fire ignites in her belly and before she even realizes what she's doing, she has surged forward and slammed the other woman up against the closest shipping container. The woman's head thuds against the hard steel, eliciting an involuntary groan from her, but otherwise she seems entirely unaffected. She doesn't even look mad about it.

''You want to talk about pathetic? Let's talk about you,'' Laurel spits out. She keeps a tight grip on the woman's jacket with both hands, holding her in place. ''Using a child to do your dirty work?'' She clicks her tongue. ''How pathetic is that? What were you even hoping to accomplish here? What were you using her for? Intel? Here's a thought: if you want information from me, ask. Don't use a kid, you sick - ''

''I am not using her,'' the woman hisses, a spark of offense glittering in her eyes. With incredible ease, she shoves Laurel away from her. Just swats her away from her like she's a fly. She straightens up, smoothing down her expensive red leather jacket. ''This was a lesson,'' she says. ''It is my duty to teach her.''

''Teach her,'' Laurel echoes, unable to keep the disapproval out of her voice. ''Teach her what?''

''She is my successor,'' says Mystery Woman. ''Someday, when I am defeated, she will take my place.''

Laurel stares at her, blinking. She has no idea what the fuck is going on here right now, but she misses the unstable witch and the shitty neighbors.

''She needs to know what to expect,'' the woman goes on. ''How things are done. How this world works.''

''Am I still high?'' Laurel scrunches up her nose. ''No, wait,'' she holds up a hand. ''Better question: Are you high? That girl is - what? Four?''

''Six,'' the woman says. ''In January.''

''If that kid is nearly six,'' Laurel snaps, ''then you need to take her to the hospital because she's clearly malnourished and way underweight - and fuck you for that.''

There is a flash of anger in the other woman's eyes and her grip on the bo staff visibly tightens, but she makes no move to attack.

Truthfully, Laurel has no idea why this woman, obviously a trained professional, is just letting her go off like this. She could make her move at any time. She could have easily stopped Laurel from slamming her into that container, but instead she seems to be patient. She's humoring her.

''She's just a baby,'' Laurel continues, because - hey, you know what, she's been drugged and she still feels off so she hopes Random Scary Woman is enjoying the brutal honesty. ''What she needs is to be loved and cared for. Can you do any of that? Do you love her?''

''Love,'' the woman says, ''is a luxury not all can afford.''

Laurel scoffs, entirely unimpressed by the cop out answer. ''Only cowards speak of love that way.'' She cocks her head to the side and studies the peculiar nameless woman in front of her. ''Who are you?'' She asks finally. ''Are you the - ''

''The witch?'' The woman suggests, and then laughs. It is a deeply unnerving laugh. ''I would rather die.'' She straightens up again, pulling herself up to her full height, back ramrod straight in a haughty all-important pose. ''Black Canary,'' she says. ''I am Lady Shiva.'' She says it like Laurel is supposed to know who that is.

Laurel still has no clue who this woman is. ''Uh...'' She raises her eyebrows. ''Okay?'' She looks around, halfheartedly checking to make sure she's not being Punk'd. She points to herself. ''I am Laurel Lance.''

The mysterious Lady Shiva deflates. ''Yes,'' she says, apparently frustrated that Laurel doesn't know who she is. ''I know who you are.''

''Yeah, I mean, I figured,'' Laurel shrugs. ''I was just being polite.''

''I am meant to be guarding you,'' Shiva informs her. ''Keeping the little bird in her cage.''

''Then, boy, your face must be red right now.''

''However,'' Shiva says crisply. ''I do not subscribe to their tawdry practices.''

''You don't, huh?'' Laurel crosses her arms. ''They know that?''

Shiva doesn't reply, but she grins. She's been circling Laurel this whole time, twirling her bo staff, gazing at her with a quietly intrigued look on her face. Laurel must be really out of it because she doesn't even notice that Shiva is getting closer and closer until it's too late, until she's right there. ''You are the famed Black Canary,'' Shiva says. Her voice is hushed, her eyes searching, gaze moving rather intimately over every part of Laurel to the point where it's uncomfortable. ''Beloved by many.''

Laurel lets out a groan and buries her head in her hands, attempting to suppress an irritated growl. See what kind of crap this dumbass ''fame'' has caused? Oliver tells the world she's the Black Canary and now she's got a fucking nemesis. ''Yeah, whatever.'' She looks up, throwing her arms out in exasperation. ''Guess that's me. So they tell me anyway.''

Shiva leans in close, so close that Laurel can smell the new leather scent of her jacket, the coffee on her breath, the faint fruity smell of shampoo or maybe some kind of body mist. ''This city mourns you,'' she murmurs, and then, just like that, she pulls away. Doesn't touch a single hair on Laurel's head. ''That man,'' she adds on. ''That insufferable one with the,'' her lip curls up in disgust, ''arrows. He would wage wars in your name.''

Laurel snorts disdainfully, which seems to catch the other woman by surprise. ''Doubt it.''

Nevertheless, Shiva goes on. ''You tainted an offspring of Ra's al Ghul.''

''Tainted an off - oh.'' Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''You mean Nyssa?''

''Heir to the Demon,'' Shiva says, lips twitching into a smirk. ''And you made her soft. Weak.'' She looks repulsed by the very idea of it. ''She threw away the League for you.''

''That had nothing to do with me. Nyssa makes her own choices.''

''You killed her,'' Shiva declares, booming and full of rage and thinly veiled disgust.

Laurel can't manage to hide her reaction this time. Her gust twists in horror, sudden images of Nyssa's broken and battered body flashing through her head. When she did last speak with her? Was it the day before yesterday or the day before that? She can't remember. Had she sounded okay? Was there anything in her voice that could have been a cause for concern? She said she was going to be out of cell range for a few days somewhere in Nepal. She was all alone. Laurel hadn't allowed herself to get too worked up over it because it's Nyssa. She can handle herself better than anyone. But what if...? If these people have hurt her, if they have laid a hand on one single hair of her head... Then, quite frankly. Laurel will be the least of their concerns. If something has happened to Nyssa, Sara will disembowel everyone involved.

''She may not be dead yet,'' Shiva says smoothly, and Laurel tries not to look as relieved as she feels. ''But one day, that softness will get her killed and it will be your doing.''

''I - I didn't - ''

''Even the fearsome Dark Archer grieves you.''

''The...'' Laurel has no idea how to respond to that. ''Did you say the Dark Archer? As in Malcolm Merlyn? I don't know where you got your information, but you're dead wrong there. He couldn't give less of a shit about me if he tried.''

''On the contrary,'' Shiva says calmly, with a smile. ''He was greatly angered by your death.''

''That doesn't sound - ''

''I'd like to know why,'' Shiva says. ''Why are all of these people so enthralled by you? What makes you so special, Dinah Lance?''

Laurel's first instinct is to say, truthfully, Nothing. Instead, she takes a page from Dean's book, smirking. ''Lady Shiva,'' she drawls. ''Are you flirting with me? Be honest. Is this your idea of date night? You couldn't have just started with flowers? This typically isn't the recommended way to get the girl. I'm flattered, but I'm married. Maybe if you tried Tinder - ''

The blow to the head from the bo staff that comes next, cutting her off mid-sentence, shouldn't come as a surprise. Pain explodes in her head and her face, her vision blurs, and the next thing she knows, she is face down in the wet gravel with blood in her eye and in her mouth.

''This, my dear,'' Shiva's voice says from above her, cold and detached, ''is a test.''

Laurel tries to say something, but all that comes out is a wheezing groan. She feels winded from the pain, hazy from both the blow to the head and the drugs, but she does manage to stay conscious. She's counting that as a win. Breathing shakily, her fingers claw at the gravel as she tries to pick herself up. ''I was always better at multiple choice.''

Shiva huffs. She somehow sounds both impatient and amused. ''Get up.''

''Give me a - ''

''Prepare yourself, Canary. I will not ask again.''

Laurel rolls her eyes. Even that hurts. Ignoring the way the gravel cuts into her bare skin, she does manage to heave herself up onto her knees. She doesn't think the head wound is serious, but it's bleeding a lot - as head wounds tend to do - and that alone is making her dizzy. She's not sure if she cut her lip on the gravel or if the force of the blow caused her teeth to cut into her lip, but she can taste blood in her mouth. ''I'm not,'' her voice comes out croaky and pinched sounding. ''I'm not going to - ''

Shiva catches her under the chin this time. Just whips her in the face with the staff and sends Laurel sprawling back to the gravel, seeing stars. It doesn't do quite as much damage and thankfully it doesn't knock any teeth out, but it hurts like hell. She looks up at the cloudy night sky.

Tonight could be going better.

She thinks she would rather be cleaning her lubed up bathroom right now.

''I'm not going to fight you,'' she mumbles. ''I've been drugged. This is hardly a fair fight.''

''Ah, yes. The ketamine. I told that fool you needed a higher dose.'' Shiva twirls the staff - seems like mostly pointless theatrics - and then tucks it under her arm. Then, calmly, she bends down and helps Laurel to her feet. It's more like she just unceremoniously hauls her to her feet, but she steadies her and even brushes some gravel off her shirt.

Laurel has no idea what is happening tonight and at this point, she has stopped trying to figure it out.

''How was your,'' Shiva curls her fingers into quotation marks, ''high?''

''That's not - '' Laurel gapes incredulously. ''You're not using those right! Do you even know - ''

And then she gets punched in the face.

She stumbles, but doesn't fall, both hands flying up to her bloody nose. ''Oh my god, will you quit that?!''

Shiva sighs heavily. She sounds let down. Extremely so. ''I expected more from you, Canary,'' she says. ''All this celebrity and you are nothing but mediocre,'' she spits the word out. ''How disappointing. Perhaps your sister would have been a more formidable - ''

Laurel leads with a right hook. It's a sloppy right hook, too wide, like a brawler - a drunk one at that - and not a boxer, and Ted would be ashamed, but it connects. It's enough to startle Shiva at least, enough to give Laurel a second or two to formulate a plan. She's not stupid and she's not arrogant. She knows she is in bad shape. If this ends in a full blown fight, she won't stand a chance. She'll lose and she'll lose bloody. Her only real hope is to stop this before it becomes something she will not come back from. She forces herself to push through the haze of pain, electing to go with a knee to the gut. It works. Shiva groans, body reflexively curling in on itself. Laurel uses that to her advantage, sends an uppercut when she's not looking, and then grabs the bo staff Shiva still has tucked under her arm.

Laurel gives it a sharp tug, spinning away from her, and when she comes back around, twirling the staff, she cracks Shiva on the side of the head and then follows it up by catching her under the chin. Shiva is flat on her back on the ground in a matter of seconds.

Sara would be proud.

Laurel gives the staff one last twirl - mostly because Shiva should not be the only one who gets to be theatrical - and then tosses it away. She looks down at Shiva's bloodied face, curling her fingers into those sarcastic quotations. ''Oops.''

Shiva smiles a bloody smile. She looks deranged. ''Not bad.''

''Listen to me,'' Laurel says. ''We are not doing this. I don't know who you are or what you want, but I don't have time for this. I don't know if you're clued in to what's going on here, but I have bigger fish to fry than whatever the hell you are.''

''I said,'' Shiva says, still grinning up at her. ''Not bad. But you could be better. We both know that.''

It happens too fast for Laurel to react. Shiva kicks her leg out, sweeping Laurel's feet out from under her, and then she flips right back onto her feet. Laurel hits the gravel hard on her left arm, pain shooting up her arm all the way to her shoulder and all the way down to her fingertips. A groan slips through her lips. She doesn't think the arm is broken, but she can't tell if her shoulder is dislocated or not. Something feels wrong there.

Shiva, standing over her, casually wipes the blood from her face.

Frustration mounting, Laurel gets back to her feet. Once she is sure her arm isn't dislocated, she throws herself at Shiva, driving her fist right into the other woman's nose. She uses Shiva's momentary blindness and drives her knee into her gut once more. She grabs onto the woman's hand, making sure to control her arm, and uses her body as leverage to flip her over her shoulder. Normally that move works. Normally. Shiva realizes what she's doing too quickly and when her back hits the ground, she immediately rolls and turns the move against Laurel.

Laurel doesn't even have time to think about what's happening before she's on the ground. Again. Getting real sick and tired of this shit, to be perfectly honest.

''That was weak,'' Shiva says, sounding utterly disgusted. ''You're behaving like a common brawler.'' She shakes her head, but steps back, allowing Laurel to pull herself to her feet. ''Your movements are stilted. Something is holding you back. You need to learn to let go of the fear.''

Laurel doesn't bother with a witty retort. She just attacks. She gets a few punches in, despite her injured arm, even a spinning kick, but she gets the sinking feeling that Shiva is just letting her have them. She swings again, goes for another punch, and that's when Shiva decides she's had enough. She plants her feet, gripping Laurel's arms tightly, and then Laurel is back on the ground yet again, ears ringing, head throbbing and cloudy. Her face feels disconcertingly...wet and she can't think straight and she doesn't think she's going to be getting up anytime soon. The ground seems like a better place. It takes her an agonizing moment to realize she has been headbutted. She brings her right hand up to her face and it comes away sticky with red. ''No fair,'' she moans out, words slurred. ''That's fighting dirty. You can't just headbutt someone.''

Above her, Shiva lets out another one of those slow chuckles. She crosses her arms, looking down at her. She doesn't move to attack again. ''I could teach you a thing or two, Dinah.''

Laurel has to close her eyes to block out the light and the two spinning versions of Shiva. ''It's Laurel,'' she gets out, and then decides it would be best if she didn't talk for a few minutes because if she opens her mouth again, she is for sure going to throw up.

Shiva ignores that, crouching down next to her. ''Tell me,'' she says slowly. ''Do you fear your own body? You behave as if it has done nothing for you. You'll need to work on that if you choose to continue down the path you've taken. Your only true home is your body, Laurel. Treat it well. Stop acting like it is something separate from yourself.''

''Oh, shut up,'' Laurel groans, without bothering to open her eyes.

Shiva chuckles lowly and starts to say something, but it gets cut off halfway through the first word when she gasps painfully. It's followed by a shriek and a thud. Laurel forces her eyes open and turns her head. Shiva is laid out on her stomach on the gravel, like she's been thrown by some unseen force. Laurel struggles to lift herself up into a hunched sitting position, turning her head to see - Oh, shit.

Marlene Moretti.

She's standing a few feet away from them, eyes fixated on the crumpled form of Lady Shiva.

Laurel squints against the blood in her eyes, trying to get a good look at her friendly neighbor. She looks better than she did the last time they saw each other. Decidedly less possessed. She looks good. She's all cleaned up, hair flowing behind her, makeup down, back in her expensive, classy looking dresses and heels. Hey, maybe the Moretti family wouldn't have such an issue with their finances if they lived within their means. Probably shouldn't say that out loud to them. Marlene looks like herself again. She looks good. But. Her eyes. They don't look like her eyes. They're focused, determined, but they're vacant. Lacking any of the softness she used to carry with her.

''What,'' she says, voice crisp and smooth, ''do you think you're doing?''

Shiva picks herself up off the ground, muttering something under her breath about ''stupid white women.'' Which seems fair at this point, honestly. She brushes the dirt off her clothes. ''I was testing the Black Canary.''

''And who gave you permission to do that?''

Shiva scowls at the notion of permission. ''If I am to keep her from escaping, I need to know what I'm dealing with. Her training. Her skill level.''

''You need to do what you're told. You were told to watch her. Not beat the crap out of her.''

Laurel grimaces, folding her sore left arm close to her body, bringing her right hand to the back of her head. Yeah, she could have done without the beating. She sniffles, inhaling blood, coughing as it trickles down the back of her throat. She looks down at herself, the drops of blood on the denim shirt, and an irrational, nonsensical indignation blooms in her chest. She got this shirt for Dean for Christmas the year before last. He wears it all the time. Now it's all full of blood. And it was expensive. This is a stupid thought. She's aware of that. But there's... There's a lot of blood and it's coming from her head. She might be in shock.

She misses the ketamine. At least that was fun for a bit.

''Hey,'' she rasps, looking up at Marlene. ''How do you get blood out of denim?''

Marlene turns her attention to the battered woman on the ground, blinks a few times, and then ignores the question completely. That's fine, her prerogative or whatever, but she will not be getting any apple tarts this Christmas. ''Do you even understand what you've done?'' Marlene demands, planting her hands on her hips. ''We need the body to be as healthy as possible and now you've - ''

Shiva cuts in with one of those brutal, callous laughs of hers. ''Regardless of what I've done, this woman is not healthy,'' she states, blunt, forceful. ''The body is dying. That, I believe, is thanks to you and yours, witch.'' She snarls out the word ''witch'' like it's a curse; something filthy and repulsive.

Marlene looks at her, but can't even manage to muster up any offense. She looks Shiva up and down, searching, and then she looks away. She brings her attention back to Laurel instead. She stalks closer, crouching down in front of her to inspect her injuries.

Laurel shies away from her touch. ''Marlene - ''

''Don't try to talk.'' Marlene frowns, but it's more distracted than concerned. She grasps Laurel's chin, turning her head to look at her head wound.

Laurel swallows painfully. ''You alone in there?''

Marlene draws her hand back. ''If you're referring to the soul eater,'' she says, wiping her hand on her coat, ''it's gone. I was a temporary transportation vessel. Nothing more.'' She fishes around in her pocket for something, eventually producing a blue handkerchief. ''It's just me.''

''But it's not,'' Laurel says. ''Not all of you anyway.''

Marlene does not react to that. Just holds the handkerchief out, waiting for Laurel to take it.

Laurel takes a second to look at her. It's alarming to look at her, this woman she's known for years, and see nothing at all in her eyes. There's no softness, no warmth, sure, but there's no coldness either. No anger, no fury, no heat, no fear, no shame - Nothing. People say that they eyes are the window to the soul. With Marlene, it's like looking out a window and seeing nothing but a spinning void; a black hole. It's awful. Laurel looks right at her and feels cold all over. ''Your kids miss you,'' she tries, gingerly reaching out to accept the handkerchief. ''They're worried about you.''

Marlene has no reaction to this either. In retrospect, it was stupid to think she would. ''That's not my concern,'' she says calmly. ''My loyalty doesn't lie with them anymore.''

This is a horrifically inhumane thing to do to a person. Yanking out their soul, snatching up their free will, tethering them to some shitty cause through magical brainwashing. It's cruel.

This is what they are going to do to her.

Laurel tries to suppress a shudder.

''I'm so sorry, Marlene,'' she says, because she just has to say it - whether it means anything or not. ''If we had gotten to you sooner, you and your mother...'' She stops, licking blood off her lips. ''I'm just sorry.''

Marlene eyes her. ''I'm not,'' she says. ''I'm free now.''

Laurel feels slightly sick at that. Marlene, unsurprisingly, does not seem the least bit interested in the distress on Laurel's face. She stands, turning back to Lady Shiva. ''She's coherent at least,'' she says. ''I'm not convinced she doesn't have a concussion. I'll have to get someone to take a look at her. Even if she doesn't have a concussion, we'll still have to wait until these injuries are healed.'' She gives Shiva a pointed warning look. ''Which means you've delayed us. Again.''

Wait.

Laurel swings her gaze over to Shiva.

What?

Shiva glances at Laurel out of the corner of her eye, but the expression on her face gives nothing away. ''You should not have left me in charge of her if you wanted her in pristine condition,'' she snaps, unapologetic. ''You know my methods.''

''I'm well aware of your methods,'' Marlene says. She pulls her lips back into a smile that isn't really a smile. ''What I'm stuck on is your loyalty. I'm not certain we're on the same side.''

Shiva stiffens. ''My loyalty is where it needs to be. I believe I've made that clear.''

''Wow, you guys, '' Laurel blurts. ''You could cut the sexual tension with a knife.'' Despite the fact that she feels like she's been hit with a truck, she makes an attempt to stand.

Marlene says, ''Stay down.''

Laurel stays down.

She falls back down, winded, with magic pressing against her, practically grinding her into the gravel.

Marlene looks at her for maybe a second, careless and disinterested, before looking at Shiva. ''What did you find?''

''Excuse me?''

''You said you were testing her. What were the results?''

Shiva glares at her, still stewing in her rage. ''Her skill levels are way below par,'' she says after a moment. ''Certainly not what I expected from one of the Star City vigilantes. The Black Canary is an overhyped figurehead. Nothing more than a child playing dress up. She should be easy to contain.''

''All right, well,'' Laurel huffs. ''That seems harsh.''

I mean, damn, she knows she's not some kind of legendary fighter yet, but she's been drugged.

''You're wrong,'' says Marlene, plain and simple.

Shiva looks pissed. ...But that might just be her face. ''You dare to question my findings?''

Marlene, with her empty but somehow all knowing eyes, just looks at her.

For one very, very brief second, Shiva just about looks disconcerted.

Marlene takes one last look at Laurel. ''Get her up to the office and then get out of here.'' She flicks a bored look in Shiva's direction. ''You're done for the night,'' she orders. ''Am I making myself clear?''

Shiva looks like she would rather burn alive than take orders from a witch. Least of all this particular witch. She visibly clenches her teeth. But, still, she says, ''Crystal.''

Marlene nods shortly, then spins on her heel, and walks away. ''And take that kid with you,'' she calls over her shoulder. ''She shouldn't be here.''

Shiva watches her walk away, the disdain on her face slowly morphing into all out homicidal rage. If looks could kill, Marlene would be nothing but ashes right now.

It's fascinating and all, but Laurel's still stuck on the part where whatever they were going to do to her has been delayed by Shiva's beating. ''Shiva,'' she gets out. ''Are you - Did you know - ''

Shiva wordlessly puts a finger to her lips. She looks in the direction Marlene went, and then in the direction of the office. With a small shake of her head, she pulls a zip tie out of her pocket and approaches Laurel. ''You,'' she says, voice low, ''need to ready yourself, Canary.'' The tone of her voice is different now. Careful but urgent, lacking the amusement and heat from before.

Laurel is so stunned and confused - and possibly concussed - that she doesn't even bother to struggle when Shiva ties her hands together in front of her. Also, they're just plastic zip ties. Not the hardest things to get out of. You'd think a professional like Shiva would know that. You'd think. She looks up at the woman, meeting her eyes for a second.

Shiva says nothing. Just finishes binding her wrists. She grasps onto Laurel's arms to haul her to her feet and as she does, she leans in close. ''Do not show her weakness,'' she whispers, and then in one quick, fluid movement, she reaches up with one hand and disables the sonic dampening collar from around Laurel's neck.

.

.

.

December, 2013
Central City
Earth-2

Fuck.

Is it Amanda? No, that's not right. Amy? No, not right either. Ashley? Anna? It starts with an A. She's sure of it. That's about the only thing she's sure of. Was it Amber? Ava? Alyssa? Abby? Fucking Athena? …Probably not Athena.

''Fuck me.'' Dinah massages her temples in a useless attempt to soothe the throbbing ache of her hangover. Angela? Alana? Wait, maybe it's Alana. That sounds like it could be right.

Maybe?

Fuck her entire life right now.

In hindsight, she should have known better. You never have a one night stand on a Tuesday night. That's just asking for trouble.

She blows out a breath and leans back against the wall, desperately trying to search her mind. Mostly she remembers the tequila. And the fucking. Both great, in her humble opinion, but not helpful right now. She does vaguely remember that this chick - is it Alana? - had been especially chatty and Dinah had been all too willing to lend an ear as the kindly bartender but that had been before all the tequila shots. And also when she had been trying to get in her pants.

''Man,'' she sags against her dresser, rubbing her temple. ''I gotta lay off the tequila.'' She turns her head, and the framed photograph on her dresser catches her eye. Her wedding picture. She wrinkles her nose and knocks it face down. The last thing she needs right now is her dead husband judging her life choices. How did that picture even get there? It should be buried in her underwear drawer where she normally keeps it.

She pushes off the dresser and heads back over to the bed, plopping down on the rumpled sheets. She tries to check the time on her phone, but it's dead so she grabs the overturned alarm clock. She sends an impatient look at the bathroom door. How long does it fucking take to shower?

She pulls open the drawer on her nightstand. She rummages around the mess and manages to produce a half empty pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a bottle of aspirin with maybe four or five pills rolling around inside. No phone charger. She pops a couple of aspirin and swallows them dry, slipping the cigarettes and lighter into the pocket of her thin black robe. She's searching around the mess of tangled sheets for the charger when the bathroom door opens.

''The water pressure in your shower is insane,'' Possibly Alana says. ''I think that was the best shower I've ever had.''

Dinah hums in acknowledgment, still searching for her missing charger. After a few minutes of shaking out pillows, she accepts defeat and turns to watch the other woman drop her towel and start searching around for her clothes. She takes a second to admire the view and tries, one last time, to remember this woman's name. She dimly remembers her complaining about her boss but she cannot, for the life of her, remember her name. Maybe it is Alana. She could be an Alana.

She closes her eyes and rubs at her temples again. God, she's such a fucking asshole.

''Have you seen my bra?''

Dinah opens her eyes at the sound of ''Alana's'' voice. ''What?''

''My bra.'' Alana - Alana? You know what, she's just going to go with Alana, that's probably her name - shimmies into her panties and throws a look over her shoulder. ''I can't find it.''

Dinah looks around the messy bedroom, spotting the purple bra thrown over the chair by the door that has already been piled high with at least ten days' worth of dirty laundry. She snatches up the item and hands it over, but doesn't manage to step away before Alana grabs onto the tie of Dinah's robe and pulls. The robe falls open and Alana smiles wickedly, leaning in for a kiss.

Dinah kisses back because - I mean, hello, this woman is standing there topless and she has, like, fantastic breasts, okay? On any other day, Dinah would be all for pushing her back into bed and going for another round, but... It's approaching eight thirty. Eight thirty on a Wednesday morning and there is no school today. She has responsibilities and shit. She pulls away from the kiss, immediately drawing back and turning away from Probably Alana.

''Wow,'' Alana says. ''You are really not a morning person, are you?''

Dinah huffs out a small laugh. ''You have no idea.''

Alana seems to brush off the attitude easily. ''It's okay. I get it.'' She moves to pluck her clothes from the floor and Dinah drifts away from her to find something to wear. She hastily pulls on a t-shirt and an old pair of boxer shorts before grabbing her dead phone off the bed and slipping it into the pocket of her robe.

''Hey,'' Alana pipes up, sounding annoyingly cheerful as she buttons up her jeans. ''You feel like getting some breakfast?''

Dinah crosses her arms. ''No thanks.''

''Really?'' Alana runs a hand through her wet hair. ''I'm starving.'' She doesn't bother to put her bra on, shoving it into her purse and pulling her shirt over her head. ''I think I'd kill a man for some bacon.''

''Uh-huh. Listen, no offense but I kinda need you to leave,'' Dinah says, totally bypassing the option to sugarcoat it. ''Like, right now.''

Alana stares at her. She does not look so easygoing and cheerful anymore. ''Excuse me?''

Dinah shrugs, unapologetic. ''I have to pick up my son from the babysitter's.''

Alana looks at her, gobsmacked. ''You have a son?''

''Yeah.''

''You didn't tell me you had a kid!''

''Didn't seem relevant.''

Alana keeps staring at her, looking utterly blown away by this new information. Then she just looks suspicious. ''How old is he?''

''Eight.''

''What's his name?''

''Connor.''

Alana doesn't look convinced. She puts her hands on her hips. ''Do you really have a son?''

Dinah rolls her eyes, but, for whatever reason, decides to humor her. She spins on her heel and marches out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen, grabbing Connor's latest school picture off the fridge, knocking a few magnets off in her haste. She's not sure why she does it. It's not like she needs to prove anything to this woman. She just doesn't like the insinuation that she would make up having a child just to get her one night stand out of her apartment. She's a jerk, but she's not the scum of the earth. She returns to the bedroom, holding out the photo for Alana to take without a word.

Alana seems to soften at the sight of it, relaxing slightly. She looks down at the picture for a second, lips pressed together, and then she hands it back. ''So, you...have a child.''

''Looks like.''

''That's nice.''

''Thanks for your approval.''

If she notices the shortness, Alana doesn't mention it. ''So... Connor's father - ''

''Dead,'' Dinah says, emotionless. ''A long time ago.''

''Oh.'' The other woman's eyes widen. She looks shocked for a second, and then she winces and starts squirming in guilt.

Dinah has no sympathy. Don't ask personal questions if you can't handle the answer. She sits down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through her mussed hair. ''Yep.''

''I - I'm sorry,'' Alana says. ''I shouldn't have - That was none of my business.'' She looks at the picture Dinah's tossed onto the top of the dresser. ''Well,'' she brightens determinedly. ''Does Connor like bacon?''

''Loves it,'' Dinah nods. ''But you're not meeting him.''

''Why not? I like kids.''

''I'm not going to introduce my child to some random one night stand,'' Dinah bites out, perhaps harsher than she needs to be.

Alana looks hurt, which, frankly, in Dinah's opinion, is absurd. ''Right, so that's all this was?''

Dinah raises her eyebrows. ''What did you think it was?''

''I thought - ugh.'' Alana stops, rolling her eyes. She looks like she hates herself for what she's about to say, but she says it anyway. ''I can't believe I'm saying this, but I thought we had a connection.''

Oh god.

The connection.

''We did,'' Dinah says. ''The physical kind.''

''Yes, but I'm saying - I don't know what I'm saying.'' Alana looks uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. ''I just thought...'' She doesn't seem to know where to go from there.

Dinah decides to help her out.

''Look, Alana,'' she rises to her feet. ''We had sex. Great sex. Top notch. Ten out of ten. But that's all it was. Just sex. And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with that. We had fun. We don't need to force it to be anything more than that.''

Alana bristles the second Dinah starts talking, but by the time she's finished, her gaze is positively thunderous. She looks at Dinah, seemingly waiting for something that never comes, and then she says, voice low, ''Joanna.''

Dinah thinks, Aw, fuck.

''What?''

''My name is Joanna.''

''Oh.'' Yikes. Big yikes. ''Huh.'' She was certain it started with an A. She tries for a sheepish yet charming smile. ''My bad.''

Joanna does not look charmed. ''I...'' She looks like she's shifting over from disbelief to somewhere between humiliated and homicidal. ''I cannot believe you right now.''

''I - Come on,'' Dinah says tiredly. ''It's not that big of a deal.''

''Not that - '' Joanna whirls around from where she's bent over trying to find her jacket. ''You forgot my name!''

''Well, we were drunk!'' Dinah grabs the black peacoat from the floor by the door, holding it out to Joanna helpfully. ''Speaking of, how are you so chipper right now? Aren't you hungover? It's impressive. What's your secret?''

Joanna snatches the coat from her with a glare.

Dinah holds her hands up. ''All right, sorry. Wrong question to ask. Chill.''

''Don't tell me to chill!'' Joanna throws on her jacket, grabs her purse, and storms out of the bedroom before Dinah has another chance to speak.

She should just leave it there. It would be safest to leave it there and let it go, but she has never been good at that. She gives it a second, pondering her options, and then she chases after her. As she steps out of her apartment, she spots her neighbor from across the hall stepping out to grab his newspaper. The second he sees Joanna storming out of Dinah's apartment like a bat out of hell with Dinah hot on her heels, he quickly reaches behind him to close the door to his place.

''Hey!'' Dinah calls out, catching up to Joanna just as she is pressing the button for the elevator. ''At least I was close!''

Joanna whirls around to send Dinah a heated glare. ''How?'' She practically snarls. ''How were you close? Alana and Joanna aren't even remotely close.''

Dinah does not miss the sympathetic wince and sharp intake of breath from her neighbor. When she sends him a look, he just holds the newspaper up to his face and pretends to be engrossed in today's headline.

''Actually,'' she says, standing straight. ''They kind of are. They both end with an ''anna'' sound. So. You can see where I would get confused.''

Joanna does not, apparently, see where she would get confused. ''Fuck you, Dinah.''

Dinah, mildly inconvenienced by the insult, smirks. ''You already took care of that, sweetheart.''

Joanna looks mortified that she has slept with such a heinous bitch of a person. The mortification doesn't last long. It is quickly replaced with rage. ''You know what?'' She sneers out, stepping into the elevator. ''I think it would be best if you lost my number.''

Dinah's first response - despite the fact that she was actively trying to get Joanna out of her apartment only moments ago - is to be indignant and defensive, but then she remembers - ''Ha! Joke's on you,'' she crows as the elevator doors begin to slide shut. ''I don't even have your number!'' The elevator doors slide shut in her face, drowning out the last expletive Joanna sends her way. She stays where she is for a minute, staring at the closed doors, and then she exhales softly and turns around.

Her neighbor lowers the paper and smiles brightly at her. ''Good morning, Dinah.''

She glowers at him. ''Shut up, Dean.''

He doesn't even look offended. ''I just said good morning.''

''I can feel you judging me,'' she retorts, but approaches him anyway.

''I'm not judging you,'' he says, and then the jackass offers her his steaming mug of coffee.

Fuck, she bets he's genuinely not judging her at all. Dean Winchester is the least judgmental person she has ever met in her entire life. And her best friend is Barbara Gordon so that's really saying something. It's infuriating. You would think he would at least be a little judgy given that he works in an ER and has undoubtedly had to remove a lot of weird things from up people's assholes, but nope. He's all peace, love, and understanding at all times. She's never even seen him angry.

What a freak of nature.

She accepts the mug, even though she hates coffee, and takes a few urgent sips. She may hate this disgusting sludge, but she's desperate for the caffeine this morning. ''What is it about me that makes my one night stands think we have some sort of connection?'' She slumps against the wall, looking down into the cup of strong black coffee. It tastes like gasoline, but she's not sure tea is going to be enough to combat this hangover. ''Sometimes I just want sex. Is there something wrong with that? Can't a woman just go out there and have some nice casual sex every now and then or is that only okay when men do it?''

''As long as all parties are consenting adults and everybody's being safe, I say have all the sex you want,'' he encourages.

''Seriously,'' she complains. ''We just met last night and this morning she wants to meet my kid. What is it about me?'' She blows on the coffee and takes a few more sips, shuddering in disgust after each sip. When he eventually gestures for her to give him his coffee back, she gulps down the rest of it as fast as possible before handing him back the mug. In her defense, the mug was only about half full when he handed it to her and if he didn't want her to drink it all, he shouldn't have offered it to her. He knows better than that.

''Well.'' He peers into his empty mug. ''I can tell you it's not your sparkling personality.''

She furrows her brows. ''What's wrong with my personality?''

A tiny smirk hovers on his face for about half a second before he flattens his face back into that dull and irritatingly unruffled and calm expression of his. ''I don't think we have that kind of time, kiddo.''

''Oh, the doc's got jokes now,'' she gripes. ''That's just great. Really hilarious. For your information, my personality perfectly complements yours. As in - I have one, and you are hands down the dullest person I have ever met in my entire life.''

He shakes his head at her, but doesn't bother with offense. As a matter of fact, he looks faintly amused. ''Why do I like you?''

She puts her hand on his shoulder, meets his eyes, and says, serious as a heart attack, ''It's the sex.''

He laughs at that. ''Oh right,'' he says, rather dismissively. ''That. Speaking of,'' he nods toward the elevator. ''I thought you were sleeping with your boss.''

''I was going to, but then I found out he has a kid. I don't sleep with people who have kids. I hate kids.''

''...You have a kid.''

''And he's the best kid on earth,'' she says - and she means that. ''But that's also exactly why I can't deal with another. I've already filled my quota for this lifetime.''

Dean arches a brow. ''I'm the exception then?''

''That's different.'' She fishes the cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket, taking one out of the pack and lighting it up. ''Your kid's basically an adult. Probably been that way for most of her life.'' She takes a drag of the cigarette. ''She kind of reminds me of a self-cleaning oven.''

That one seems to stump him.

She considers blowing smoke in his face just out of sheer boredom because that's the only thing that ever seems to even remotely ruffle his feathers, but ultimately decides against it. She needs him to give her more gross coffee. And possibly feed her. Can't risk him shuffling her off to her barren wasteland of an apartment. She blows the smoke away from him. ''Also, I mostly sleep with you out of convenience,'' she can't help but add. ''I mean.'' She puts the cigarette between her lips and gestures from her apartment door to his. ''You're right there.''

''Thank you,'' he says. ''That's flattering.''

''You're welcome.'' She takes the cigarette out of her mouth. ''But also,'' she grins, pointing at him. ''Great ass!''

He very nearly blushes at that. Instead, he reaches out and plucks the cigarette from her grasp. ''Do you not see the giant No Smoking sign right beside your door?''

She makes a grab for the cigarette but he holds it out of her reach. ''It's cool,'' she tries. ''I'm friends with the guy who owns the building.''

Dean - the guy who owns the building - looks at her flatly. Then he drops the cigarette into the mug, extinguishing it in the dregs of the coffee. He staunchly ignores her squawks of protest. ''As a doctor and your friend, I'm begging you - once again - to please lay off the cancer sticks.''

Dinah glares indignantly, crossing her arms. ''I never said you were my friend.''

''Honey,'' he says. ''You have exactly two friends. If I were you, I wouldn't dial that number back to one. Remember I'm currently letting you live here rent free.''

Fair enough.

Fine, she'll just smoke on her balcony then. Maybe even his. He has a better view. ''How was Connor last night?'' She finally asks, admittedly a question she should have led with.

''He was asleep by the time I got home, but Emma said everything was fine,'' he says. He softens and she watches that stupidly heartfelt and sweet look cross his face. She hates that look. It reminds her far too much of Ollie. ''You know he's never any trouble, Dinah. You've got a great kid.''

She looks away from him and his dumb look. ''Gets that from his dad.''

''Certainly didn't get it from you,'' he jokes. ''You're always trouble.''

She looks back at him with a beaming smile. ''Sexy, isn't it?''

He looks like he is trying really hard not to smile at that, but he fails, shaking his head. ''All right,'' he reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around and giving her a gentle nudge over to her apartment. ''Go on, Casanova. Go take a shower. I'll wake the kids up and have breakfast waiting for you when you're done.''

She doesn't argue, even though she normally would, mostly because a shower sounds like heaven right now. ''I want tea,'' she calls over her shoulder. ''Earl Grey preferably. Or English Breakfast. None of that green tea bullshit. I want strong black tea. Lots of it.''

''Scout's honor,'' he promises, and she throws a look over her shoulder, catching the wide smile on his face as he slips back into his apartment, the one that reaches all the way to his eyes. She hates that smile of his. The way it hits her right in the gut every time.

Dinah ducks back into her apartment and the first thing she does is immediately high tail it to the balcony to have a cigarette. Dean can put up as many No Smoking signs as he wants, he can cover the whole building with them for all she cares, but Dinah Lance will find a way to smoke her Camels. Doctor Winchester can suck it. She does only smoke one, though. Unusual for her, which presumably means his babbles and guilt trips about lung cancer and COPD and leaving Connor an orphan have gotten to her over the years. That bugs her.

Once she's through, she takes a shower, just long enough to wash away the sweat and the sex and ease her still throbbing hangover, and then she towel dries her hair as fast as possible, slaps on a quick coat of moisturizer, and tries to find some clean clothes. Turns out Joanna did, in fact, give Dinah her number. She finds it tucked into the back pocket of last night's jeans, written on the back of a receipt. She doesn't remember that either.

She should really make a note or set a reminder on her phone: No more tequila.

...At least not on weeknights.

Dinah tosses the slip of paper in the garbage and refuses to feel guilty about it. She pulls on some clothes that feel at least moderately clean and grabs her dead phone. She doesn't bother searching for her charger.

She will acknowledge that she is, without a shred of doubt, a godawful mother, but she does love her boy fiercely and she has never enjoyed being away from him for too long. In his entire eight years of life, there has only been a few occasions where they have been apart for 24 hours or more - and those few weekends only happened because Moira Queen threatened to sue her for custody unless she sent Connor to Starling for a weekend visit. Moira has been suspiciously quiet ever since Robert's ''miraculous'' return. On the outside, it's a relief. Dinah no longer has to walk around on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop, readying herself for Moira's next demand. She has Robert back. Maybe that's enough to make her drop the doting grandmother shtick she's been trying to play.

Except Dinah's not stupid.

None of Oliver's friends and family liked her. Not when they were dating, not when they were engaged, not when they got married, not at all. Moira softened when Dinah was pregnant and when Connor was a baby, but quickly became a nightmare when the boat went down, and now that Robert - the person who loathes Dinah the most - is home, all bets are off.

If her worst fears are correct and they're just biding their time, putting together a foolproof custody suit, waiting for the perfect moment to slap her with it, then she'll have no chance. Dean keeps telling her to relax, that even if that is what the Queens are doing, they can fight it; he'll get his ex-wife on it just like he did when Snobby Sara and her spineless second husband threatened to petition for custody, but it's not that simple. Lydia Winchester is a shark of a lawyer, but the Queen family will have an army. They won't be intimidated the way Sara and Leo were and they have enough money to pay off every judge in both Starling and Central City.

Even if they didn't, even with Lydia's help, Dinah is not a fit mother. She's a broke borderline alcoholic with a string of one night stands and the world's smallest support system, her employment situation is, generally speaking, unstable at best, she has a criminal record, and her landlord's teenage daughter does more actual mothering than she ever has. Her entire life since Robert Queen's return has just been waiting for that other shoe to drop, because it will drop.

She doesn't want to be away from Connor for any longer than she has to be. Not if he's just going to be taken from her. She pulls a baggy sweatshirt over her head to block out the chill of the December morning.

It should have been Ollie.

The thought comes to her unbidden, slipping in between the cracks. He should have been the one to survive. To come home alive. Then things would be different. They would be better. He'd get his family to back off. Take care of her and Connor. They would be a family again. They would be happy.

She swallows hard. She blames the sudden gnawing nausea on hunger and her hangover. With a sigh, she traipses back over to the dresser, picking up the wedding picture. She wipes the dust off the glass with her sleeve and looks down at the two smiling idiots in the picture.

Oliver did come home. Sometimes she forgets that. Robert made sure of it. It was the first thing he did when he was rescued. He made sure Oliver got home. Refused to leave China without him. It's just that he came home a living, breathing miracle. Oliver came home, five years dead, in a body bag. They wouldn't even let her see him. She pleaded with them. She just wanted that one last moment. Even if he was just bones. They couldn't even give her that.

Babs says Dinah has spent the past six and a half years grieving and calling it love. Says she's going to wind up spending the rest of her life chasing that misery and mistaking it for devotion if she doesn't make a change soon.

Babs is always saying stupid shit like that.

As if Dinah deserves better or something. One of the many things Dinah loves about Babs is her eternal optimism and kindness. It's something Dinah has never had. But this isn't that simple.

It's not that easy to just...let go.

She lowers the picture. See, this is why she stays away from tequila. It makes her all broody and reflective. That's not her.

Before she leaves to head across the hall, she makes a stop in Connor's room. Most of the pictures she has of Ollie, the ones that aren't packed away, out of sight, out of mind, are in her son's bedroom. It's a futile gesture. Pictures aren't going to replace what he lost. They can't tell him who his dad was. But she has this frenzied need for him to know Ollie somehow. At least what he looks like. She wants him to know what his father's smile looks like. She wants him to know where he got his eyes from, his strong jaw, that big goofy grin he gets when he's excited about something, that light in his eyes.

She puts the wedding picture on the desk, in between the picture of her and Connor from his birthday and the picture of Ollie holding their son for the first time. She wishes they had taken more family photos of the three of them.

Babs says she needs to let go. Allow herself to move on.

Dinah wouldn't even know where to begin.

She steps back, away from the pictures, and cocks her head to the side, looking at them curiously with her hands clasped in front of her. It's not that she wants to stand still, stuck in the mindset of a twenty two year old widow, unable to give any real part of herself to someone else, but grief is the only love she knows. It's her only constant. Who would she be without it?

''Whatever pain you think you have to live with,'' Babs had said, just yesterday during their weekly phone call. ''I promise you, you don't. You deserve happiness. I want that for you, Connor wants that for you, Oliver would certainly want that for you.''

Dinah eyes the picture of Ollie and tiny newborn Connor. She looks at the utter joy on his face, the happiness, the excitement, the love. Ollie is still an ache, an absence, and his death is still a total unfairness, but at least she still has an echo of him in their son. Maybe that's luck.

She licks her lips and her fingers twitch for a cigarette, but she doesn't light one up. Instead, she takes a deep breath, turns around, and goes to have breakfast with Dean and the kids. She doesn't have the time to keep brooding. It's already nearly nine in the morning. She needs to get some food in her and hopefully some more caffeine. There's no school today, which means she's on Mom Duty all day long. She should get on that.

Today's going to be a busy day.

.

.

.

November, 2016

Let's get one thing straight:

Dinah does not care about any of these people.

She cares about herself. She only ever cares about herself. It's not like there's anyone else she needs to care about these days.

She didn't accept the deal her annoying doppelganger brought to her out of the goodness of her heart. It wasn't about redemption. She accepted it because of the money and the potential freedom. She could not give less of a shit about these shady kids. She's going to do her job, but she's ''meh'' about them personally.

That said... She's getting worried about Hanna Moretti.

The witch is sitting in the backseat, staring down at her hands, blank and dead eyed. She hasn't said a word since they left the woods. Didn't even cry when she saw her brother's body. She just huddled next to him, numb and dry-eyed while Quentin did some hasty patchwork on Dinah and Oliver's wounds. She didn't even react when he checked out her own head wound. Now she's just sitting there. She didn't even protest when they dragged her away from her brother.

Dinah glances in the rearview mirror and the girl stares back at her with her creepy, empty eyes. It's unnerving, is what it is. You'd think she was the dead one with the way she looks right now.

Dinah doesn't like it. In general, she respects but does not at all trust witches - nasty little things - and she has made a point of not tapping into the witchcraft she knows she has in her blood, but this particular witch...

She is really giving her the heebie jeebies.

That girl is going to break. She is going to split apart and crumble and Dinah would very much like to be far, far away when that happens. Bad things happen when people break. Look what happened to her. Look what happened to Dean.

Maybe she should've just let him kill the witch.

...Nah, bad idea. These bozos would never pay her if she let both of her charges die within the first week.

''No, Barry, I don't care!''

Dinah slides her gaze over to Oliver. He's sitting in the passenger seat with his phone pressed to his ear, snarling at Flash. She tightens her hands around the steering wheel. So far, her experience with this earth's version of him has not been at all positive. She doesn't know what she had been expecting. It's not like he was going to take one look at her and fall into her arms. Even her own Ollie would be disgusted by what she has become. She just wasn't expecting this Ollie to be so...disappointing.

''You let a dangerous criminal loose in my city and you didn't tell me you were doing it,'' Oliver growls into the phone. ''That is not okay.''

''Technically,'' Dinah pipes up. ''I've mostly stuck to the outskirts of the city. Are those yours too?''

Oliver sends her what she thinks is supposed to be a nasty look. It's hard to tell considering he appears to only have one expression.

She barely looks at him, smiling pleasantly, keeping her eyes on the wet road ahead of her. He is really starting to grate on her.

Back at the campground, there had been a fifteen minute long argument about how the seating arrangements were going to go for the trip back into the city. None of them had wanted to spend any length of time with her (she's pretty sure she creeps them all out) but they also hadn't been willing to let her go off on her own, despite her telling them repeatedly that ARGUS put a fucking tracker on her. This option was the lesser of two evils. She's not thrilled about essentially having to be a chauffeur for her dead husband and a witch on the verge of a meltdown, but at least she's not stuck in a car with her dead father.

It's not that hard to separate her Ollie and this blockhead. Ollie, her Ollie, is forever twenty-two, young and hopeful for the future, boyishly handsome and smiling, always smiling. This man is older, harder, not quite grizzled but rougher around the edges from whatever he's been through, and she hasn't even seen his smile yet. She has no idea if he even remembers how to do that. He seems faraway, like a dream or maybe a nightmare. Nothing more than a shadow.

But her father...

The Quentin Lance of this earth is older, troubled, and weary in a way that eats at her heart. He's different, with his shaved head, lines on his face she doesn't remember, and the dark waves of grief just shimmering under the surface, but he's still her father. His eyes are still his eyes. When she looks at him, all she can see is what she's lost.

So she doesn't want to look at him at all.

Given the way he had flinched every time he so much as glanced at her, she's willing to bet he feels the same way. The only difference is that he gets to go home and see his Laurel, with all her ridiculous soft edges, and he gets to know that all is right in his world, that his daughter and his grandchild are alive and together.

Dinah doesn't get to go home and see her dad and know that everything is going to be okay. She doesn't get to go home at all.

This jackass version of Oliver is way easier to deal with.

''I told you I didn't care!'' The jackass in question lets out a booming shout, and Dinah just manages to catch Hanna's reaction in the rearview mirror, watching her wince and shrink away from Oliver's seat. ''I don't care what Laurel told you,'' Oliver goes on. ''This isn't their choice to make. This is my city.''

''Megalomaniac,'' Dinah mutters.

He looks over at her warningly. ''Nobody asked you.''

The corners of her lips twitch. She presses down harder on the gas pedal, speeding up, and then, abruptly, she releases the gas and slams her foot down on the break. Oliver, who is conveniently not wearing his seatbelt, goes flying forward. He braces himself against the dashboard with his free hand, which just so happens to be the injured one, and his phone slips from his grasp. He groans in pain, mumbling an expletive, and she can't help but snicker.

''Sorry,'' she says, sending him the most innocent look she can muster up. ''Squirrel.''

Oliver sends her a dark look and retrieves his phone from the floor. ''Barry? You still there?''

She stifles a laugh and presses down on the gas again. She glances in both the side mirror and the rearview mirror, mostly to check and see if she can see the headlights of Quentin's car, but they lost them ages ago with her lead foot. When she catches sight of Hanna, the mirth is wiped straight off her face. Hanna looks mostly unaffected by Dinah's stunt, but she's pulled her knees up to her chest, her breathing has sped up, and life has returned to her eyes in the form of what looks like paralyzing grief.

Oh god, she better not start crying.

Dinah has no idea what to do with crying people. She wasn't even good at comforting her own kid most of the time. He usually went to Dean or Babs for that.

Beside her, Oliver lets out a bark of resentful sounding laughter and she jerks her attention back to the road. ''Their operation,'' he's saying, disbelief coating his every word. ''This isn't - '' He stops, like he's been cut off. ''Look - ''

Distantly, she hears the sound of Barry Allen's voice, tinny through the phone but loud. ''NO, YOU LOOK!''

Even goody two shoes Flash is done with this guy.

''Barry,'' Oliver sighs. He closes his eyes and Dinah notices, out of the corner of her eye, the way he pales slightly. ''How do you know about that? ...That was different.'' He makes an aborted noise of protest, but then stops. ''Okay,'' he says through clenched teeth. ''I realize that, but Laurel was the one who called me out on that and fixed my mess. She should know better than to - '' He's cut off again and he clamps his jaw shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He listens to whatever Allen tells him for a minute, but his silence doesn't last long. ''She's killed people, Barry!''

Dinah comes very close to laughing out loud. ''So have you, Mr. Green,'' she can't help but cut in, smooth as velvet.

He sends her a flat look. ''Can you slow down?''

She maintains eye contact with him, grips the wheel, grins, and presses the gas pedal practically to the floor, speeding up dangerously.

''Damn it, Dinah.'' He has to reach out again to grasp onto the dashboard, groaning. ''I said slow down not speed up!''

''I know what you said,'' she smiles. ''I ignored you.''

''See,'' he yells into the phone. ''She's already trying to kill me!''

''Kill you?'' Dinah laughs humorlessly, easing off the gas. ''I saved your life, you piss ant. A little gratitude would be nice.''

''A little - '' He slings her a look of disbelief. ''I got shot!''

She waves that off with an unimpressed scoff. ''In the shoulder. Don't be a baby about it. I got stabbed and nearly drowned.''

''Please,'' he grouses. ''You barely got stabbed. It's just a flesh wound.''

He does have a point there - Dean clearly hadn't wanted to kill her this time, just get her out of the way - but she's not going to let him know that. ''Well, it stung.''

''Oh, for Christ's sake,'' he moans. ''You know what? I don't care if these were Laurel's orders,'' he tells Allen. ''I don't care if ARGUS signed off on this. As soon as we get back to the base, you need to get down here and get this woman - ''

''My name is Dinah.''

'' - Out of my city.''

''That's not your call,'' she says.

''It is my - ''

''Oh my god, Dean was right about you,'' she interrupts scornfully. ''I thought he was just being dramatic, but you are an insufferable prick.''

She expects him to get all huffy at that, but, disappointingly, he just laughs. ''Yes, I'm the insufferable one here.''

''Face it, Ollie,'' she snaps. ''You're not running this. This isn't your show. I was hired by Laurel and Dean and until they tell me I'm done, you're stuck with me. Sorry, babe, but you have no authority here. No power.'' She smiles sweetly, leaning over him to murmur, ''You're as good as impotent.''

Now that one does get him.

It takes all her restraint not to roll her eyes. Men are predictable on every earth apparently.

He sputters furiously for a second before roaring out, ''IMPOTENT?!''

She shrugs. ''It's just a word.''

''Find a different word.''

''Don't be so fragile.''

''Barry,'' he says into the phone, still glaring at her. ''I'm serious. I need you to get her...'' He trails off, and then frowns. ''Barry?'' He pulls the phone away from his ear for a minute, staring at it like a kicked puppy. ''He hung up on me.''

Dinah bursts out laughing. She doesn't even feel bad about it. ''Wow,'' she gets out. ''I wonder what could have driven him to that.''

''Shut up, Dinah,'' he gripes, but it's lacking any of the heat from before and mostly just sounds morose.

She is too busy cackling to come up with some harshly witty retort, though she does laugh even harder when Barry obviously doesn't answer when he calls back. It's on his third attempt that she finally sobers enough to say something. ''Give it up, loser. He's not gonna answer. He has better things to do. Like, for instance, his hot girlfriend. He was probably in the middle of dicking her down when you called.'' She makes a face at the thought. ''What a boner killer.''

He rubs at his forehead tiredly. ''Stop talking.''

''It's not like I'm wrong.''

''Are you always like this?''

''Are you always like this?''

He sighs into his phone. ''Come on, Barry,'' he practically begs. ''Come on. Pick up the - '' He breaks off in a sudden hiss, dropping the phone like it's on fire.

Dinah takes her eyes off the road for a split second, attention caught by the startlingly loud static sound coming from the dropped phone. ''Holy shit,'' she says, just as the phone begins to spark. ''What the fu - ''

The rest of her exclamation is drowned out by the sound of the radio blaring to life and then the only thing she can hear is Michael Stipe singing, at full volume, STAND! IN THE PLACE WHERE YOU LIVE!

Then it's just an influx of pointless chaos.

Oliver is frantically rolling down the window to throw out his smoking phone and Dinah is scrambling fruitlessly to turn down the piercingly loud music. On the radio, the R.E.M frontman just keeps repeating the same line over and over again, like a record skipping.

Now face north.

It only lasts about a minute, less than, before the radio cuts out, static screaming through the confined space of the car, and then it sparks. Smoke spills out from the dashboard, the car sputters, lets out a few clunks and croaks, and then rolls to a stop in the middle of the deserted highway.

Her first instinct - while Oliver is busy scanning their surroundings for the threat - is to let loose an impressive string of expletives, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, throat tightening in terror.

Dean.

This is Dean. It has to be. He's caught up to them and he's going to kill them all. He can do that now. He has that power. He could rip them all limb from limb without breaking a sweat. That's who - what - he is now. She looks around anxiously, eyeing the trees, waiting for him to melt out of the darkness, pop up in front of the car and pull her through the windshield or rip the door off the hinges, yank her out, and plunge his fist into her chest. It sounds like something he would do. He's gotten really dramatic since Onomatopoeia became a thing.

She can feel that infuriating mix of panic and anger burning away in her chest, the bile rising in the back of her throat. A strong hand clamps down around her wrist and she reacts like a frightened, wounded, caged animal, gasping pathetically and throwing herself away from him.

It's only Oliver. He retracts his hand immediately, looking stunned that she has the ability to feel human emotions. He moves past it quickly, plastering on a look of indifference, but when he speaks, his voice is so annoyingly gentle. Like her Ollie's. She hates him a little for it. ''Dinah,'' he says.

She looks anywhere but him. That's when her eyes settle on the rearview mirror and Hanna Moretti, huddled in the backseat. She's trembling, arms wrapped around her knees, face hidden behind her hair. Dinah can hear her whimpering pitifully, but it's her hands that grab her attention. There are blue sparks dancing on her fingertips.

''Kid,'' Dinah says, as calmly as she can. ''Look at me.''

Hanna raises her head and Dinah feels every muscle in her body tense up.

Beside her, she hears Oliver mumble out, ''Shit.''

Hanna's eyes are completely white and glowing with energy and power.

''Hanna,'' Dinah tries. ''Did you do this?''

The kid's eyes fall back to normal, but she still looks wild, looking around desperately.

''Hanna,'' Oliver says, but before he can say more, Bambi is vaulting across the backseat and out the door. ''Damn it.'' He climbs out of the car as fast as he can, Dinah close behind him. They both take off at a run, chasing after Hanna, but they don't get that far.

Neither does Hanna. She makes it as far as the side of the road, staggering onto the wet grass and then she drops to her knees and starts puking her guts out.

Not exactly giving off all powerful uber witch vibes here.

Dinah swallows down a disgusted noise, but screws her face up, taking a step back. She feels like this situation doesn't call for her expertise. Which is mostly violence. She turns to Oliver, holding her hands up. ''That is all you.''

''That - '' He grimaces. He looks back and forth between her and the puking witch, squirming uncomfortably, but eventually seems resigned to his fate. He doesn't seem all that keen on approaching Hanna at the moment, but he doesn't argue. He makes sure to wait until she's finished vomiting before he takes an extremely hesitant step in her direction. ''Hanna?''

Dinah can't tell if his extremely apparent discomfort is because Hanna is a traumatized teenage girl, a powerful witch, or just because he doesn't like puking, but any way you slice it, he looks awkward as hell right now. It might be amusing if it didn't make her feel so unfairly resentful. Her Ollie would have excelled at comforting the poor fucked up kid. He was a natural at nurture. He was so kind. Unlike her. It's a curious sort of torture to be stuck in a world where her husband is alive but he's not her husband at all.

Hanna doesn't respond to the sound of Oliver's voice. She doesn't seem to notice them at all right now. She's not throwing up anymore, but she's still kneeling there in the wet grass, panting, looking so small and so oddly far away.

From a safe distance away, Dinah keeps an eye on her. She doesn't think a magical explosion is where they're heading, but one can never be too careful when it comes to witches.

''Hanna,'' Oliver takes another step. There's a way too long pause after her says her name. He doesn't seem to know what to say. ''I'm sorry.''

Hanna, shivering in the night air, crumples instantly. She folds into herself, curling up like a child, and lets out this wrenching cry. She wilts, bursting into tears, releasing these loud, messy, anguished sounding sobs.

Oliver doesn't try to get any closer. He doesn't say anything else either.

Dinah thinks that's for the best. She lasts about thirty seconds, listening to Hanna's sobs turn into wails, and then she starts to feel that itch in her throat, that shaky feeling in her limbs. There is no sound quite like the howls of grief. An unbearable sound takes over everything in its path. Completely blankets the area in turmoil.

She remembers those howls.

Just the sound of the girl's cries brings memories flooding back to the forefront of her mind; the sterile smell of that hospital room, the way her son's chest moved as his last breath left his body, the feel of his broken glasses clutched in her hand, and the sound of her own broken wails.

She hadn't screamed when her father died, hadn't even made a sound when she learned about the Gambit, but when Connor died, she howled. Howled so loud and for so long that it became something else. She has never forgotten that her greatest power came from the worst thing that has ever happened to her, but that doesn't mean she likes the reminder.

She spins on her heel and marches purposefully away from Hanna, ignoring the feel of Oliver's eyes following her.

She doesn't run. She could, is the thing. When she made this deal, she agreed to be put under surveillance. She is supposed to check in with Dean and/or Laurel every other day and with her handler every day at 6:15. A completely arbitrary time in her opinion, but whatever. If she misses her daily debrief, even if she's five minutes late, she will be brought in and her contract will be terminated. She has two tracking devices on her; an internal ARGUS chip in her arm and one around her ankle - courtesy of Star Labs, the only demand Flash made when he and his team agreed to release her into the custody of ARGUS. If she steps out of line, it's over and she gets nothing. No money, no freedom, just life spent in some underground cell in one of ARGUS' black sites.

But...

She could still run.

Disable the ankle monitor, dig the tracker out of her arm, and dodge the retrieval team. She is, in all honesty, quite confident that she could do that with no problem. It's not as if she needs the money. She's a con woman - and a damn good one at that. She could make that in one night. It's not like it would be the first time she's been on the run from some shady government agency. Slipping away would be nothing.

Yet here she is.

Both trackers are functional, she has never missed a debrief, and she risked her life going up against Dean trying to protect those dumbass kids. The worst part is, she doesn't know why. She couldn't tell you why she's still here, standing on the side of the road with some sloppy ass stupid version of her husband, listening to some Disney Channel reject wail her lungs out.

It bothers her.

She's embarrassing herself with this compliance. She should be running as fast as she can away from this mess. Especially now that she knows Dean is involved somehow. That man has spent the past year trying to kill her. It doesn't matter what they were once upon a time. They're different people now. He is not the man she used to know, that unabashedly sweet single dad from across the hall.

People change. Sometimes for the worst. She would know.

The Dean Winchester of her earth is bound and determined to make her life a living nightmare. Her body is littered with scars he's given her. He fucking tortured her. Eight hours strung up before Babs and Grayson came for her. She has no idea how he managed to get out of Arkham and she doesn't know how he got here, but if he's involved then she needs to leave. She should have been on a plane yesterday. She never should have come back for Mattie and Hanna. She should have just run.

Except she didn't.

Maybe she's been brainwashed. Maybe they've ruined her. Turned her - ugh - obedient. Except - No. No, that's not it.

It's that fucking pill popper with her face. Laurel. She just...believes in her so much. It's irksome how weak this earth's version of her is. How soft. But it also reminds her of Babs.

Dinah still gets homesick when she thinks of Babs.

She inhales sharply and tilts her head back, looking up at the cloudy night sky. She really needs a cigarette.

The glare of headlights pulls her attention to an approaching car. It slows down and pulls over to the side of the road behind the stalled car. She stiffens but before the engine even cuts, that hot blonde with the glasses - Felicia or something? - is flying out of the passenger's seat. ''Oh my god,'' she yelps, but halts immediately, seemingly wary of running into the situation head on. ''What did you do to her?'' She looks over at Dinah apprehensively, but Dinah just smiles and holds her hands up innocently.

Blondie looks unnerved by the smile. Dinah leers after her, fascinated. She's an awfully shrill and awkward person, isn't she? Can't believe she's going to flirt with her. I mean, she doesn't have to, but she's going to.

''Nobody - '' Oliver makes one of those judgy huffy noises. ''She just needs a minute.''

Dinah arches an eyebrow and looks past him to Hanna. She's not banshee howling anymore, but she's still sobbing hysterically into her hands. ''A minute,'' Dinah complains, mostly to herself. ''Girl needs a valium.''

When she hears a car door slam shut, she turns her gaze over to the other car, to her - to Quentin Lance. He doesn't spare her even a backwards glance, going straight for the trunk of his car. He doesn't look quite as unsure as Oliver and Blondie do. Of course he doesn't. He's a father. Maybe not her father, but still a parent. He would know what to do here. He - the other him - always did. He retrieves a couple of items from the trunk - a blanket and a bottle of water - and then slams the trunk closed. He eyes Dinah as he strides closer to the group and she feels her whole body tense up. Her entire existence makes him uneasy. She can see it in his eyes. Practically feel it. It's fair, honestly, but it still stings to see him look at her with something akin to fear.

He strides right past her and she holds her breath, waiting until he's a safe distance away to exhale. She misses her father. Sometimes she forgets just how much.

She fucking hates how good this world is at reminding her just how much she has lost.

''We have to go back,'' Hanna cries out, the second Quentin crouches next to her. Her voice is loud and she's still gulping down sobs, body heaving and shuddering. ''We have to go back and get him! We can't just leave him lying there all alone! It's cold out. I don't want him to get cold.''

Oliver and Blondie - it's Felicity, Dinah knows that, she just likes being an asshole - share a look, both of them looking stricken and guilty.

They approach Hanna slowly. Felicity kneels down in the grass beside Hanna and says something in a murmur. Dinah can't hear what any of them are saying, but she doesn't care all that much. She's getting antsy. It sucks the kid's lost her brother and everything, but Dinah hasn't been able to muster up much of anything since she was twenty two and what little she had left ran out in 2013 so right now, she's mostly feeling impatient.

They need to get a move on. Dean is still out there and they at least need to get somewhere where they can get weapons. Preferably some backup too. They don't have time for this.

Yawning, she leans back against the car and stretches her sore muscles. Experimentally, with a preemptive grimace, she sniffs at her clothes. They're mostly dry at this point, but she smells like the ocean threw up on her. She needs a shower and some clean clothes. And a drink. She could use a drink. But her safe house has been compromised, which means she's fucked. If these people could hurry this breakdown along, that would be great.

She pushes off the car and she's about to snap out something unnecessarily snarky when she hears Hanna's small, tearful plea of, ''I want my mom.''

Dinah stops, body going still, and, completely against her will, finds herself being violently propelled to the night of December 11th, 2013. It's like being astral projected right back there. Suddenly, she is not on the side of the road but in that chaotic emergency room in Central City. There are so many people and so much noise - screaming, crying, moaning, doctors and nurses and paramedics shouting frantic orders, sirens wailing outside - and the lights are flickering as the backup generators struggle to keep up with the rolling blackouts.

None of that concerns her, none of it matters because she's tucked just inside the curtained off area of one bed, frozen, watching the worst thing she has ever seen, will ever see, happen right in front of her.

Dean is working so calmly, so methodically, moving quickly, fluidly, and he seems so comfortable, so confident that it takes a well trained eye, someone who knows him well, to see the tension and the creeping fear in his eyes. She can hear his voice above the racket, can hear him giving sharp, clear, direct orders to the nurses, can even hear him talking to Connor, reassuring him, offering him so much kindness, but none of what he's saying is getting through.

All she can focus on is her son laid out on that gurney, covered in blood. The only thing she can hear, the only thing in the whole world that matters is the sound of his weak whimpers and his choked out pleas of, ''I want my mom.''

It was one of the last things he ever said.

Dinah jerks, more like a full body flinch, and stumbles back to the present day. There is a pressure in her throat, noise filling up her head, and her eyes are burning. She can still hear the echo of his voice. Still feel his skin under her palm. She looks up, distracted by the feel of eyes on her, and clenches her jaw when she catches Oliver looking at her. The expression on his face is annoyingly indecipherable, but it's not full of malice the way it was before, not harsh and unyielding. And it's Oliver. It's Ollie. Even in the dark, she can still see his eyes. Their son had his eyes.

Her posture shifts and her whole mood darkens considerably. She throws him a careless sneer and turns to stalk away from him, trying to ignore the way her heart is thudding in her throat. She hides away from them over by the driver's seat of the car. She takes a minute to focus on the nagging ache in her throat, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, nudging the scream away for now. She needs something to punch. She'd very much love to scream the trees down. It just doesn't seem wise right now.

She yanks open the door and perches in the driver's seat, absently picking at her cuticles. She concentrates mostly on her breathing for a minute or two, annoyed but not overly panicked or pained by the fuzzy brain and static filled head. It'll pass. The scream is easy to control once you accept it and allow it to live with you, but it ebbs and flows. Sometimes it is a still day and sometimes it is a hurricane. It recedes eventually, washed away, and the pressure eases, the scream settling back inside of her to wait.

Without the static smothering her senses, she becomes aware of...something.

She raises her head, instantly locking onto the woods on the other side of the highway. Fear flutters like a moth in her chest and her mouth dries up, but this time, she ignores it. She rises to her feet slowly and eyes the trees.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, she remembers. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.

He read that to her once. She doesn't remember when. Sometime after. In that unbearable stillness, when everything was too quiet and felt so wrong. Back when neither of them were sleeping much and all they had was each other and the empty rooms their children used to sleep in.

Dinah looks over her shoulder at the others. None of them are looking at her. She looks both ways down the deserted highway and then, still hesitant, trepidation settling in her stomach, she treks across to the road's edge. She scans the tree line, unmoved by the cold wind brushing through her hair, chilling her to the bone. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, shivers slithering down her spine.

Straight ahead of her, in the pitch black forest, barely noticeable, there is a shadow. A barely distinguishable outline of a person. Strangely fitting, considering that's all he is now.

Her first instinct is to run away. Not long ago, it would have been to run to him. She chokes it down and manages a small smirk. ''I know that's you, asshole.''

The shadow doesn't move, but she knows he can hear her.

''All that shit you said about me working for Zoom,'' she says, shaking her head. ''And here you are now; some witch whore's bitch. Life's funny like that, isn't it?''

He still doesn't move. Just stands there, unnoticed in the dark, watching her.

''Why don't you come out here and let me see that pretty face of yours, sweetheart?'' Miraculously, her voice does not tremble when she says this. ''I'll even give you one free shot at me.''

Still nothing.

Curious.

He's spent the past year trying to kill her and now here she is offering herself up to him on a silver platter and he's not willing to take a bite? How unlike him. He never would have let this opportunity pass him by on their earth. Everything is so different here.

She can only think of one reason for his inaction. She looks over her shoulder once more, but doesn't call out, turning back to the trees. ''Tell me something, Dean,'' she says softly. ''What is it she's offered you?''

There is no answer to that question.

There is a second, just one hushed second, where he seems to drift farther out of the darkness, a sliver of moonlight catching his face. But he says nothing. Offers her nothing. He hasn't had anything to offer her in a long time. She shakes her head, feeling unexpectedly disappointed by his silent, harmless lurking. She understands why he hasn't attacked. The Moretti kids were his target and he failed to eliminate both of them. Not only that but he failed to eliminate the most powerful one. He's going to want to keep an eye on the girl, but even he isn't arrogant enough to attack her now. She's a veritable powder keg of emotionally charged power. She could rip his eyes out of his skull and shove them up his ass with a simple flick of her tiny breakable wrist.

What doesn't make sense is this. Why he's letting Dinah get away with taunting him. He could drag her into the woods and snap her neck right now. Nobody would be able to stop him and it's not as if these people care. But he doesn't. He's not going to.

Feeling bold, she looks right at him. ''Coward,'' she says, lazily. ''Emma would be ashamed of you.''

It gets to him, she knows it does. His daughter is the one thing that can make him pause. Never long enough to get through to him, but the only thing left of the person he was is his love for her. Dinah can practically feel the shadow tense up at the mention of her name. It doesn't last long. She watches him for a moment longer, muscles tense. Then, silently, without a word, he melts back into the trees, and then he's gone.

Dinah remains right where she is, shoulders so tense it's painful, and then she finally lets out a breath and her whole body slumps. It's a wild adrenaline crash. All that fear whooshes right out of her, leaving her feeling weak and shaky. Her body feels so heavy she's not sure how she's still standing. She takes in a few gulps of air, trying to prepare herself to turn back to the group.

Before she has a chance, she hears the barely audible sound of footfalls behind her. She whirls around, readying herself for an attack, but the punch she throws never lands.

Oliver blocks the punch like it's nothing, other hand coming up to latch onto her wrist. She hates that it's kind of impressive. She could still take him though. ''What are you doing?''

She glowers up at him, ripping herself out of his grasp. ''Getting some air. Do you mind?''

''I do,'' he says. ''I do mind. You need to stay where I can - ''

''Oh, blow it out your - ''

''Dinah,'' he snaps, but then immediately sighs. ''Listen, Hanna needs a few minutes.''

''Tell her to get her shit together,'' she says, unsympathetic. ''She can lose it in the car. We need to get out of here.''

He ignores all of that. ''So while she's taking her breather,'' he goes on, as if she's said nothing at all. ''You and I need to talk.''

''I already told you,'' she says, trying her hardest not to snarl. ''You don't get a say in this. I don't work for you and you can't order me around like I'm - ''

''Tell me about Dean.''

She clamps her mouth shut. For some reason, she hadn't been expecting that. It's a reasonable request - one he should have made hours ago - but this earth's Oliver isn't necessarily shaping up to be a reasonable guy. ''What about him?''

''There's something wrong with him.'' It's a blunt statement but even in the dark, she can see that look in his eyes. It's the same mixture of horror and disbelief that most of Dean's victims have.

''Uh, yeah,'' she says, rigid. ''He's a serial killer.''

''No,'' he shakes his head. ''That's not - I mean.'' He steps closer to her, not in a threatening way, but still way too close for her comfort. ''There's something wrong with him. He shouldn't have been able to do half the things he did tonight. He plucked an arrow out of mid air, shook off magic, survived a shotgun blast to the chest. People don't do things like that, Dinah. Humans don't do things like that.''

She looks at him for a minute, keeping her gaze even. 'That's because he's not human,'' she says. ''Not anymore.''

He doesn't look particularly shocked by that - evidently he had his own suspicions - but he looks like he's not quite sure what to do with that information. She studies him closely, trying to work out his next move, anticipate where he's going to go from here, but she can't. She can't read this Oliver the way she could with hers.

He looks in the direction of the woods, but doesn't seem to notice anything. ''What is he?''

''He's - ''

''Oliver!''

They both look over at Quentin, standing by the stalled car. When Dinah sees the look on his face, she can't even muster up any snark. He looks shaken, cell phone held tightly in his grip, an urgent look on his face. There is a look of complete and utter terror in his eyes. ''We have to go,'' he says. ''We need to get back to the city. Now.''

Oliver steps away from Dinah, concerned. ''Why? What's going on?''

''They took her,'' Quentin says shakily. ''The witch has Laurel.''

.

.

.

The Dean Winchester of this world reminds her of the man her Dean used to be. He's more emotional, sure, volatile and messy - and sometimes conniving, which she can respect - but he has the same heart hers used to. Before the corruption. Before that thing turned him into this.

You would think it would be harder to look at him and see what she's lost, the way it's hard to look at Quentin and Oliver, but it's not. There is a gnawing hunger in her bones when she looks at him, drawing her attention to the gaping absence in her life, the hole in her heart where he used to be, but it doesn't hurt the way it does when she looks at the other ghosts.

She likes this Dean, you see. He's one of the only people here who has treated her like a human being. She's grateful for that, even if she'll never say it. And she respects him. There aren't many people she respects. What he pulled in August when she escaped the pipeline - cozying up to her, playing up his grief and his love for his dead wife just so he could get close enough to incapacitate her...

That was brilliant.

That's like a page out of her own playbook. He even had the balls to shoot her in the shoulder when she tried to attack him. That was really something.

Her Dean is smart, frighteningly so, but he's straightforward. This Dean is cunning. He's a grifter, just like her. They exist on the same wavelength. It's kind of funny when you think about it. On paper, she would be better suited for this Dean and her E-1 counterpart would be a better match for the man her Dean used to be. In a way it's something of a waste. Like the universe accidentally mismatched them.

I mean, he's a legit con man, for fuck's sake. They could have wreaked absolute havoc together.

Mainly, though, her real reason for staying cozied up to him is that he appears to be someone who doesn't want her to die. An ally like that is priceless here. Her life has been about survival for as long as she can remember. She'll stick close to anyone willing to help her with that goal.

It's why she kind of feels sorry for the guy when they finally make it to the Winchester/Lance residence and she gets a glimpse at the state he's in. He's full of all this anxious aggression, nerves shot to hell. He manages to keep it under wraps, but she's fluent in Dean Winchester at this point. She can see it all coiled tight in his chest, read it in his posture, the way he's standing - ready to attack at any moment.

He fusses over Hanna like any good dad, bringing her a blanket and some food and water, making sure she checks her blood sugar levels, offering her his condolences. He takes his licks from Oliver and Felicity about what they've dubbed ''the Siren Situation'' and gives them a run through of what happened and checks Dinah's wound to make sure she's okay, but his mind is elsewhere.

Because he's so preoccupied, he winds up taking the news about his own doppelganger quite well. When they tell him, very carefully, like he's some sort of wild animal, that her Dean is Onomatopoeia, he just bursts into laughter. ''Of course he is,'' he manages to get out through the waves of hysteria. ''Of course. Because why not? Let's drop another sucker into this steaming pile of dog shit,'' he suggests. ''Maybe this witch is Laurel's earth fucking fifty two doppelganger. I'm taking bets on it. Sounds about right, doesn't it?'' He sounds decidedly less amused by the time he's finished.

Thea Queen (ostensibly not Thea Merlyn on this earth) is the only one who bothers to look worried for him.

''This is just fucking awesome.'' He pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns away from the group, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dinah watches him for a moment, keeping her eyes glued to his back curiously. She can't help but think about her Dean and how increasingly unhinged his behavior became in the months leading up to that one fateful decision. His mental collapse was slow. It happened over the course of years. Nobody saw what was happening until it was too late.

She thinks it would be quicker with this Dean. He's been halfway to crazytown for months now, and she doesn't think a lot of people have noticed. There's not much further to fall for him. She wonders if she should perhaps warn Laurel about that. Before they find themselves in the same place she and her Dean are.

Dinah turns her attention to the others. Thea is helping Quentin properly clean and bandage Oliver's wound. She is still the only one displaying what looks like concern for Dean's wellbeing. Although it's hard to tell with her. On Dinah's earth, Thea Merlyn was the psychopathic enforcer for her equally psychopathic brother. Before Dean turned into whatever he is now, the Merlyn siblings were the only people Dinah was ever truly afraid of. She doesn't know Thea Queen, but she knows she doesn't trust her as far as she can throw her. She looks kind. But so did Thea Merlyn. Until she broke your kneecaps.

''Sammy, it's me,'' she hears Dean bark into his phone. ''You need to pick up your damn phone. You haven't checked in since yesterday morning. Get your ass in gear and call me back.'' He sends the call and turns back, but doesn't even get a chance to open his mouth before Quentin pounces.

''I still don't understand how this happened,'' he says. ''You said the back gate was open?''

Dean's eyes are blank, voice even as he answers, ''Yes.''

''What was she even doing out there? It's the middle of the night.''

Dean exchanges a wordless glance with Thea.

''We...We think she might have been lured out there,'' she says.

''Lured?'' Oliver makes a pathetic attempt to tug his shirt over his head with one hand and fails miserably. ''With what?''

Dinah steps over to him and helps him get his shirt over his head amid his protesting. ''Booze, probably,'' she says, before hopping up on the dining room table, throwing one leg over the other.

Dean is the only one who glares at her. ''Watch yourself, Siren.''

''It was the witch,'' Quentin says. ''Wasn't it? She made her see something.''

Dean sighs, but nods. ''I think so.''

Quentin lets out something like a laugh. ''I knew it,'' he mutters. ''I knew something like this was going to happen. I told you.''

''Look - ''

''I told you we needed to do something after what happened earlier and you refused.''

''I didn't - ''

''Wait.'' Felicity holds up a hand. ''What happened earlier?''

Quentin looks to Dean, waiting for him to divulge the information. Dean stares back at him. He looks like he doesn't want to be having this conversation and also like he could not care less about most of the people in this room. Dinah can relate to that. She's already bored.

''Laurel's been having hallucinations,'' Quentin says, after Dean refuses to take the bait.

''It's the witch,'' Dean says, cutting off the shocked exclamations. ''She has a blood connection with Laurel and she's using it to get in her head. I...I think they've been communicating.''

Oliver looks over at Hanna, curled up on the couch. ''Is that possible?''

The girl nods but doesn't say anything.

''Today was bad,'' Dean says, and - oh my god, Dinah just does not care.

She leaps off the table and edges away from the group. Laurel's witchy psychosis is not her problem. Nobody notices her sneaking away. She takes advantage of the distraction and wanders into the kitchen of the house. It's an ugly kitchen. It's an ugly house. Small too. She could never live here. She rifles through the cupboards, perusing the pantry and the fridge in search of something to eat. Everything is so boringly healthy. Do they not have Cheetos on this earth? She wastes some time reading the nutritional values of everything she can find before she decides on a small plain Greek yogurt cup and a banana. She fumbles around, looking for a spoon for a minute and then heads back out into the dining room just in time to see Thea jump in between Quentin and Dean.

''Okay, okay,'' she pushes at Quentin's shoulders, trying to steer him away from Dean. ''Let's just take a deep breath.''

Dinah bypasses the pointless drama and into the living room. Hanna Moretti looks like crap. She's curled into herself, staring at nothing, completely uninterested in the bullshit going on in the dining room. She's downed the entire glass of water Dean brought her, but hasn't touched the granola bar and she's starting to look gray around the edges. ''Here.'' Dinah thrusts the food at her. ''Eat this.''

Hanna looks up at her. ''I'm not hungry.''

''I don't care. Eat it anyway.''

Hanna doesn't take the food.

Dinah sits down at the coffee table. ''Come on,'' she entices. ''This'll be easier on your stomach than the sugary granola bar.'' She peels the foil off the yogurt cup and shoves it in Hanna's face until the kid has no choice but to take it. She still doesn't eat it. Dinah rolls her eyes. ''Either you eat it willingly or I hold you down and force it down your throat.''

''That's so fucked up.''

''So is what you're doing.''

''What am I doing?''

''Dean told you to check your blood sugar levels.'' Dinah looks up from peeling the banana. ''Have you?'

''Yes.''

''And? Your blood sugar's low, right?''

Hanna avoids her eyes.

Dinah shakes her head. ''Like I said, either you eat willingly or I force it down your throat.''

''...Juice is easier,'' Hanna says eventually.

''Yeah, and I checked, but there's no juice in this house.'' She takes a bite of the banana that Hanna's refused, chewing thoughtfully. ''Maybe their kid's a juice addict. Addiction would be in her blood, after all.''

Hanna sticks her nose up in the air. ''That's such a shitty joke.''

''This was your job,'' Quentin's angry voice floats over to them. ''You spent your entire life doing this and you can't handle one witch?''

''That's enough, Captain Lance,'' Thea says.

Dinah looks over at them briefly and then back to Hanna. ''I could feed you, if you'd prefer that. Like a baby,'' she says. ''You know, since you insist on acting like a child.''

''My brother was just murdered,'' Hanna snaps.

''Get over it,'' Dinah says, just cruel and callous enough to spark some life in the girl.

''Have you ever lost someone you loved?'' Hanna demands, looking downright murderous. ''Have you ever even loved anyone?''

''I've lost everyone,'' Dinah says simply. ''Somehow, I still manage to eat. Because I'm not ready to join them just yet. Are you?'' Without waiting for an answer, she grabs the spoon, dips it in the yogurt and holds it up to Hanna's mouth. ''Airplane's coming in for a landing.''

Hanna's glare is stubborn, but not nearly as heated as it was. She snatches the spoon out of Dinah's hand and shoves it in her mouth. Out of pure spite by the looks of it.

''You have had one job since she got back,'' Quentin's saying over in the dining room. ''Keep her safe. And you couldn't even do that right. You - ''

''What?'' Dean interrupts. ''Failed her?'' He sounds surprisingly unbothered by the accusation. ''You're right. I did. I should've thought of something. I should've protected her. But,'' and this is where his voice turns flat and cold in a strikingly familiar way. ''People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, sir. You should remember that.''

Both Dinah and Hanna turn their attention over to the soapy production going on in the dining room.

''The only reason she's in this mess is because she died,'' Dean says, ''and the only reason she died is because of you.'' There is no malice, he just says it like a fact, but it seems to flatten Quentin, sending him reeling away. ''It didn't happen because she was the Black Canary or because she was an ADA. It happened because she was your daughter. You painted the target on her back. It was always going to be her and that was because Darhk chose you. And you could've let us know at any time that you were in trouble. You could have told us what he was doing. But you didn't. You chose not to. You waited until it was too late. You worked for him, you got in too deep, you betrayed him, and he killed her to get back at you.''

Dinah looks over at Hanna. She's so engrossed in the dramatics that she's forgotten her hunger strike, picking at the yogurt slowly but steadily.

''She'll never talk about that,'' Dean goes on. ''Never hold it against you because she never holds anything against you, so - congratulations. You got away with it. But that's what happened. I fucked up tonight. I can admit that. But I didn't get her killed. I didn't sit in my drunken grief for five years blaming her for what happened to Sara and calling her every name in the book. That was you, Quentin. That was all you. Hate me all you want for being a shitty son in law, but don't come into my house and start spewing your hypocritical bullshit about how I failed her when you're the one who has spent years destroying her without a second goddamn thought.''

There is a lengthy silence after that.

Quentin looks wrecked and guilty enough to shut his mouth. Everyone else looks profoundly uncomfortable.

Except Dinah.

She isn't uncomfortable in the least. She is incredibly entertained. ''I know we're in a dire situation,'' she says, watching in amusement as Dean stiffens up at the sound of her voice. ''But that was sexy.''

His shoulders slump and he turns around to give her a tired look.

She just grins back at him, nodding enthusiastically. ''Do him next,'' she points to Oliver. ''He needs a good roasting.''

Dean doesn't give into her demands, covering his face with his hand, likely trying to calm himself down. When he removes his hand, he still doesn't look at any of them. He's quiet for a minute, seemingly staring at nothing, but Dinah knows that look. He's tense and on edge, but she can tell by his shoulders and the agitation of his hands, but he's thinking. Just another thing he has in common with her Dean. He's slotting things into place, strategizing, planning. She looks over at the others.

Thea is the only one who looks like she realizes that. Oliver is already attempting to take charge, talking to Felicity about hacking doorbell cams and accessing CCTV and calling in backup. It's cute that he thinks he's in charge. Dean lets him blabber on for a minute, barely even paying attention, but the second Oliver tries to give him an order, he tenses. He looks at him for a minute, blank, and then just kind of...turns. Doesn't even give him a second glance.

Dinah laughs.

Oliver glares back at her.

Dean looks at Hanna. ''Can you track her?''

The girl stops eating the yogurt. ''W-What?''

''Dean,'' says Oliver.

Dean ignores him.

''A locator spell,'' he says. ''I'm not new. It's an easy spell. In every witch's arsenal. You know how to do it, right?''

''Oh,'' she nods. ''Yeah, of course. I can do that.''

Dinah eyes her warily. ''You sure you're up for that?''

''I can do it,'' Hanna repeats, scraping the last bit of yogurt out of the cup and finishing it off. ''I'll need something of hers.''

Dean turns to Thea, but doesn't even have to say it. ''I'll grab her hairbrush,'' she says, turning down the hall.

''I need a map of the city,'' Hanna says. ''Maybe the surrounding areas.''

Dean nods, but he's distracted by the phone to his ear. ''There's one in the junk drawer in the kitchen. It's the drawer beside the fridge.'' He keeps an eye on her as she trudges off to the kitchen, frown on his face, but seems to trust her enough to let her go on her own. After a minute, he pulls the phone away from his ear, muttering a quick, ''Damn it, Sam.'' He looks back to his father-in-law. ''You heard from Sara recently?''

''Not since she texted to let me know they landed safely,'' Quentin says. ''Nothing since. Why?''

The front door bursts open and two men barge into the house. Dinah recognizes both of them. One of them is John Diggle. The other is so familiar, but she can't quite place him. She's sure she's seen him before, but she doesn't know where.

Dean makes a beeline for him. ''Cas,'' he greets. ''What did you - ''

John Diggle holds up a syringe and two pieces of jewelry, and Dean instantly deflates. ''Found these in a storm drain,'' Diggle says. He hands over the bracelet and the necklace. ''These are hers, right? It looks like they deliberately took them off her.''

''Isn't that - '' Oliver looks pale. ''The spell,'' he says. ''If they break it - ''

''It's not broken,'' Dean shakes his head, clutching the pieces of jewelry tightly in his fist. ''Hanna said it would need to be destroyed to break the spell.''

''And if they want her alive,'' Cas says. ''They'd have no reason to - ''

''Then why take it off?''

''Because of these.'' Hanna pops into the group, snatching the necklace from Dean and pointing out two of the little charms dangling from the chain. ''Protection against witchcraft. Same with this,'' she gestures to the bracelet. ''They're weak, but they would've interfered with any spell the witch tried to cast. Easier to ditch the whole thing.'' She looks up at Dean. ''Do you know specifically who took her?''

''We know they drugged her,'' Diggle says, holding up the syringe. ''I'm thinking with - ''

''Ketamine,'' Hanna says, wincing. ''It was my dad.'' She hands Dean the necklace. ''I'm sorry.''

''Your father's actions aren't your responsibility,'' he says. ''Just find her now.''

Dinah keeps most of her attention on the sulky witch, watching her head back into the dining room to spread out a map under Thea's watchful eye. That's her job. Keep Sabrina safe. None of this other mess is her problem. Dean seems to have a handle on it anyway. But... Then there's John Diggle. She wasn't expecting to see him here. She knew he had a connection to Dean and Laurel, but she didn't think he would be tuned into this situation. Although given how buddy-buddy he seems to be with Oliver and Felicity, she's guessing there's a lot she didn't know about him.

She looks over at Hanna again. Hilary Duff over there seems to be okay for now. She's eaten her snack, her hands are steady, she's focused on something other than her despair, and Dean's sticking close to her. She'll be fine.

And Dinah is getting really, really bored. It's undoubtedly the wrong time to be making trouble but she needs to do something to entertain herself.

She doesn't make a sound, sitting perched on the coffee table, waiting for him to notice her. Eventually, he turns, his eyes fall on her, and he looks caught. ''Crap.''

She beams at him. ''Hey there, boss.''

''Dinah,'' he greets tersely.

Over his shoulder, Oliver and Felicity have both gone slack jawed. It's satisfying. Dinah has no beef with Felicity - might even respect her after that gutsy move she pulled with the shotgun - but she dislikes this Oliver just on principle. It's not fair to hate him just because he's alive and her Ollie is dead, but she's an asshole.

''Just FYI,'' she says, rising to her feet. ''I think I'm going to miss my 6:15 debrief tomorrow. My phone's a little waterlogged.''

He closes his eyes, running a hand over his face.

''Dig?'' Felicity takes a step in his direction. ''John, what's going on?''

''You knew,'' Oliver states. Not a question. ''You knew about her.''

''Seriously?'' Felicity spits out in disbelief. ''Seriously? Did everyone know? Were you ever going to tell us?''

''Are you guys...'' Dinah raises a brow. ''Like... A throuple or something? Or are you just weirdly possessive of all your friends?''

Diggle shoots her a look and turns to face the other two. ''Her situation was classified,'' he says, stiff and professional, but utterly unapologetic. ''The less people involved, the better. The list of people who knew was small. You're not affiliated with ARGUS in any official capacity. You didn't make the list.''

''You're not affiliated with ARGUS either,'' Oliver says. ''You don't work for them.''

Diggle doesn't say anything, but his lips tighten. He looks guilty.

Dinah decides to help him out. ''Well, actually,'' she says, slinking into their group. ''That's not exactly true.'' She looks up at him. ''Is it, boss?''

It doesn't take long for Felicity, eyes wide behind her glasses, to burst out, loud enough for everyone in the neighborhood to hear, ''YOU'RE WORKING FOR ARGUS?''

''Oh, did they not know that?'' Dinah pastes on her best innocent expression. ''Oops.''

''Hey, Dee.'' Two hands slip around her hips, tugging her back. ''Let's get you cleaned up,'' Dean offers. It doesn't sound like a suggestion.

''I'm just having a conversation - ''

''No, you're not.'' Apparently out of patience, he flings an arm around her waist and full on picks her up, spinning her away from the little group, regrettably before she can do any more damage. ''Why do you have to make trouble everywhere you go?''

''It's in my nature,'' she says as he sets her down. She tries to look over his shoulder, but he clamps a hand down on her shoulder and turns her around so she's facing down the hall.

''Uh-uh. Nope.'' He gives her a nudge, walking her down the hall. ''Listen, no offense - because I typically find you entertaining - but I don't have time for this right now. And, uh...'' He stops and ducks in front of her. ''You're getting sand all over my house.'' He looks her up and down and then leans in to take a whiff of her hair. ''And you kinda smell like ass.''

She folds her arms over her chest, taking a step back. ''It's not my fault your asshole shadow self threw me in the fucking Puget Sound.''

''I never said it was your fault.'' He steps away from her to open what looks like a linen closet. ''But you need a shower and some fresh clothes.'' He emerges from the closet with a towel and a washcloth, handing them over. ''Here.'' He steps into what she's assuming is the master bedroom, coming back with a fluffy bathrobe. ''Take this. Have a shower. Get cleaned up. There's shampoo under the sink if you don't like what's in the shower. Bandages too if you need to fix that up,'' he gestures to her abdomen. ''Make sure you clean it. If it needs stitches, let me know.''

''It doesn't need stitches,'' she interrupts. ''It's just a scrape.''

''You might have to jiggle the faucet a little when you turn it on,'' he goes on. ''Sometimes it gets stuck. That's the bedroom,'' he jerks his thumb at the door over his shoulder. ''The dresser by the window is Laurel's and most of the clothes in the closet are hers. I'm sure you'll find something.''

''Will I, though? Because I think I'm skinnier than she is.''

He has no reaction to that other than to stare at her quietly.

How boring.

''Fine,'' she says, accepting the towel. ''Keep an eye on the witch.''

''Hanna.''

''Whatever.''

He shakes his head at her, but, for a split second, she swears he looks amused. ''You did good tonight, Dinah. You know that?''

She looks at him doubtfully. ''One of them is dead.''

''And that's shitty,'' he acknowledges. ''Kid made some mistakes, but he didn't deserve to die for them. But Hanna is alive. You put your life on the line for her. Even after you were injured. Even after you went toe to toe with your abuser.''

''Don't...'' She shakes her head, rattled at the label. ''Don't call him that.''

''Point is,'' he says, ''you did the job you were hired to do. I didn't want to bring you into this, you know that, but Laurel believes in you. She thinks you still have good in you.'' He looks at her closely, like he's trying to decide right there and then if his foolish, sickly sweet wife is right about that. He may like her, might even fight for her if it comes down to it, but he's never trusted her. He has good instincts like that. ''You could've run, but you didn't. Thank you for that.''

She doesn't know what to say. She hates that. These doppelgangers are starting to get on her nerves with all their goodness and stuff. ''I just want the money.''

''Of course you do.'' A fractured fragment of a smile plays across his exhausted face for half a second. ''Have your shower, Dee. I'll have coffee ready for you when you're done.''

''I don't drink coffee.''

''Tea then.''

''I like it strong.''

''I'm sure you do.'' He offers her a tight smile and turns to leave. He stops, but doesn't turn back to look at her. ''When you're ready, we need to talk.''

Her stomach clenches and her fingers tighten around the towel, but she keeps her expression even as she watches him walk away from her. There is only one thing he would want to talk to her about. Dean. Onomatopoeia. Or whatever that fucking moron wants to go by now. He's the last person she wants to talk about.

In the past two years, he has gone from her greatest comfort to a painful wound. She doesn't want to talk about that. Not ever. Especially not with his doppelganger. She doesn't want to tell people what happened and why. She doesn't want to wade through that mountain of shit again. But there's no choice here, is there? There's no way out.

No way out.

Sooner or later, the truth is going to have to come out.

.

.

.

December, 2013
Central City
Earth-2

The first thing Dinah notices when she bursts into Dean's apartment without bothering to knock is that the whole place smells like freshly brewed coffee, Earl Grey, bacon, and vanilla and cinnamon. With her hangover still looming over her, she can't tell if the smell is making her hungry or nauseated, but she knows that she needs that tea.

The second thing she notices is her son. He's standing over by the big bay window with Emma, making a wobbly attempt to follow along with her yoga tutorial. He's not succeeding. He looks up when he hears the door open and close and the second he lays eyes on her, he lights up. ''Mom!'' He bounces over to her excitedly, hurtling into her to wrap his arms around her waist. ''Hi, Mom!''

''Hi, baby,'' she grins. ''How was your night?''

''Good,'' her hyperactive little nerd mumbles into her stomach. ''How was your work?''

''It was work,'' she says shortly, smile dimming. ''You don't have to worry about that.'' She pulls him away from her, gently grabbing his chin and tilting his head back. ''Where are your glasses?''

''I don't know.'' He peers up at her as innocently as possible. ''I think I lost 'em. Oh well.''

''Dude, not cool.'' She can't help the flash of frustration and panic that thrums through her at the thought of having to replace his glasses again. She can barely afford to put groceries on the table lately let alone expensive prescription glasses. The only reason they're not sleeping in their car is because she's fucking the landlord.

She should get a new job. This bartending gig has been a shitshow so far.

''We've talked about this, Connor. You can't keep - '' She stops, cut off by the sound of a sharp whistle. She looks behind him and sees Emma standing there waving his glasses case at her. Dinah swallows a sigh of relief and takes the case. Thank god because, really, she only knows one way to make a decent living and it's illegal. Can't exactly go back to swindling rich people out of their money full time when you have a kid and a potential custody lawsuit on the horizon.

Connor groans as soon as he sees the case, pouting.

She tosses him the sternest look she can muster. ''You're lucky,'' she warns, flipping open the case to inspect the glasses.

''But I don't need glasses.''

''No?'' It's Emma who asks. She's given up her yoga for the morning, strolling over to them with her bottle of water, looking at him with one of those all knowing smiles. ''What's the headline on the newspaper my dad's holding up?''

He swivels around to look over in the direction of the kitchen, watching as Dean stops what he's doing to flip up the newspaper. Connor stares for a second, squinting, then a second longer, and finally, he groans and throws his hands up. ''Fiiiine,'' he grumbles, taking the glasses from the case and putting them on.

''Sorry, kid,'' Dinah says. ''But as long as you refuse to wear contacts, you need to wear the glasses.''

''Besides,'' Emma adds. ''I think you look good. Very distinguished.''

He grumpily trudges over to flop onto the couch.

''You two have fun last night?'' Dinah asks, tossing herself onto the couch next to him.

Connor, still pouting and fiddling with his glasses, doesn't say anything.

''Well, we had Chipotle for dinner,'' Emma says. ''So that was a plus. I like when I don't have to cook.''

Sometimes Dinah swears Emma Winchester is just a 37-year old mother of three trapped in the body of a 17-year old.

''We played Monopoly,'' Connor offers up finally, still enormously unenthusiastic about the glasses perched on his nose.

''Yeah?'' Dinah looks over at him. ''Who won?''

A smile forms on Connor's face.

''I'm pretty sure he hustled me,'' says Emma.

Dinah beams proudly. ''I taught him everything I know.''

''That's horrifying,'' Dean calls from the kitchen.

She flips him off in retaliation.

Connor, unable to stay grouchy for long, bounces up onto his knees. ''Emma has every Monopoly ever!''

''I know.''

''We also made a fort,'' he nods. ''And we slept in all night long. And we watched a movie about dinosaurs. Mom,'' his eyes widen and he tugs at Dinah's arms excitedly. ''Mom, did you know that the Megalosaurus was the first ever dinosaur to get a name? It's a theropod and it's so weird looking. Kinda like a T-rex, but not. It was smaller than a T-rex. A T-rex would DESTROY it in a fight.''

''Wow, that's cool,'' she enthuses, even though she could not care less. ''What else did you learn?''

''Um, that Emma's really bad at algebra.''

''Hey!'' Emma cries out, even as Dean starts laughing in the kitchen.

Connor grins over at her and then leans over to Dinah, whispering, ''I had to help her with it.''

Emma doesn't bother to deny this, nodding her confirmation. ''I'm telling you,'' she says to Dinah. ''Your kid is freakishly smart.''

Dinah nods. ''Where that comes from remains a mystery.''

Connor frowns at her disapprovingly, nestling into her side. ''You're smart.''

''I'm glad you think so, baby.'' She looks back over at Emma, watching the teenager clean up the mess of the half torn down fort. ''Thanks again for watching him last night, Em.''

Emma turns around with a balled up sheet held to her chest and her eyes immediately land on the money Dinah's holding out to her. She looks at the crumpled bills for a minute and then, without hesitating, she shakes her head and pushes Dinah's hand away. ''It was no problem,'' she says, calm and firm, forever even tempered and way too generous, just like her father. ''He practically did my homework for me,'' she says. ''I should be paying you.'' She leaves without even touching the money, heading off in the direction of her bedroom before Dinah has a chance to force the money on her.

Dinah's not sure whether she should be grateful or annoyed. She can never tell if the Winchesters generosity is genuine or if they see her as some charity case. They've never given her any reason to think that, but, look, she doesn't like pity. She gets enough of that from the teachers and the obnoxious moms at Connor's school. Maybe she could sneak the money into Emma's purse?

''There's no school today,'' Connor tells her, and she swings her gaze back to him.

''I remembered.''

''You said you'd take me to the science museum.''

''Anything you want, kid,'' she promises. Absently, she wonders how much that's going to cost.

''And the particle accelerator!'' He hops off the couch, grinning excitedly. ''Today's the day, Mom! They're gonna turn it on tonight! We have to be there! We gotta make sure we get there early,'' he says seriously. ''There's gonna be lots of people.''

Oh, fuck, the stupid particle whatever.

She forgot all about that. Things like that are not routinely on her radar. But they're on his. Maybe she shouldn't have agreed to work tonight. ''Right,'' she mumbles. How the fuck did she forget about this stupid thing? She has no interest in it whatsoever, but Connor never stops talking about it. He's been following the progress for years. He wants to be just like Harrison Wells when he grows up. She promised him they would be front and center for this. ''Listen, bud, I haven't had my Earl Grey yet.'' She throws him a smile. ''Watch some cartoons or something.'' She rises to her feet, ruffling his hair. ''I'll be right back.'' She gives him a wink and then hurries into the kitchen.

Dean doesn't look up to greet her, too busy flipping pieces of french toast, but he does point to a steaming, comically large mug on the counter as soon as he sees her coming. ''Your tea's been steeping since you came in. You want french toast?''

She stops to give him an unamused look. ''I'm allergic to eggs.''

He does look up at that, looking mildly vexed that she thinks he needs to be reminded of that. ''It's eggless.''

''It's - '' She breaks off, squinting in confusion. ''How the hell do you make eggless french toast?''

''You leave out the eggs.''

''Yeah, but - ''

''Maybe add a pinch of cornstarch. How do you think vegans eat french toast?''

''I assumed it was something they gave up when they made the dumbass choice to go vegan.''

''Don't be ignorant, Dinah,'' he slings back mildly, going back to his mutant french toast. ''Veganism is becoming the smartest, most responsible choice to make. It's better for the environment and better for your health.''

''Did you specifically make french toast for me - ''

''Not everything is about you.''

'' - Or is this just an ad for going vegan?''

''Neither.'' He finally looks up at her, flinging a dish towel over his shoulder. ''I was just out of eggs.''

''If you were out of eggs, why would you choose to make french toast?''

''You're killin' me, Smalls.''

She raises her hands in surrender and mimes zipping her mouth shut. She moves behind the island to sidle up next to him, looking down at the french toast. They do look delicious. They probably wouldn't kill her or even make her itchy, which is a big plus. She's still not interested. ''I don't want french toast,'' she whines, opening the fridge to get the milk. ''I need something savory. And greasy. Really greasy.'' She pours a splash of milk into the tea and doesn't even bother to check the temperature, nearly burning her tongue off when she takes a sip of the hot tea.

Dean looks over his shoulder at her as she's frantically trying to cool off her tongue and gives her a look as if he is, for the millionth time, trying to figure out how the hell she managed to make it to adulthood - not to mention parenthood - when she is barely able to function as a human being.

''I have a hangover,'' she informs him. ''Don't you know anything about hangovers?''

''I was a Marine, sweetie.'' He flips another piece of french toast. ''I've forgotten more about hangovers than you'll ever know.''

She does not roll her eyes at that, but she does unplug his phone from the charger over by the toaster and plug hers in. Serves him right.

''There's Chipotle in the fridge,'' he says, pointing over his shoulder with the spatula. ''Dig in.''

''From last night?'' She frowns. ''Who has leftover Chipotle? It's a burrito, just eat the whole thing.''

''It's not leftover,'' he says patiently. ''I told Emma to grab you something in case you were hungry when you got home.'' He slides the piece of french toast onto the already sizeable stack and turns off the heat before turning to open the fridge. He rifles around for a minute and then produces a burrito that looks like it might be the size of her head.

Her mouth waters at the sight of it. She's not normally a huge Chipotle fan, but a burrito is just what she needs right now. Despite the fact that she is actively salivating and her stomach is starting to cramp with hunger, she sticks her nose up in the air. ''What? No guacamole?''

He looks at her for a minute, undoubtedly weighing the pros and cons of calling her out on her ungratefulness. Then, slowly, he turns around, sticks his head back in the fridge, and comes back out with a small plastic container of guacamole. For added measure, probably just to prove that he really is perfect and never forgets anything, he grabs a Chipotle bag from beside the fridge and pulls out a small bag of their tortilla chips.

Honestly, fuck him.

Sometimes his whole sweet and generous to a fault act is just creepy. Because it's not an act. That's the thing. This is just who he is. He's like the exact opposite of self-serving. It's bewildering. Maybe he's part of a cult or something. Or maybe he's in love with her. Oh, the dumbass better not be in love with her.

Regardless, she really wants that burrito. She takes a noisy slurp of her tea. ''Is it vegan?''

''No, it's not - '' He sighs, exasperated. ''Dinah. If you don't want it - ''

''No, I want it.'' She grabs for it when he starts to pull it out of her reach, nearly spilling her tea in the process. ''Shut up.'' She puts her tea down and steals the food from him, settling on the other side of the island with her meal.

''I'm going to go ahead and assume that means thank you in Dinah speak.'' he says. ''Hey, Red!'' She follows his line of sight to Emma, strolling back down the hall and over to the couch. ''Dinah says thanks for the grub.''

Emma seems to think that's hilarious. ''There is no way I believe she said that,'' she snickers. ''But you're welcome.''

Dinah is far too busy stuffing her face to take offense to that.

Dean watches her eat for a minute, his curiosity morphing into horrified disgust. ''God, it's like watching a snake eat,'' he mutters. ''I swear you unhinged your jaw. Do you even chew?''

She pointedly ignores him.

He goes back to finishing up the batch of french toast, dipping another slice of bread into the truly pointless eggless mixture. She gives him a few minutes, chomping away on her chips and burrito, and then she looks over her shoulder. Connor and Emma are both plopped down on the couch, watching cartoons, and he's laughing. Dinah washes the chips down with a sip of tea and swivels back around to Dean. She leans in closer to him, whispering out an urgent, ''Dean.''

He looks up at her, eyebrow raised. ''Dinah.''

''I have a problem.''

''You have a lot of problems,'' he retorts.

''I told my boss I could work tonight.''

''But tonight - ''

''I forgot, okay? I forgot about the stupid particle thingy.''

''Particle accelerator.''

She glares at him. ''Don't act like you have any idea what this thing does any more than I do.''

His mouth tightens and he looks over at the kids, concerned. ''Dinah,'' he lowers his voice. ''Connor's been looking forward to this for months.''

''I know that. Which is why I need you to take him.'' She figures it will be an easy yes. Connor might be disappointed she won't be taking him, but he loves Dean. And Dean loves him. He's willing to drop anything for his kids. It makes her feel guilty, sometimes, how easily Dean has taken on the role of Connor's dad because Connor already has a dad - one who loved him very much - and she's never wanted to replace Oliver, but she's pushing that guilt aside for today. In this specific situation, she has no qualms about taking advantage of Dean's devotion to fix her failure.

Unfortunately for her, nothing is going her way today.

''I can't,'' he says, apologetic but unwavering. ''I'm working.''

''Can't you trade shifts with someone?'' She pleads. ''Just for tonight?''

''Can't you?''

''Dean.''

''It's an emergency room,'' he says. ''Not a fast food joint. I'm a doctor. I can't just duck out whenever I want. We're already short staffed as it is.''

''But it's a Wednesday,'' she protests. ''How busy can a fucking Wednesday night get?''

''Dinah, I can't - ''

''I can take him.''

Both parents jump at the sudden and unexpected intrusion, whipping around to face Emma. She's standing at the end of the kitchen island, calmly pouring herself a glass of orange juice. Neither of them had even noticed she was there. Hadn't even heard her approach. Dean also hadn't noticed that his french toast is burning. ''Are you sure?'' He asks, rushing to flip them over.

''Emma,'' Dinah says. ''You don't have to - ''

''I know,'' the girl says simply. ''I want to.''

Dinah exchanges a disbelieving look with Dean. ''You don't have plans with Wally?''

''Not tonight.''

''And here I thought you two were surgically attached at the hip.''

''For your information,'' Emma deadpans, ''he has a date with his boyfriend tonight.'' She sweeps some red hair out of her face and pulls herself up onto the high stool next to Dinah. ''I'm free as a bird.''

Dean looks somewhat concerned about this plan, sliding the unsalvageable pieces of burnt french toast onto a plate. ''What about homework?''

''Already done.'' She looks in between her dad and Dinah. ''You guys,'' she says, placating. ''It's fine. I'm happy to do it. You don't even have to pay me.'' She shrugs her shoulders and reaches for one of the clean plates Dean's stacked on the island. ''I'm interested in this thing. I want to see what happens.''

At that, Dinah and Dean share another raised eyebrow. That sounds fake. Emma has never shown any interest in this particle thing. She's more of an English Lit nerd. She reads poetry and draws and wants to be an artist and spouts off random historical facts. Math and science and physics and whatever this thing is have never been on her radar.

Emma must realize that what she's said is unbelievable because she folds quick. ''All right, fine,'' she admits. ''I've got twenty bucks that says they turn this thing on and nothing happens.''

Ah, yep. That tracks.

''I just don't think Harrison Wells is as smart as he thinks he is,'' she says.

No one is as smart as Harrison Wells thinks he is.

''Does that even matter?'' She questions. ''I'm still totally willing to take Connor.''

Dean still looks worried. ''Are you sure?''

''Oh my god, Dad.'' She rolls her eyes. ''Chill.''

''Yeah, Dad,'' Dinah beams. ''Chill.''

''Yes,'' Emma says firmly. ''I'm sure.''

Finally, he relents. ''Okay then. You two have fun.''

Dinah immediately perks up, turning around in her chair. ''Hey, Connor!''

His head pops up over the back of the couch. In the few minutes he has been unsupervised, he has already ditched his glasses. The opposite of surprising.

''Breakfast,'' Dean calls, beckoning him over to them. ''Grab your glasses and turn off the TV.''

Connor doesn't argue - although he definitely would've if Dinah had been the one to remind him about his glasses. He obediently flicks the television off and scurries over. ''What's for breakfast?'' He asks, nudging another one of the tall chairs closer to his mom before he heaves himself up onto the stool.

''French toast.'' Dinah grabs him a plate and some cutlery, placing it in front of him while he begrudgingly puts his glasses back on his face.

''And bacon,'' Dean adds, pulling a plate full of crispy bacon from where it's been keeping warm inside the oven. ''Don't touch the plate. It's hot,'' he warns, setting it down in front of Connor. ''You want some apple juice?''

Connor looks so delighted by the plate full of bacon that he nearly forgets to nod. He piles the bacon onto his plate happily, grabbing piece after piece until Dinah has to cut him off. He's just reaching for syrup for the piece of french toast Dean's slid onto his plate when he stops, eyes widening in alarm. ''Wait!'' He throws his arm out in front of Dinah. ''My mom's allergic to eggs!''

''There's no eggs in this,'' Dean reassures him, corners of his lips ticking up into a soft smile. ''And she's eating something else.''

''Eat your breakfast,'' Dinah encourages, handing him the syrup.

He doesn't need to be told twice. She waits until he's finished destroying his first syrup covered piece of toast before she broaches the subject of tonight's change of plans. ''So, buddy. Do you think it would be okay if Emma took you to the particle thingy tonight?''

''Particle accelerator, Mom.''

''Yeah, that.''

He looks up from his breakfast, swallowing down his food. There is a small frown worming across his lips and disappointment seeping into his eyes. It stings, she's not going to lie. She's had to disappoint him a lot, that's the plight of a single mother, but it never gets easier. ''I thought you were taking me,'' he says.

''I know, baby, I'm sorry,'' she says, as softly as she can. ''I have to work.''

''But you worked all night last night,'' he exclaims, dismayed. ''You promised you would take me! You - '' He shifts away from her, swatting her hand away. He seems to be quickly shifting from disappointment to anger. That is something he gets from her. ''You said that weeks ago!''

Dinah glances over at Dean out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't know if she's waiting for him to jump in to help her out here or if she's just looking for some kind of general encouragement. Either way, he doesn't help her. Which is fair. He's not Connor's parent. She is. This is on her and only her. She hates that sometimes. ''I might be able to duck out of work for a few hours,'' she proposes, ''but even then, I'm still going to be late. If you don't want to miss anything, someone else is going to have to take you. I'm sorry, Connor. I really am, but that's just the way it is. I have a job now.''

Connor turns away from her, going back to his breakfast with a pout. He stabs at his piece of french toast angrily, shoving it into his mouth and chewing aggressively. She supposes she can't blame him. It's not like this is the first time - or the second or the third or the fourth - she's let him down. She looks over at Dean, silently willing him to say something to help her out here.

He says nothing, but waves the plate of bacon in her face.

She sighs and accepts a piece of the sympathy bacon. ''What if I bring you guys some hot chocolate and mini doughnuts?'' She suggests. ''Or maybe I could meet up with you after and we can go for ice cream. You can tell me all about the particle thingy.''

''Particle accelerator,'' all three of them correct her in near perfect unison.

She throws her hands up in the air, chagrined.

''If you want,'' Dean finally pipes up, moving to lean across the counter, directly in front of Connor. ''I think I should be able to take you and Emma out for dinner before my shift. You can even pick.''

''Oh!'' Emma perks up, practically draping herself over Dinah so she can lean into the conversation. ''We could try that new taco truck by the hospital. It's supposed to be amazing. Wally says they have the spiciest hot sauce he's ever had. Like lava.''

''That's true,'' Dean nods. ''Last week, some guy ate there and then immediately turned around, walked into my ER, and keeled over.''

''What?! The hot sauce KILLED HIM?!''

''No, just gave him indigestion. He threw up all over Nurse Baez's shoes.''

''Ugh.'' She does not look as thrilled about the new taco truck. ''Maybe we don't have to try the hot sauce.''

''I don't even like hot sauce,'' Connor bursts out, trying - and failing - not to laugh.

''Neither does your mother,'' Dean retorts. ''I guess her personality is spicy enough.''

Dinah says, ''Shut up, Dean,'' and lobs a tortilla chip at him.

He catches it, easily, and pops it into his mouth.

Emma, now over by the coffee pot, pouring herself a large cup, rolls her eyes at both of them.

Connor laughs again and picks his fork back up, seemingly over his earlier disappointment. ''Okay,'' he chirps after a minute. ''Emma can take me.'' He looks up at Dinah. ''You'll bring mini doughnuts?''

''I'll bring a whole box,'' she promises.

''Can we still go to the science museum today?''

''Of course! I'm all yours until happy hour.''

He seems content with that. ''Okay. May I have more bacon please?''

''No, you may not,'' Dinah says before Dean has a chance to load her son up with more bacon. ''You've already had eight pieces. That's enough.''

''Aw, man,'' he moans, but doesn't bother to put up a fight.

''Glad that's all settled,'' Dean says. ''Everybody got enough french toast?'' He waits until he gets nods from both kids before he looks satisfied. ''Super. I'm going to take a shower. Connor, you're in charge.'' He ruffles the boy's hair as he passes, managing to discreetly slip another piece of bacon onto his plate without Dinah noticing until it's too late. ''Don't let Emma drink all my coffee.''

Connor watches him go, happily nibbling away on his bacon, and as soon as he's gone, he turns to Emma and says, ''Emma, don't drink all the coffee.''

''Tyrants,'' she says. ''The both of you.''

''Nobody should ever be drinking more than a cup of your dad's coffee,'' Dinah says. ''It's like paint thinner.''

''Which is what makes it amazing,'' Emma says. She is certainly her father's daughter. ''This is how I survive my AP classes.''

''Mom, Mom, Mom,'' Connor tugs at her sleeve and she turns back to him. ''Can Dean and Emma come with us to the science museum?''

''I don't know, baby,'' she says. ''You'll have to ask them.''

''Emma,'' he looks over at her with his puppy dog eyes. ''You want to go to the science museum with us?''

The teenager in question does not look overly enthused about the prospect of going to a science museum, but still, she says, ''Sure, why not?''

''Awesome!'' He looks thrilled by that. ''Cool. Because - Because - Mom.'' He reaches out to tap her on the shoulder when she makes the dire mistake of attempting to go back to her own breakfast. ''It's cheaper when you go in a group. They have family discounts. I looked it up yesterday. And we're a little bit like that, right?''

''Like what?''

''A family.''

She freezes with her teeth sunk into her guacamole smothered burrito. Her first instinct is to correct him, but there's nothing to correct, is there? At this point, her life and Dean's life are so intrinsically entwined that calling them a ''family'' wouldn't be far off. She doesn't like to think about that. It makes her chest ache with increasing suffocation. It makes her want to run away. She chews slowly, finally managing to choke the bite down. ''You can ask him when he gets out of the shower,'' she says.

Connor looks happy enough with that answer, going for a second piece of french toast.

Dinah abandons her food, leaning back in her chair. She's suddenly not hungry at all. She looks to Emma to gauge the teen's reaction, but Emma looks completely okay with the notion that this ragtag group is a family. She looks comfortable with the comparison.

Dinah is not. She feels claustrophobic. Like maybe she should back off. Stop coming over here so much. Stop relying on Dean and Emma to help her raise her kid. At least stop sleeping with him. She doesn't want Connor to get the wrong idea about what this is and wind up getting hurt in the end. He loves Dean and he loves Emma and Dinah's been okay with that from the start because it's convenient to her, but maybe this whole thing is getting out of hand. She and Dean are not an item. They're not going to eventually fall in love and move in together and be one big blended family. That can't happen. Dean Winchester lives a squeaky clean life. All she would do is mess it up. She's a criminal.

Babs would tell her that this isn't about Connor at all.

This is about her. Doing what she always does when she starts to feel like maybe someday she could be happy: Panicking. Gearing up to run away and self destruct. It's not the first time it's happened. It's not even the first time it's happened with Dean. He would probably tell her the same thing. He knows who she is. That's why he's never asked her for anything more. That's why he never will. No one has ever been as patient with her as he is. No one except Oliver.

Five years of this, and every time they get too close, she finds some made up reason to blow up and cause a scene, starting unnecessary fights and unnecessary drama, avoiding him for weeks at a time. That was easier to do when Connor was younger and followed her lead without question. It's been awhile since she played that game. She doesn't think he would just blindly follow her now. He's too at home here.

Dinah looks at her boy, leaning her head in her hand, elbow propped up on the counter. It's an ugly thought, but sometimes she wonders if it would be easier if she didn't have him. She loves him, he's her best friend, he's her whole world, but this parenting gig is the hardest thing she's ever done. She never even wanted children. The only reason she didn't terminate when she got pregnant was because Ollie wanted a baby. Maybe it would be easier if Connor didn't have his father's eyes. He looks at her with those eyes that see right through her bullshit and it's like living with a ghost.

''Hey.'' She reaches out to gently brush some of his messy sandy blonde hair out of his face. ''Will you tell me about the particle accelerator?''

He looks surprised and a little dubious at the request. ''You want to hear about the particle accelerator?''

''Yeah, why not? It's important to you and I don't even know what it does,'' she says. ''Tell me about it. Tell me about what's going to happen tonight.''

Slowly, a smile inches across his face. ''Okay.''

.

.

.

November, 2016

Dinah doesn't bother with a long shower.

That had been her plan at first, mostly just to be a nuisance. Take an extra long shower, use up all the hot water, avoid the peanut gallery for as long as possible. Then she stepped into this godawful bathroom.

First of all, it's hideous.

The tile is all wrong, the sink is too small, and the color of the walls - a soft lilac - doesn't go with the random strips of navy blue, and the entire space - which is, by the way, too small and extremely cramped with all the toiletries and bath toys - smells overwhelmingly of... What even is that? Apple? It just smells like candy. Cheap candy, to be specific.

And there are random spots of...stickiness all over?

Oh my god, these fucking people. No taste whatsoever. Must they insist on embarrassing her on every level?

Even the water pressure sucks.

She misses her shower. She misses her apartment, full of light and space, something she never deserved but cherished nonetheless. She misses Dean's huge apartment, all windows and comfy furniture and stainless steel. Those places were home to her.

She takes a quick shower in the disappointing bathroom, washing the Puget Sound out of her hair and off her skin. She's willing to admit that even with the crappy water pressure, it's nice to be able to have a warm shower. She's been staying at some trashy motel in the middle of nowhere - the closest place to the old campground where Mattie and Hanna were stashed away - and she hasn't had hot water the entire time. Before that, when she was stuck in the pipeline, it was even worse.

Dinah finishes her shower and wraps herself up in the soft, fluffy towel she's been given - also a vast improvement from the situation at the motel. She wastes some time snooping around the mirrored medicine cabinet and under the sink, but there's nothing juicy enough to file away for later. Unless you count an entire shelf full of kiddie band aids. Seems like an absurd amount of band aids if you ask her.

She inspects her wounds, poking at her black eye, swiping some fresh gauze and bandages from under the sink for her stab wound. It isn't that bad. Hardly a stab wound at all. It hurt like hell for awhile and it could most likely use a stitch or two, but she just slaps some ointment on and puts on a fresh bandage. It'll heal. It's not like this is the first time she's been stabbed. It's not even the first time she's been stabbed by Dean.

She throws on the bathrobe and reluctantly leaves the bathroom. She doesn't want to go back out there. These numb skulls are so useless and annoying. She pauses in the hallway, distractedly towel drying her hair while she tries to listen to the conversation going on in the dining room.

''What do you mean you're blocked?'' It's Thea's voice, impatient and worried.

''I - I don't know,'' Hanna's voice says. ''Something's blocking me. Not letting me connect to Laurel's location. I think someone's done a cloaking spell.''

''So you can't find her,'' Dean accuses.

''I didn't say that,'' Hanna snaps back. ''I just need time.''

''We don't have time!'' Thea again, voice growing louder and more distressed with each word. ''It's already been hours! We need to move. If we don't find her soon, this witch is going to feed Laurel to a soul eater and the thing's gonna drag her soul off to the fucking Upside Down!''

There is a brief silence and then Oliver asks, hopelessly confused, ''...Australia?''

''...That's Down Under,'' Diggle supplies after a beat of what Dinah can only assume is stunned silence.

''Then what - ''

''It's from Stranger Things.''

''Goddamn it.''

Dinah shakes her head and treks into the master bedroom, purposefully trying not to think about how much that sounded like her Ollie.

The master bedroom is...uncomfortable. It's a nice room, not huge but big enough, clean but cluttered enough to feel like real people live here, decorated tastefully, but it's...

This is someone else's life.

There is an air of intimacy to the room, the feeling of home and safety, and none of that, not a single piece, belongs to her. There are these scattered pieces of her all over the room - rings she would wear, lotions she would use, perfume and makeup she might've picked out, shoes she would buy - but none of it is hers. For the first time since she crossed over to this spooky world, she feels her skin crawling. There is so much about this topsy turvy world that stings, but this actually makes her feel a little nauseated. This is not her room. Not her house. Not her Dean or her father or her Ollie. This is not her world. She has never been more acutely aware of that.

Being here in this room makes her nervous in a way she does not want to acknowledge.

Laurel has a bedroom. She has a house. She has a side of the bed and slippers and a glass of water on her bedside table and night cream. She has a closet full of clothes and a hamper full of dirty laundry and someone to lie next to at night. She exists. She belongs.

Dinah does not.

She's just a ghost. She has none of these things. She sneers and smirks and haunts and projects herself onto these people because she has nothing of her own. She hovers in a world she doesn't belong in, with nothing to stay for and nothing to go back to. She's worse than a ghost. She is nothing at all.

She drops the wet towel on the bed and traipses over to the open closet. She doesn't move for a moment, just stands there and looks at all the colors. The reds and the blues, pinks and yellows, sea tones and earth tones, pastels and jewel tones.

She could, you know.

Belong.

She could make that happen. She could turn herself into the puzzle piece that fits in these clothes. In that bed. She could take this existence. She's a grifter. It's what she does. She could exist if she really wanted to. It would be easy. Get rid of Laurel and take her place. It's not like it would be hard. Laurel's already on her way out - again - and these people, the ones she's going to leave behind, love her so desperately that they wouldn't question it. Wouldn't acknowledge the wrongness.

Human beings are not objects to be replaced. At least not until you lose someone and you want them back so much that you'd accept anything, even a shadow, even a bloodthirsty ghost, a cheap copy. It would be her greatest con yet. She will steal herself a home. Her father would be so proud.

She could make this a place for her. She could make them hand over Laurel's place in the world. Wear her clothes, her makeup, her wedding rings. Put on her shoes, quiet her voice, fuck her husband. She could re-learn how to be soft. Teach herself kindness. Study grace and mercy. She could assimilate. It would be nothing.

As long as these people love Laurel, Dinah can get away with anything.

Easiest thing in the world.

She runs her hand over the fabric of the clothing hanging in the closet, lip curling in disgust at all the dresses and power suits and the - the softness of it all.

No.

No, she's not that pathetic. Lonely and bitter and tired, with nothing to call her own and a chip on her shoulder the size of Texas, yes, but not pathetic and stupid enough to steal someone else's entire life. Even if she won't be using it for that much longer. She may be cruel, but she is not that wicked.

Besides, this woman has a child, and Dinah cannot, will not, be anyone's mother ever again.

She steps away from the closet absentmindedly, twirling her own wedding ring. Her doppelganger has terrible taste in fashion. It's humiliating. She rifles around in the closet and the drawers for something acceptable to wear and manages to find a pair of jeans and a shirt that should be passable enough. She yanks the blanket off the vanity mirror - not even going to bother questioning that - and slumps into the seat. She rummages through Laurel's makeup, sifting through lipsticks and perfumes and tubes of mascara, but nothing catches her eye.

She does slap on a coat of moisturizer and swipe some lipstick, slipping it into her pocket out of habit, but that's mostly just to keep her hands busy. She has no idea what to do with herself. She doesn't want to go back out there, but sitting in Laurel's bedroom is intolerable. She looks at her reflection. Taking this deal was a monumentally stupid decision. Following through was even worse. ''Should've just left,'' she mutters.

She looks around the bedroom, searching for something to hold her interest. Nothing really holds her attention. Except for the picture frames. There are frames scattered all over the tops of both dressers, but they're all flipped down. She's not sure if it's a good idea to be looking at family photos of her Earth-1 counterpart's happy, domestic life, but she stands up and treads over to the dresser anyway.

The first frame she picks up is a picture of Dean holding a newborn. Their daughter, she's guessing. She tries very hard not to think about the fact that this version of Laurel and Dean have a child together. There is an unpleasant twinge in her chest when she thinks about that. The baby in this picture looks fresh out of the oven so it's mostly a potato looking blob with no real defining characteristics and no real resemblance to either of them, but she still avoids looking at the wrinkly little thing in Dean's arms for too long. She's more stuck on the image of him anyway. He's not looking at the camera or whoever is taking the picture, completely engrossed in his daughter, but he looks so peaceful. She doesn't remember the last time her Dean was that peaceful. She doesn't think she's ever been that peaceful. Even before all the loss, even when she was a kid. She's always been restless.

She puts the picture back and tries to ignore the nagging voice in the back of her head asking, If December 11th hadn't happened, would we have ended up here?

She looks around the bedroom that this world's Dinah Laurel Lance shares with this world's Dean Winchester. She takes in the clutter and the pictures, the rumpled bedsheets and the little pieces of domestic life on the bedside tables, scattered on top of the dressers. The intimacy and the normalcy of it. Real people live here. They sleep here, they fuck and they talk and they laugh and their kid probably crawls into their bed when she can't sleep or when she has a nightmare. They share a life here.

Dinah's never had that.

Briefly, once, with Ollie, but that was taken from her so quickly, in the blink of an eye. Maybe for a minute or two with Dean back when they were hovering in that space between December 11th and the choices they both made that got them here, but that was so different from this. That wasn't love. It was survival. Solace.

This world, this Dinah...

She's so lucky and she doesn't even appreciate it, too busy drowning herself in booze and self-pity. She's fucking charmed and she doesn't even know it. Doesn't deserve this wonderful life she has.

Dinah flips up another picture frame and manages maybe a five second look before she slams it back down, cracking the glass. It was the girl. Mary. Dinah takes a few steps back, away from the dresser. It's a pathetic overreaction and she's aware of that, but that little girl...

She looks like her.

Dinah tenses. It shouldn't matter. She's not hers. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and stalks back to the closet to search for a jacket. She flips through the jackets in the closet, huffing in annoyance at every unsightly and tacky item. She pulls out a few leather jackets that aren't awful, but they're sort of dull. She tosses them on the bed carelessly. Then adds a bunch of the repulsive blazers. There are too many blazers here. It's cringeworthy. Finally, she plucks a gray faux suede drape front jacket from the back of the closet and slips it on. She fiddles with the drape front for a minute, trying to get it to sit right, cursing under her breath. There is a frustrating lack of mirrors in the bedroom but she makes do with the vanity mirror, glancing at her reflection.

Ugh.

She looks like Laurel.

Not her best look.

She snoops through a few more drawers, just to avoid having to go back out into the lion's den for as long as possible, and then she reluctantly leaves the bedroom behind. She means to head out into the living room, but she stops just outside the bedroom door. There is this tug in her gut. This feeling of intense curiosity. This unhealthy need to see her in person. To just look at her. Just once. It won't help anything. In fact, it might make things so much worse.

Still, Dinah turns around. She looks at the door with the pastel colored block letters spelling out the name Mary, open just a crack to let the light in.

This is a terrible idea.

With a quick look over her shoulder to make sure no one has seen her, she steps over to the door, gently pushes it open, and ducks inside. She shuts the door behind her as quietly as possible but cannot bring herself to turn around. She grips the doorknob, staring down at her white knuckles. She closes her eyes.

She turns around.

The child in the picture was somewhere around two years old. Still a baby. The little slip of a thing in the bed is older; a whole person, with defining features and a striking resemblance to her mother. She's fast asleep, looking peaceful, hair mussed and sticking up but even asleep, Dinah can see her. There's Connor in her nose and there's Emma in her cheekbones and Dean in her downturned mouth. This girl is made of ghosts.

Dinah stands there, feet rooted to the ground, feeling like she is stuck in quicksand. Coming in here was a terrible idea.

The sound of a small cough stops her before she can even turn to leave. She watches Mary blink open her sleepy eyes. ''Mommy?'' Her voice is small and hoarse and as soon as she gets the word out, she dissolves into a coughing fit.

Dinah is thrown off by the girl's eyes. The same ones she sees every time she looks in a mirror. The shock only lasts a minute. She's very open about the fact that she was a fucking terrible mother, but that doesn't mean she has no parental instincts whatsoever. Although, truthfully, at this particular moment, it would be much easier if she didn't. Reluctantly, she steps forward, grabbing the sippy cup off the nightstand. She gives it a quick shake to make sure it's not empty and sniffs it to make sure it's just water and not rotten milk or juice. ''Here, kid. Come here.'' She helps Mary sit up with her free hand. ''Drink this.''

Mary accepts the cup, drinking greedily. ''I don't like it,'' she whines, pulling the cup away from her mouth, sniffling. ''Mommy,'' her eyes are watery and she still looks half asleep. ''I don't like the coughs.''

''Nobody does,'' Dinah says matter-of-factly. ''Drink your water.''

Mary takes a few more sips and then pushes the cup back at Dinah. She kicks at the covers, still making that insufferable keening whine noise. ''Where's my daddy?''

''He's - '' Dinah pauses, putting the cup back on the nightstand. ''You want me to get him?''

Mary keeps whining, like she hasn't even heard Dinah, rolling over to bury her face in her pillow. ''I want Daddy.''

''Yeah, okay.'' Probably a good idea. She should not have come in here. She's starting to feel that familiar pressure in her chest. All that misplaced guilt and that stinging grief. She wasn't a decent mother to her own kid, couldn't even keep him alive, what gives her a right to pretend with this poor girl? She starts to get up, only for two small hands to latch onto her wrist, nails practically digging into her skin.

''Mommy, no,'' Mary whimpers. ''Lay with me.''

Dinah's stomach twists with uncharacteristic anxiety. ''No.''

Mary looks up at her blankly. ''I need you.'' She retracts her hand and stuffs it into her mouth to suck on her fingers, which -

Gross.

''You hafta lay with me,'' Mary cries out pitifully.

''I - I can't,'' Dinah gets out. The rest gets stuck in her throat.

Mary's exhausted eyes fill with tears and she whines around her fingers, kicking at the covers again until they're half off. ''Wrong ear, Mommy. Use hands.''

''I don't know what that means.''

Mary stares at her for a second, offended and frightened, and then she bursts into overtired tears.

''Mary,'' Dinah tries.

And then Dean's there.

She doesn't hear the door open or his footsteps. He's just there, popping up out of nowhere, swooping in effortlessly. ''Mary.'' He says nothing to Dinah. He doesn't even look at her. He just moves around to the other side of the bed and leans down to speak to his daughter, giving her an easy soft smile and stroking her hair. ''Honeybee, what are you doing awake?''

''I can't hear Mama,'' Mary sobs. ''She's not bein' right.''

''I know, pumpkin,'' he soothes, and Mary instantly starts to calm down at the sound of his voice. ''She's sorry. She doesn't feel well right now.'' He pulls the covers back over her. ''We should let her go back to bed.'' That's the only time he looks at Dinah. Just one quick look. ''Go back to bed, Mama.''

She does not flinch at the use of the 'M' word, but she does wisely decide to listen to him. She turns to leave and that's when she hears Mary's voice once more. It's clear, despite the sniffles, and calm, not sad or angry or fearful. ''That's not Mommy.''

Dinah stops and turns back around.

The kid is staring at her intently. Her tears have dried up, replaced with an unnervingly calm, completely resolute look. ''That's not my mommy,'' she says again. She looks to her dad for support. ''Daddy, that's some other lady.''

Dean noticeably falters at that. He tries to recover, smiling softly. ''It's okay. This is a weird dream, huh? Just try to relax, baby girl. Your mom's going to be right here when you wake up.''

''Mommy went away again,'' Mary mumbles. Something about the way she says it, so calm and sure, gives Dinah the creeps.

''No,'' he says, quick and firm, but patient. ''She didn't.'' He rubs her back, leaning in closer. He moves his hands, slowly so she can see. Sign language.

Okay, that explains some shit.

''It's not a dream,'' Mary says firmly. She sits up, pulling a stuffed shark into her lap. ''Mommy went away. She's with the bad lady.''

Dean stills.

Dinah takes a step closer. ''What bad lady?''

Mary squirms, looking guilty. ''Not allowed to tell.''

''Mary,'' Dean says. ''You're allowed to tell us anything.''

She looks at him for a minute, small frown on her face. ''She has pretty hair,'' she says. ''Sometimes I dream her. She needs Mommy's help.'' She lowers her voice to a tiny whisper. ''There's something wrong with her neck.'' She lies back down, cuddling her shark protectively.

Dean looks like he's been tossed off course. He doesn't say anything, but Dinah swears she can see the wheels beginning to turn in his head.

Dinah crosses her arms. She should skedaddle, but she's strangely invested in this kid's ghost story. She shuffles closer to Dean, mostly because that appears to be the girl's good ear. ''How often do you dream about the bad lady?''

Mary narrows her eyes at Dinah, irked. ''Not Mommy,'' she hisses. ''Go away. You're a stranger.''

''Mary,'' Dean finally speaks up. ''Look at me.'' The seriousness of his tone must get to her because she drops her scowl instantly. ''When did you start dreaming about this lady?''

She buries her face in her shark. ''She says not to tell,'' she says, voice wobbling.

''I won't tell her you told me,'' he promises.

She thinks about it for a minute, peering at him over her shark, and then admits in a very tiny voice, ''Mommy was sick. She sleeped a lot and the bad lady was in my room.'' She points to the rocking chair in the corner. ''Over there.''

''What did she say to you?''

''She said Mommy's special,'' Mary says. ''Like her. She says I'm special too.''

He stiffens up at that, barely noticeable.

Dinah still notices it.

''She needs her help,'' Mary continues. ''Mommy helps people. She said she needed my help too a-and Mommy says we're supposed to help people. But I didn't want to.''

''What did she want you to do?'' Dinah asks, stepping closer, a moonbeam catching her face through the curtains.

''Take Mommy out the gate,'' Mary says. ''So Mommy could help her. I said – I told her my daddy says I'm not supposed to leave the backyard. I can't reach the gate. She got mad at me.''

Well.

Dinah's thinking she understands now why tonight went to shit for everybody. The witch upped her game because she had to. She was being thwarted at every turn so she went for the kid, tried to get her to do her dirty work for her, and even that failed. It must have really pissed her off that all her plans were failing. The only thing left to do was take a chance and go straight for Laurel. Break her down enough to get her away from Dean just long enough to snatch her. It's not the dumbest plan, but it's...erratic.

If you ask her, that's nothing new.

She has been filled in on the basics of this witch and what she's been doing. Laurel wanted her to be prepared. They needed her to know what she was up against. In her opinion, every move this witch has made has been unpredictable. None of it is strategy. It's all just desperation. She may be powerful and it's blindingly obvious she has a lot of sway if she's managed to rope her earth's Dean into this bullshit, but her movements have all been made out of greed. There are very few things more dangerous than greed.

''And you haven't seen her since?'' Dean's voice is, on the surface, calm, but Dinah can see the panicked energy in his posture, hear it in his voice.

Mary shakes her head.

''Sweetheart,'' he sighs out. ''Is this why you've been so grumpy lately?''

She clutches her shark tighter. ''I don't want her to come back.''

''I know you don't,'' he soothes. ''I don't blame you. Tell you what, if you dream about this lady again, I want you to tell her to go away. Tell her you don't want to talk to her again.''

''But what if she gets mad?''

''Then you tell her to come and talk to me because I'm Dad and I'm the one who says you can't talk to her anymore.''

She buries her face in the shark again. ''Okay.''

''Mary,'' he says, waiting for her to look at him. ''I promise I won't let her scare you or your mom again, okay? And I always keep my promises, right?''

She nods, relief bleeding into her Ellard green eyes.

''Good.'' He smiles at her, leaning in to kiss her forehead. ''One more thing, sweetheart, and then you can go back to sleep,'' he says, pulling away. ''You said there was something wrong with her neck. What did you mean?''

''Here.'' Mary points to her throat. ''She has scars. It makes her voice scary. She said somebody hurt her.''

Even in the dark, Dinah can see the way Dean pales at that. Something about that spooks him. Something clicks into place for him when Mary says that.

''Okay.'' He smiles at his girl again, shakier this time. ''Thank you for telling me about her, honeybee. Your mom and I are going to do everything we can to keep her away.'' He looks over at Dinah. ''Right?''

Somehow, she manages to tamp down the urge to glare at him. ''Of course.''

Mary just shakes her head. ''That is not Mommy.''

''Of course it is,'' Dean says, cheerful. ''She's just not feeling like herself right now. She'll be back to herself tomorrow. She just needs to get some sleep. So do you. How about she goes back to bed and I'll stay here with you until you fall asleep? Sound good?''

Mary does not at all look like she believes this woman is her mother but she nods anyway. ''...'Kay.''

''All right.'' He glances over at Dinah. Briefly. Very briefly. A dismissal. ''Night, Mom.''

She scoffs at him, mostly for appearances, but doesn't argue, quickly making her escape out the door. Truth be told, she's relieved to be out of that room. This family is in some deep, deep shit. Even the kid's got the witch dreamwalking in her head.

She is hard to look at, that little girl. With all those ghosts in her eyes.

Dinah looks down the hall, out to the sliding glass doors leading out to the darkened backyard. Guess she could check the perimeter to see if anything was missed. But they seem to have that covered. Maybe she should fill in the other occupants of the Island of Misfit Toys. Let them in on Mary's little secret. That doesn't seem like her place.

If she wanted to, she could slip right out the back door. She'd be gone before anyone noticed.

Still, she doesn't move.

She groans, looking up at the ceiling. ''I hate these people, I really do.''

Ruined. She's been ruined. One week on the outside and she's already lost her edge. She blames Dean personally. Maybe both of them. Irritated with herself, she turns on her heel and practically stomps back out into the living room. Diggle and Oliver are the only ones who look over at her, but neither one of them offer her a greeting. There seems to be a passionate debate going on about how to find Laurel, and Thea Queen is the one giving the orders, telling Felicity to look up property records to see if Hanna's family owns any property, trying to hurry Hanna's spell along. Dinah surveys the situation, eyes falling on the aforementioned witch. The girl looks slightly better now that she has something to do, but still pale.

The one with the familiar blue eyes - ''Cas,'' she thinks Dean called him - is the only one to talk to her. ''Where's Dean?''

''With the kid,'' she says. ''She had a nightmare.''

His name wasn't Cas on her earth.

The name came to her in the shower. James Novak. His name was James Novak on her world. She's only ever seen him in pictures. He was a Marine. KIA in the same explosion that earned Dean his medical discharge. Dean never talked about James. Never talked in depth about his stint as a Marine at all during the years she knew him. Little comments here and there, sure, but nothing serious. Lydia and Emma were the ones who told her about what happened to him during that time.

All she knew about James was that Dean kept the picture of his old unit on his desk and she'd catch his eye drifting over to it sometimes, shadowed with grief. She wonders how he would feel if he were to come face to face with this man, not James Novak, but someone with his face. She wonders how he'll react when he realizes his dead kid brother - someone who has been, to him, frozen in time as a frail sick ten year old - is alive and well here. All grown up, strong and healthy.

Chances are, if he's been here for as long as she has, he already knows about them, but he's never interacted with them. Never had to look them in the eye. There is not much that throws him off his game. She's wondering if they might.

Dinah wanders around the group, checking out the dining room windows, staring into the inky black night. Diggle keeps an eye on her as she moves around them. Must be a handler thing. She distances herself from them, finds herself in the living room instead, itching for something. A prowler, a stalker, just some kind of action. This house and the family in it are making her antsy. She needs someone to fight.

She has just given up on the window, plopping herself down on the nearby loveseat when Dean strolls into the room, phone pressed to his ear. ''Sam, hang on,'' he says. ''Cas and Thea are here. I'm putting you on speakerphone.'' He pulls the phone away from his ear, sends everyone else a don't say a word look, and puts the phone on speaker. ''Say that again.''

Immediately, Sam Winchester's voice echoes through the suddenly quiet room. He sounds nothing like Dinah thought he would. ''It's the middle of the night. Why is Cas - ''

''Because we were worried about you two dipshits,'' Dean says.

''You've been off the grid all day long,'' Cas says. ''We've been calling.''

''We thought something happened,'' adds Thea. ''Is Sara with you?''

''I'm right here,'' Sara's voice says, and just like that, Dinah's mood sours.

It's not her sister, she's aware of that, and maybe this one isn't such a hoity-toity stuck up bitch, but she can't help the scowl. She crosses her arms and thins her lips when Thea pulls Quentin into the phone call, telling Sara he was worried about her. On her earth, Sara couldn't care less about their father. He was a criminal. Her view is that she was better off with her foster family. She was so relieved to drop the Lance from her name when she got married. (Both times.)

Hopefully this Sara isn't as much of an asshole as Sara Snart is.

''We're fine,'' Sara's saying. ''Sorry for disappearing on you guys. Turns out reception is spotty when you're deep in the Maine wilderness.''

''Great,'' Dean cuts in. ''Now that we've covered that, tell them what you just told me.''

There's a heavy sigh on the other line and then Sam says, ''Hazel's ashes are gone.''

Dinah has no idea what that means, but everyone else gets real fucking tense.

''How can they be gone?'' Thea demands. ''I thought your cousin buried them under concrete.''

''So did he,'' Sara says. ''Listen, where's Laurel? She needs to hear this.''

''She's...'' Dean stops. Nobody offers him any help. He makes the choice on his own. ''She's in with Mary.''

It doesn't stop Sara. ''Well, go get her. This is important.''

Not one of them offers up the truth. In fact, Quentin seems to agree with the lie. ''Your sister's sleeping, Sara. With everything she's going through, she needs her rest.''

Dinah grins, rising to her feet. Nice to know this Lance family is just as fucked up as hers.

''Dad,'' Sara says. ''I know - ''

''I'm not sleeping,'' Dinah calls out, slinking back into the dining room. ''I'm right here,'' she says, softening her voice, raising the pitch.

Every one of them is looking at her like she's just murdered a kitten in front of them. A ridiculous overreaction. They don't seem to grasp the concept of doppelganger. She's doing them a favor.

She skirts around Oliver when he reaches for her and darts over to Dean, wedging herself in between him and Quentin. ''What's going on?'' She asks as innocently as possible, right before she sticks her tongue out at Oliver. ''Is that Sara?''

Dean gives her a warning look but, surprisingly, rolls with it. ''She says Hazel Aelard's ashes are gone.''

''What? How?''

''Are you saying - '' Quentin runs a hand over his face. ''Did someone dig them up? Without Bo knowing?''

''No, we think someone switched out the box before he buried it.''

''According to Bo,'' Sam starts, ''he renovated the back deck in July. Poured concrete. Buried the box. He thought that would be the end of it. And as far as we can tell, we're the only ones who have dug the box up.''

''But he was gone for a few days in June,'' Sara says. ''He was, um...camping.''

''So he was getting high in the woods,'' Quentin snarks.

''If you must know, he was on a vision quest.''

''...So he was getting high in the woods.''

''Coincidentally,'' Sam edges back into the conversation. ''His security system glitched that weekend. He was adamant that he set all the alarms and made sure all the cameras were turned on. But when he came back, there was a twenty minute window where all systems were down. He chalked it up to a power outage. I'm thinking it wasn't a power outage.''

''Someone swapped out the boxes,'' Cas surmises. ''When did you say this was?''

''June.''

''Didn't Hanna Moretti,'' Thea starts, casting a quick glance at the witch herself, ''say that a witch was killed in Amnesty Bay in June?''

''It's Onomatopoeia,'' Dean says shortly.

''The freaky serial killer from Central City?'' Sara doesn't sound convinced. ''What does he have to do with this?''

''It was him,'' Dean says, no room for argument. ''He killed the elder witch. He took the ashes.''

''How do you - ''

''Iris West,'' he says. ''She was investigating him. Her file says he first surfaced in Amnesty Bay, Maine. In June.''

''Okay,'' Sam draws out the word. ''But, Dean, that doesn't fit his profile at all. He goes after human vigilantes. Not witches.''

''Maybe that's how he gets his rocks off, but this was him,'' Dean says. He looks like he's getting a headache. ''He was ordered to do this. He's working with the witch, Sam.''

''That's a pretty big leap to make based off circumstantial - ''

''Oh, it's not a leap,'' Dinah says, plopping down in a chair. ''Trust me.''

''Uh, I think someone needs to fill us in here,'' Sara speaks up. ''Because I feel like we're missing something.''

Quentin is the one who says it, looking over at Hanna before he says, ''Onomatopoeia attacked the Moretti kids tonight.''

''It had to have been on the witch's orders,'' Dean says.

''I thought we had the kids in a safe house,'' Sam says.

''Well, he found it,'' Dinah says, and the Laurel in her voice falters. ''Guess your safe house wasn't so safe after all.''

''Are they - ''

''Hanna's okay,'' Quentin says, reaching out hand out to place his hand on the girl's shoulder. ''Mattie's gone.''

There is a stretch of silence and then Felicity jerks, startling both Diggle and Oliver. She looks like she's about to start doing charades to get someone to interpret what she wants to say, but she scurries over to Thea instead, whispering in her ear. ''Why would this witch need the ashes of some long dead witch anyway?'' Thea voices.

''No idea,'' Sam says. ''We haven't been able to figure that out either.''

''It could be for a ritual of some sort,'' Cas offers up. ''Invoking the bloodline. Sara, perhaps you should reach out to - ''

''I'm calling Aunt Natasha first thing in the morning,'' she says. ''As far as I know, she's told me everything she knows but I guess you never can tell with the Drake women. Withholding seems to be their specialty.'' There is an unmistakable note of bitterness to her voice.

Dinah's lips tick up into a tiny smirk. Lying bitches then. Her kind of people. She would fit right in. She never had a chance to know her mother's side of the family. They all scattered long before she was born, back when the matriarch, Beatrice, died in the mid 80's. She met her Aunt Valerie once when she was eight to learn more about the curse. None of them came forward when her mother died or when she and Sara were orphaned, separated, and shipped off to foster care. They were non factors in her life. They were estranged, distant, disinterested stories. This earth seems different.

''We've been trying to get a flight back home,'' says Sam, ''but this is a small airport and there's nothing that will even get us close until tomorrow afternoon.''

''Oh, that's no problem,'' Thea says. ''Text me the airport. I'll send the Merlyn private jet for you.''

Everyone - except Oliver and Dean - snaps their attention to her, staring incredulously.

She looks at them, confused. ''What?''

Sara is the one who voices the question, yelping out a stunned, ''You have a private jet?!''

Thea furrows her brows. She looks genuinely confused by the reaction. ''Of course I have a private jet.''

''This whole time?!'' Sara goes on. ''Thea, we had to fly coach. I sat next to a guy who puked for the entire four hours and Sam's a fucking tree and YOU HAVE A PRIVATE JET?!''

''You could have asked.''

''How was I supposed to know you had a - ''

''You guys do realize I inherited the entire Merlyn fortune, right?'' Thea looks around. ''Despite the scandal, it's not a small amount. Sometimes I feel like you vastly underestimate how rich I am. It's a stupid amount of money for one person.''

Well, some things never change.

Dinah can't help but blurt out, ''Then why do you live in this dump?'' There is instantly a whole group of people gesturing for her to shut up. Suppose that is not something Laurel would say. ''I'm kidding,'' she says, going for a soft laugh. ''You know we love having you.'' A beat. ''...Sweetie.''

''I'm a pack animal,'' Thea says.

''All right,'' Dean interjects. ''You two just worry about getting home. We've got things handled here.'' He moves to end the call, halted only by the sound of his brother calling out his name. Something about the tone of Sam's voice makes him grimace.

There's a shuffling sound on the other end of the line, quiet murmurs as Sam excuses himself from Sara's presence, and then his voice, clear as a bell, ''Laurel? You still there?''

She straightens up. ''Right here.''

''You're okay, right? You're feeling okay?''

She licks her lips, trying to decide the best way to navigate this. ''Of course.'' She smiles as she says it. ''Why wouldn't I be?''

An intake of breath and then, low, ''Dean, take me off speaker.''

Dean closes his eyes and exhales slowly, expression caught somewhere between guilty and annoyed. Without a word to anyone else, he turns and disappears into the kitchen.

Dinah stares after him and then looks at the rest of the Scooby Gang. ''I think that went well.''

Quentin sighs and buries his head in his hands.

''Your Laurel impression needs some work,'' Oliver tells her.

''I have some calls to make,'' Thea says, eyeing Dinah suspiciously. ''Don't make trouble,'' she adds in a low tone as she passes her by.

''Trouble? Me?'' Dinah grins. ''Never.''

''We need to talk about what we're going to do when we find where they're holding her,'' Diggle speaks up. He doesn't bother even glaring at Dinah, just moves right past it.

''We go get her,'' Oliver says.

''Yes, obviously, but what's the plan? These are witches. Witches. That's not something we deal with.''

''Maybe you haven't,'' Cas says smoothly.

''That's exactly my point,'' Diggle says, looking back to Oliver. ''We need to let Winchester run point on this one.''

Oliver's jaw tightens.

Dinah scoffs.

Men.

''Dean's retired,'' he says stiffly. ''He hasn't been - ''

''He still has more experience,'' Diggle argues. ''Oliver, we don't know what we're dealing with. This isn't our world. It's irresponsible to take control of something you don't know how to control.''

''He doesn't seem retired anyway,'' Felicity says. ''I mean, he's been on top of most of - ''

''Cas!'' The sound of Dean's voice cuts her off mid sentence - and makes her jump - as he barrels back through the door. ''I gotta talk to you.'' Without waiting for a response and without a single glance at anyone else, he yanks Cas into the kitchen.

''Oh yeah,'' Oliver nods sarcastically. ''He's a real team player.''

''It doesn't matter who's in charge,'' Hanna pipes up. She looks up momentarily but looks completely uninterested in the situation. ''By all means, continue with your macho pissing contest if it's that important to you, but none of you really know what you're doing here. I'm the one you need. I'm your big gun.''

''Okay, one,'' Dinah holds up a finger. ''Calm down, hot rod, you're like four feet tall.''

''What does that have to do with anything?''

''And two,'' she holds up two fingers. ''You're not going anywhere.''

Hanna jerks her head up, a fiery - and stubborn - look in her eyes. ''Like hell I'm not.''

''She's right, Hanna,'' Quentin says. He manages a look at Dinah when he says that, willingly catches her eye and everything. Big step for him. ''You've had a rough night.''

Hanna snorts. ''Massive understatement.''

''You're injured,'' he says, ''and you're grieving.''

''Yes.'' Her fingers curl around the map. ''Because they killed my brother,'' she snarls out. ''They don't get to get away with that.''

''Nobody's saying anything about letting them get away with it,'' Oliver tries to soothe. He's not very soothing.

''All you're worried about is Laurel!'' She stands up, throwing the map down on the table. ''Find Laurel, save Laurel, and - yeah, okay, I get that, but what about Mattie? What about what happened to him? Was he collateral damage? Do any of you even care about - ''

''Yes.'' Thea takes her place back at the table, next to her brother. ''We do. At least I do. But these people put a hit out on you.'' She reaches out to wrestle the map from Hanna's hand. ''You need to remember that. Not to mention, these people are still your family, which means your judgment is compromised. When we find Laurel - which, by the way, does need to be your focus right now, because a de-souled Black Canary would affect all of us, including you - you can come with us - ''

''Thea - ''

''Don't be ridiculous, Ollie,'' she says. ''Of course she's coming with us. She's the only witch we have on our side. We need her. But.'' She points a finger at Hanna. ''You need to listen to us. You're pissed - rightfully so - but we can't have you going all kamikaze.''

''Right,'' Hanna mutters darkly. ''Because I'm the only one who can save Laurel.''

''Because you're a person, Hanna.''

That seems to shut the kid up. She's still scowling and her eyes look watery, but she sits back down.

Being this idiot child's bodyguard is going to be a shit job. It was easy when she and Mattie didn't know Dinah was their shadow. When the danger wasn't quite so clear. Now that there's been an actual hit put out, she's going to have to stick to this girl like white on rice. Personally, she's starting to think she deserves a larger sum of money than she's been promised. Just for the pain and suffering alone.

''My mother is trying to block anyone from finding Laurel,'' Hanna finally says, voice clipped. ''I know it's her because I can feel it. She's left her fingerprints all over it. Sloppy for her. I can get around it, but I need more supplies. Specifically, I need basil, cayenne - ''

''We have that,'' Thea says brightly.

Hanna clears her throat, looking incredibly offended at the interruption. ''As I was saying,'' she says crisply. ''I need ingredients. Basil, cayenne, wormwood...'' She pauses to look over at Thea, giving her a sharp look, daring her to interrupt her. ''Mistletoe, hyssop, rue, patchouli, and oak.'' She levels them all with a haughty look. ''Do you have those things?'' No one says anything, but she looks satisfied at the silence.

Dinah's having a hard time deciding if she hates this annoying kid or if she kinds of likes her. She almost reminds her of - well, her.

Maybe that's not such a good thing.

''Now,'' Hanna goes on. ''I'm a witch. I have those things at my house. Which happens to be right next door. Can I go get them or do I need an escort?''

''I'll go with you.'' Cas comes strolling back into the room, casual as can be, but paler. ''I need to talk to you about something anyway.'' He looks calm on the outside, but more determined than ever. ''Felicity,'' he says, turning his gaze to her. ''Dean thinks it would be best if you looked into doorbell cams and private security systems. See if anyone caught footage of what happened. Maybe even captured the license plate. We need a backup plan in case Hanna is unable to locate her.'' Then he looks to Diggle. ''Would it be possible to have ARGUS on standby?''

Diggle looks amused by the request. ''ARGUS doesn't usually deal with witches.''

''It's not for the witches,'' Cas says. ''It's for Laurel.''

All the amusement drains out of Diggle's face. ''If we can't reach her before her soul is extracted...'' Cas starts, somewhat reluctantly. ''We'll need to have counter measures in place. I trust ARGUS has a protocol for neutralizing meta humans.''

''Whoa, whoa, wait!'' Quentin holds his hands up. ''Nobody is neutralizing my daughter!''

''I certainly hope it won't come to that,'' Cas says stiffly. ''This would be a last resort, Quentin. However, without her soul, she will be dangerous. A bullet in a loaded gun. I am sorry, but we cannot risk her hurting anyone.''

''Does Dean know you are planning to – ''

''These are his orders.''

Quentin seems to slump at that, resigned. He looks tired. And scared. Dinah has this sudden, nostalgic urge to fix things for him. To make things better for him. Protect him from whatever is going to happen. She couldn't protect her own father and revenge was meaningless in the end. Childishly, she wishes she could help this version of him.

''I can make a call,'' Diggle says, voice calm, but hesitant.

Cas nods. ''Thank you.''

There is a renewed burst of energy among the group, people splitting apart to do their assigned jobs. People really fall in line here on this earth. Like little toy soldiers. Dinah, who was not given a job, uses the influx of movement and voices talking over one another to slip away unnoticed, into the kitchen.

She expects to find their Fearless Leader doing something. His wife is the one missing. She expects agitation. Maybe some frantic fumbling. Definitely desperation. But he's just standing there, watching an electric kettle boil, hands braced against the counter. There is a beat up, ancient looking journal sitting on the counter, open to a page full of nearly illegible scribbles. He looks like he has aged approximately 100 years since she and the others first showed up. She would gladly take credit for that because she's a bitch like that, but she doesn't think this has anything to do with her.

''You didn't tell them,'' she says. ''You didn't tell any of them about what your kid said.''

''I've got this handled, Dinah.''

''Yeah? Do you?''

He stands straight and turns to look at her. He looks pained. Like physically pained. He doesn't say anything for a moment and eventually looks away. He hurriedly flips the journal closed and puts it up out of reach in the cupboard above the fridge. ''I know who the witch is.''

''Oooh,'' she smirks, crossing her arms. ''And you're holding out on them? Dick move.''

The kettle pops.

He doesn't respond to that, rifling around in another cupboard for something. He produces a box of Earl Grey, tosses it at her, and gestures to the kettle. ''Knock yourself out.''

She hesitates because even she realizes that they shouldn't be having tea time right now, but whatever. She needs the caffeine.

''I need them to trust me,'' he says as she's pouring hot water into a mug for her. He leans back against the counter. ''If I tell them who I think it is, they won't trust me.''

''Why is that?''

''Because I think I'm one of the reasons she's so pissed off.''

''Interesting.'' She fiddles with the tea bag for a minute and then just leaves it to steep, turning back to him. ''So this has nothing to do with Laurel at all then?''

''I think it has to do with both of us.''

''Guess you two aren't so perfect after all.''

He looks at her strangely. ''Who the hell said we were perfect?''

She goes back to her tea without answering, impatiently bobbing the bag in the water. She grabs the milk from the fridge to add some to her tea and tries to ignore the feel of his eyes on her. He may not be her Dean, but he does look at her the same way hers used to. Like he can see right through her. It gets under her skin.

''Listen, Dee.'' He pauses and when she throws him a look, he looks apprehensive. He's looking at her split lip. Her black eye. ''I should've asked you this a long time ago, but are you okay?''

''You mean this?'' She gestures to the wounds on her face. ''No biggie. Even this isn't that deep.'' She pats her abdomen. ''It should be - ''

''Dinah.''

She avoids looking at him. ''I'm fine.''

''If we had known he had any part in this, we wouldn't have asked you to - ''

''I know.''

''If you want out...''

''I am not going back to that cage,'' she growls. An unwelcome burst of panic hits her in the chest just at the thought. Irritated, she distances herself from him, moving to the other side of the kitchen. It's not that much distance in the end. This is a unusually narrow kitchen. She blows at her tea to cool it down, taking a few sips to calm herself down.

''We could talk to Lyla,'' he suggests. ''See if we can work out something else. Maybe another job or - I don't know. Community service.''

''Dean, stop.'' She puts her mug down on the counter. ''I'm fine,'' she insists. ''I'm okay. I'm not that fragile. I'm not Laurel.''

''Oh,'' he lets out a disgusted scoff. ''Don't do that shit with me, Dee. Don't project your own issues onto her.''

''I'm not - ''

''Sweetheart,'' he says, ''you ain't that hard to read.''

She presses her lips together tightly. She considers threatening him. That's how she would normally handle these kinds of things. She doesn't. She picks up her tea again. She drinks. It's not great. Some cheap off brand shit that's too heavy on the bergamot. It's serviceable, she supposes.

''I don't think you're fragile,'' he says, finally. ''I think this guy tortured you and you shouldn't be expected to deal with him.''

''How chivalrous of you,'' she taunts. She moves a hand to her stab wound, the most recent injury her Dean has inflicted on her. Her black eye throbs. Split lip stings when she takes a sip of tea. Not that big of a deal in the long run. The stab wound might scar. That's nothing compared to the rest of the scars. The ones on her back and her stomach. The ones he gave her. Once upon a time, she thought of him as the one person who would never hurt her. It wasn't even that long ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. ''I'm going to do the job I was hired to do,'' she says, ''and then you're going to give me my money because that was our deal. No one's backing out. Understand?''

He doesn't even bother to hide the fact that he still looks worried and unconvinced. ''Are you sure?''

''I can handle it,'' she says firmly. ''It's not like I'm his main target anyway.''

He finally seems to relax at that. At least he stops pestering her. He shakes his head and busies himself with starting a pot of coffee. ''How did he even get here?''

''I'd imagine the same way I did,'' she says. ''Some sort of rift.''

''No, that's not what I...'' He looks at her curiously. ''When we first met, you mentioned something about Arkham Asylum.''

She stares down into her tea. ''That place was never going to hold him for long.''

''How'd he get tossed in there in the first place?''

She puts her mug down and gnaws at her fingernail. ''Zoom.''

''Zoom.'' He looks at her sharply. ''As in - ''

''Hunter Zoloman,'' she nods. ''Yes.'' She pushes off the counter and moves over to the breakfast nook, sinking down onto the seat. It's stupid. Breakfast nooks are stupid. She'd never have one in her kitchen. ''I had my reasons for joining up with him. One of them was - ''

''He offered you protection.'' ''He was one of the only people I've seen go up against Dean and live to tell the tale,'' she confirms. ''He locked him away in Arkham. Got him off my back. I owed him.'' It didn't sound as pathetic in her head when it was happening. She supposes that's the way it goes. You trade one manipulative violent bastard for another and you don't even realize it until it's too late. She stares down at her hands, picking away at her cuticles. ''He wasn't always like this,'' she says quietly. ''My Dean. He wasn't always...this.''

''So you've mentioned.''

''He was one of the best people I've ever known,'' she admits. ''Way better than me.''

''Were you in love with him?'' He asks the question cautiously, but she still whips her head up to glare at him.

''You already asked me that.''

He's unmoved by her glaring. ''You never answered.''

She manages to keep her glare going for a minute, but then deflates. ''Does it even matter now?'' It sounds sadder than she intends. She's not sad. She's not. She's done her grieving. She's pissed off now. It didn't have to be this way. None of this had to happen. Even after what happened to Connor and Emma, it didn't have to go this way. Dean made his choices and maybe she did too, but even she didn't go down the same road he did. She's done awful things, she's killed people, and maybe she's just as bad as he is, but he left her. He was all she had and he left her. The coward. He doesn't get to have her sadness and her grief anymore. He didn't earn it.

''No,'' the other Dean says. ''I guess it doesn't.'' He doesn't apologize. Doesn't look at her with pity or sympathy. Just goes back to brewing his coffee. ''What happened to him?'' He asks after a minute or two of silence, as he's pulling down a mug from the cupboard for himself.

''Sometimes people make bad choices,'' she says.

''Hm.'' He gives that some thought, grabbing her mug and bringing it over to her. ''And sometimes they wind up neck deep in shit they can't get out of.''

She pauses reaching for her cup, hand frozen halfway there, but manages to recover quickly. She grabs her mug, leisurely sipping at her tea.

''Cas said Oliver told him Dean 2.0 had black eyes,'' he says.

''Did he now?''

''Only one thing I know of that has black eyes and can shake off a shotgun blast to the chest.''

Her grip on the mug tightens. ''Whatever it is you think you know - ''

''Why didn't you tell me your Dean was a demon?''

As calmly as possible, she sets her tea down again. ''You never asked.'' It's not a lie. It's just not the complete truth either. He never asked, but she never told. She never planned on it. Not ever. You can call that mercy if you want, but it was just cowardice. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't even want to think about it. The one good thing about this screwed up world is that Dean is just Dean here. She doesn't have to worry about him trying to kill her.

''I've been a hunter for a long time,'' he says. ''I know demons.''

She laughs in his face. ''You don't know this one.''

He arrogantly ignores the warning. ''If we can trap him and exorcise him - ''

''Dean.''

''Just hear me out,'' he pleads. ''He's possessed, right? If we can get the demon out, we can get the man he was - ''

''He'll never be the man he was,'' she interrupts, voice rising. ''That man is dead.''

''Dinah - ''

''You're not getting it,'' she says, rising to her feet. ''He's not possessed. There is no demon inhabiting his body. He is the demon. His soul has been corrupted. There is no way to - '' She breaks off, annoyed by the lump forming in her throat. ''There is no saving him. I've tried.''

That's the truth.

It's not like she gave up on him. How could she? He was all she had. Even when he was going for her throat, she was trying to save him. Tirelessly, she tried. Until there was nothing left. She never could. He's just not the kind you save anymore, and she's never been the kind who saves. Everything she touches turns to ash. Even with Babs, eventually all she did was drive her away and turn her against her after she got poor Dick killed.

Dean is no different. He was never going to be different. He's lost to her now, the same way everyone else is. That thing walking around with his face and his voice, his hands that used to save lives - It's just a shell. It's not really him.

''You have no idea what he can do,'' she says. ''How powerful he is. He's not some garden variety low level demon.''

''Then what is he?''

She stays quiet. She is very tired. This world is exhausting. Her stab wound itches. She has gone way too long without a cigarette. She remembers the way he cornered her earlier. The way he snuck up behind her in the parking lot of that scummy motel, slapped a hand over her mouth, and whispered ''hey, sugar'' in her ear before he dragged her kicking and screaming through the gravel. He took so much pleasure in her fear. He loves that she's so terrified of him.

That is not who he is. Who he was. The man he used to be never would have dreamed of this kind of sadistic violence. Looking back on it, sure there was darkness lurking beneath the surface. There was a reason he didn't like to talk about his military career. There was a reason he was so dedicated to saving lives. There were things he was trying to make up for. She understood that. They never talked about it, but she understood.

But this. What he is now. Everything he's done. He never would have done any of this. He would be horrified. He would hate what he's become.

It's that thing. That damn thing on his fucking arm. It made a horrific monster out of such a good man.

She looks up at this earth's Dean Winchester, overly protective, volatile, and somewhat erratic, but still good, still untouched by that kind of evil.

''What do you know about the Mark of Cain?''

.

.

.

Benzodiazepines were Laurel's drug of choice.

The alcohol was liquid courage, something she couldn't do without, both the burn and the salve for the burn, but the benzos were a promise. They were a slower fall from grace. If alcohol was a speeding car, the benzos were death in slow motion. They helped her sleep, they pulled her from a panic attack, they numbed her around the edges, enough for her to be able to pretend, and they also destroyed her from the inside out. She almost lost everything because of benzos. Her marriage, her daughter, her career, her family, her life.

Her entire existence revolved around those pills for longer than most people realize. They were both her anchor and her emergency escape route at the same time. She cried the day she came home from the hospital and realized they had officially been scrubbed from her house and her life, and she has missed them every day since.

Most people don't seem to realize this but addiction can, at times, look an awful lot like a love story. You make it one in your head when you're trying to justify the cravings.

She has never said any of that out loud, but... They know. At least some of them do. Her AA sponsor, Renee. Her husband. Her father. They recognize the look. They know that hunger. They've all lived through their own toxic ''love stories.''

Ketamine was never part of her story.

Not even once.

She has put a lot of toxic sludge into her body, but ''Special K'' has never been on her radar before. Benzos and alcohol, definitely. Adderall, absolutely. Cocaine, unfortunately, yes. During the worst of it, she was even willing to go down the opioid route, which she did when she stole her father's Percocet. But never once Ketamine. She's never even been offered Ketamine - and she was offered a lot of things during her law school days.

(Turns out law students really like to get fucked up during their free time.)

It's not the best high she's ever had. She'd put it in the solidly okay category. The initial euphoria and floaty feeling was nice and familiar in a way, but the comedown isn't worth it. She thinks she would rather go through an Adderall comedown, and that was not a good time.

She supposes she could blame the awful lurching, spinning feeling and the nausea that won't go away on her head wound but after assessing her injuries, they all appear to be surprisingly, suspiciously superficial. She's sore, but none of the wounds are that serious. It's like Shiva purposefully bloodied her up in a way that wouldn't cause any lasting damage and mostly served to look bad. She's not wearing her glasses or contacts so maybe she could blame the headache and nausea on that, but that's never happened before. She can't drive or read without her glasses, but she can survive without them. She doesn't usually wind up like this. In addition, she has had two panic attacks since coming out of it, the most recent one hitting minutes after Shiva tossed her in here. That has nothing to do with her injuries and it's not normal, even for her.

She doesn't normally resort to completely unnecessary violence, but the next time she sees those Moretti brothers, she is going to have to break their noses.

The office she's been locked in is dingy and mostly bare, clearly unused. There's nothing but empty drawers. There is a small, grimy looking bathroom in the corner that smells like death and a locked filing cabinet at the back of the room, but that's about it. No computer, no phone, nothing.

The zip tie around her wrists certainly doesn't help, leaving her mobility limited. She digs around for a bit, searching for something sharp to cut it off, but there's nothing here that's going to help her. She attempts to use the reserved pen she's squirreled away in her shirt pocket, but it doesn't work. She could probably bust out of them if she really tried, but she doesn't try that hard. She's too tired.

She spends most of her time trying not to throw up. It's taking a surprising amount of energy.

Maybe, she starts to think, after she's been sitting there for at least an hour, if she had another dose of Ketamine, just a small one, it would take the edge off.

Laurel slumps forward in the chair, staring down at her bound hands.

Oh, fuck.

She closes her eyes and tries to ignore the way her stomach is turning. She has no idea what she's going to do here. She needs an action plan, but it's hard to think of one when all she can think about is, to put it bluntly, getting high. Her head is killing her. That, she will admit, could be from the head butt. She's still peeved about that head butt.

In a way, this is kind of hilarious. She sincerely does not believe Dante Moretti meant to get her high. That's just pointless cruelty. There's no strategy in that. He meant to sedate her and she believes the intention was most likely to keep her sedated, but the guy's so used to dosing Pomeranians that instead of knocking her out and sending her off to dreamland, he just got her high and sent her down the K-hole.

It's not like that's hard to believe.

The Moretti brothers don't exactly seem like brain trusts.

And of course this is something that would happen to her. Of course it is.

She looks up at the door, staring at it like she's trying to will it open. It does not open. Damn it. She fiddles with the collar around her neck. The sonic dampener has been disabled. It's still around her neck, but it's not on. She's not sure how Shiva did it - and she has no idea why - but it made a beeping noise, the light at the back went out, and she feels like she can breathe a little better. It's her ticket out of here. She needs to wait for the right moment to use it.

Except then what? That's where she's stuck. Does she run? She's confident she's a fast runner on a good day, but she's not in tip top shape right now and these people have witchcraft on their side. Does she hide in the maze of shipping containers and wait for them to leave? What about Sin? That child needs help. Her involvement in this, her connection to Shiva, her very existence is still a mystery. Even the amount of danger she's in is a question at this point. She's Shiva's in some way and Lady Shiva is an even bigger question mark.

Her disdain for witches was blinding. She seems to detest her fellow ''colleagues.'' She disabled the collar. So what is she doing here? Where does she fit in? Whose side is she on? What the hell is she doing with that baby girl?

Laurel shakes her head. She can't think straight right now. She can't think. She just wants to help the girl. That's all she wants. She keeps trying to formulate an escape plan, but every scene plays out the same in her muddled brain. She cannot imagine a single scenario where she leaves that girl behind.

Maybe she's wrong. Maybe Lady Shiva's situation is similar to Marlene Moretti's. Maybe she's Sin's mother and she loves her very much, but she's been forced into this mess because of her skillset and they just need some help to get out and then everything will be fine. Maybe Sin doesn't need to be rescued. Only...

She looked into her eyes. She looked into her eyes and she saw her fear and her hunger and her need. How is she supposed to leave here without even trying to help?

She takes a few breaths and works hard not to throw up. She's out of it right now so her perception of time could be off by a mile, but it feels like she's been sitting here, waiting, for at least an hour. She doesn't even know if Sin is still here. Marlene did tell Shiva to get the girl out of here. What then?

She would like some water for her dry throat. Something to clean the dried blood off her face. A warm jacket. Maybe some pants. A Xanax would be really nice.

She leans forward again to hide her face in her hands. Tonight is just not her night.

At home, in the jewelry box where she used to hide her pills, there are sobriety chips. A lot of them, both from AA and NA. Two for each month of sobriety, then for the first year of sobriety, and finally for her second. She got the two year chips a few weeks before she died. Kept them on her keychain. She was proud of each and every one of those chips, but the 30 days sober chips were the ones she was most proud of. Those chips mean the world to her. She doesn't think she has ever worked so hard in her life - and she is a hard worker.

AA and NA are not the answer to every addict's problem. Dean, for instance, didn't get a lot out of it. He went for six months, rarely said a word, got his chips, and then dipped out. Used Mary as an excuse for why he was too busy to go to the meetings. She doesn't even know what he did with the chips. She understands it now, even it worried her back then. Those meetings aren't for everyone.

She needed them, though. It's not a perfect cure, nothing is, and she doesn't love the religious aspect of it, but she liked being able to purge her feelings in a judgment free zone. She enjoyed the community, especially when she successfully managed to avoid being in the same meeting as her dad. She liked being anonymous. The feeling of unconditional support. No one there was afraid for her or of her. No one was angry. No one thought of her as weak or subhuman. They just listened. They understood. That is a precious thing in her life, in any addict's life. That understanding.

Sobriety is not easy. You don't just put down the bottle or the pills or the needle or whatever you're addicted to and walk away from it and that's that. It follows you. It goes with you wherever you go. For the rest of your life, it will walk with you.

People who haven't been through that don't tend to get it. For her, those meetings were full of people who got it.

Dean got sober back when she was pregnant. The initial withdrawal was hell and the first few months were rough, but then Mary was born and it was like the temptation just went away. Like alcohol just ceased to be a threat. He hasn't so much as slipped since. Hasn't even thought about it, as far as she knows. She's incredibly proud of him for that, but sometimes she can't help but feel jealous of him. He makes it look so easy.

It's never been that way for her. She's come a long way, but it's still a struggle. She still has to fight with her body every day. It's exhausting. And now she's going to have to do it all over again. Those chips she keeps hidden away, her trophies, pieces of reassurance, mean nothing now.

She is all the way back at the beginning again.

The sound of fast moving footsteps on the stairs leading up to the office shocks her out of her wallowing and she snaps her head up. A shadow passes by the window and then she hears the sound of a key in the lock.

Laurel scrambles to her feet as the lock clicks and the doorknob turns. She has about ten seconds to figure out what to do here and she's got nothing. The door opens and then she finds herself staring right at...

Henry?

Her shoulders tense and she opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

In the afterlife, whatever it was, that bizarre thing she lived with her figment of her imagination, she spent years with him. She watched him grow from a chunky baby to a lanky boy to an extremely tall, sturdy man. Handsome, so much like his father, with that strong Winchester jaw, that vibrant smile, tall, perhaps even taller than his uncle, and built like a brick shithouse.

In the back of her head, underneath the pangs of hurt, the rage at the witch using his face, she can't help the undercurrent of fear she feels when faced with such a large, imposing body.

She understands that this is just the witch wearing her fake son's body like a Halloween costume, still too cowardly to show her face. She realizes that this is not the little boy who never was. The body language is off and he didn't even exist in the first place, but those are his eyes and his hands and she misses him. She misses him in this primal way that she doesn't like to acknowledge ever. Real or not, she made him, and she loves this imaginary piece of fiction her broken brain created.

The witch, standing in the doorway in Henry's body, duffel bag thrown over his large shoulder, doesn't even pause. She looks out of breath and frantic, looking Laurel up and down, eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of all the blood. She points one of Henry's hands at her and says, firmly, ''For the record, I didn't ask them to drug you.''

Laurel shivers at the sound of that voice, taking a step back.

''All I asked was that they get you here,'' the witch goes on. ''I did not ask them to drug you. I want that known.'' She steps into the office, shutting the door behind her. She looks at Laurel again, critical this time. ''You look like a hit and run victim.'' She moves farther into the room, placing the duffel bag on top of the empty desk. ''You should sit down. You've had a rough night.''

Laurel wants to scoff at that.

The witch doesn't notice the look of derision. She takes a few things out of the duffel bag, methodically placing them on the desk. A first aid kit, a couple bottles of water, a small towel. ''I heard you had a run in with Lady Shiva.'' She takes something out of a pocket on the side and steps closer to Laurel.

Laurel instinctively moves back.

The witch sighs, but stops. ''Relax.'' She holds up a pocketknife. ''I'm going to cut you loose and then we're going to get you cleaned up.'' It's not particularly comforting. The faceless witch who wants to take her soul and use her body as a weapon is towering over her in the body of her son who never existed. Relaxing is not an option. ''Laurel,'' the witch says. ''I'm not going to hurt you. I promise no tricks.''

''Forgive me if I don't believe you,'' Laurel snaps.

The witch smiles at her and it's Henry's goofy grin, Henry's kind eyes - all things he inherited from his father. It is not at all relaxing. It's actually quite alarming. ''Okay,'' she says in his familiar, lighthearted voice, stepping forward and quickly slicing her free of the binds. ''You're forgiven.'' Still smiling, looking unnervingly jovial, she offers Laurel a bottle of water. ''You should hydrate.'' When Laurel makes no attempt to take the offering, the witch gestures to the nearby chair. ''Please.'' There's a cold edge to Henry's eyes that just don't fit. ''Sit.''

Laurel decides that the safest option here would be to just sit down. The witch hands her the water, practically forcing it on her, and smiles again. It's less jovial this time, sharper around the edges and wolfish. She pulls up another chair and seats herself across from Laurel, grabbing the towel and the other water bottle.

Laurel's instinct is to flinch away when the witch leans in with the now wet towel to scrub the blood from Laurel's skin. Her instinct is to fight. She clenches her fists, staying perfectly still.

The witch still notices the tension. ''There's no need to be afraid,'' she says. ''Nothing's going to happen to you.''

Laurel chokes down a bitter laugh.

''Well,'' the witch amends. ''Not now anyway.''

Laurel tries not to look at her too much as the witch washes the blood away with unexpected gentleness. She doesn't move, doesn't try to swat her away. It doesn't seem like the best play here. She's just focused on keeping her eyes off Fake Henry. It's hard to look at that achingly familiar face. She knows it's not him. This is dark and twisted magic. Nothing more. Doesn't make it any easier.

She tries not to think about Henry. She never talks about him. Not even with Dean. He's learned not to ask. The boy wasn't real. The loss never happened. Except it's never that simple. Not when it comes to love. It might not have been real, but she had years with Henry. She raised him all by herself. She knew him better than she knows Mary, maybe even better than she knows Dean. She doesn't want to look at this thing wearing his face, awkward in his body, turning his eyes cruel and his smile razor sharp.

''I think this is where most of the blood is coming from,'' the witch says, gently wiping blood away from the cut on the bridge of Laurel's nose. ''I don't think it's that deep. Just a bleeder.'' She makes a humming noise, curious, tilting Henry's head to the side stiffly, and it's such a bizarrely familiar gesture. It doesn't fit Henry, but Laurel has seen it before somewhere. The witch pulls back, turning away to rifle through the first aid kit and Laurel takes the chance to eye the distance between her and the door. A heavy hand clamps down on her wrist and she nearly jumps out of her skin, jerking her attention back to the witch. ''You'd never make it,'' Henry's voice advises.

She grits her teeth and sits perfectly still, allowing the witch to put a butterfly bandage on the cut. It's incredibly difficult not to flinch away.

''Any dizziness?'' The witch grabs the towel again. ''Nausea?''

''Not from the injuries.''

''You seem tense.''

Laurel says nothing, but she glares.

''Oh god.'' The witch rolls Henry's eyes. ''Lighten up.'' Finished with her attempt at ''caretaking,'' she leans back in her seat. She doesn't say anything for a moment, crossing one leg over the other and staring, unblinking, at Laurel. She fiddles with the handcuffs, twirling them on her finger. She smiles softly and just keeps looking at her, studying her every move. It's strangely feminine body language that doesn't seem to fit the body she's in, but does fit...someone.

It's irksome. It feels like this witch's identity is right there, buried, but Laurel just can't quite get to it.

The witch squints at Laurel, looking thoughtful. ''I don't think you have a concussion,'' she says at last. ''Most of your injuries seem superficial. Lot of blood, little damage.'' She makes that quizzical humming noise again, tapping her borrowed fingers on her borrowed thigh. ''Interesting how that works.'' She zeroes in on the collar around Laurel's neck.

Laurel works hard not to tense up, hoping against hope that she doesn't notice anything off about it. ''That woman,'' she says, grasping at straws for something to use as a distraction. ''Who was she?''

It works. The witch takes her eyes off the collar. ''Lady Shiva,'' she says. ''Sandra, actually. Lady Shiva's just a title. She's...a long story. She's a mercenary of sorts, I guess you could say. We've known each other for awhile.'' Her voice lowers when she says that and her gaze flickers down, away from Laurel. Hm. ''She's a martial arts expert. One of the best in the world.'' She looks up again, the slightest hint of a grin on her face. ''She's my muscle.''

''You didn't take her soul.''

''No,'' the witch confirms. ''We have another arrangement.'' For a second, something almost like guilt skitters over Henry's face. ''She knows what's best. I apologize for her behavior, by the way. She has a certain way of doing things. Sometimes we disagree on the best way to handle things.''

''I don't know. You two seem awfully similar to me.'' Laurel squares her shoulders. Looks right into Not!Henry's eyes. ''Violent, ruthless, self-serving.'' Her gaze hardens. ''Insane.''

The witch smiles and Henry's eyes soften. His eyes crinkle. He always looked the most like his dad when he smiled. ''Insane, huh? Bit like the pot calling the kettle black,'' the witch says mildly, not disgruntled in the least. ''Don't you think?''

Laurel opts not to react to that. She settles back in her chair, screws the top off the bottle of water, and takes a few sips. She doesn't know why the witch isn't doing anything. She has no idea what the point of this chat is. She doesn't know why she still has her soul or what they're waiting for, but she's going to use this extra time the best she can. ''She has a child.''

''Not technically her child,'' says the witch. ''She's only had her for a few months. Another long story.''

''What does the girl have to do with this?''

''If I say nothing, will you believe me?'' The witch looks at Laurel, expression completely even. She stares for a second, searching, and then she lifts a single shoulder in a careless shrug. ''I have nothing to do with Sin. She was being groomed to be the next Lady Shiva, but Sandra disagreed with the way she was being treated. Not my circus, not my monkeys.''

''She's just a little girl. You think she should be involved in - ''

''No, I don't,'' the witch cuts in, voice tight. ''I've spoken to Sandra, but like I said, it's not my business. I get you think I'm some mustache twirling villain, but I don't hurt kids.''

Laurel actually laughs out loud at that. ''Right,'' she says. ''Except the Moretti kids.''

The witch stiffens for a second, but ultimately waves it off. ''Different circumstances. They were fully aware of the choices they were making. Besides, they're both legal adults. Do they even count as kids?'' She stands up and Laurel startles momentarily at the height difference. It's easy to forget how tall Henry is. Was.

Wasn't.

She shakes her head and looks away, closing her eyes, releasing a slow, shaky breath.

''It's just an illusion, if you're wondering.''

Laurel looks back at the witch, but she's not looking at her, standing in the middle of the room, hands on hips, looking at the tiny gross bathroom with a repulsed look. ''I look like me,'' she goes on. ''You're just seeing what I want you to see. I spent years developing this spell.'' She looks back at Laurel and grins. ''Neat, huh?''

''A real laugh riot,'' Laurel deadpans. ''Congrats on being an asshole just for the hell of it. Says a lot about you.''

The witch chuckles. ''I'll own that. But, hey, now that you've brought it up.'' She looks down at the body she's in. ''Who the hell is this?''

Laurel blinks in surprise. ''You don't...know? How did you know to use him to get me out of the yard?''

''I've been in your head,'' the witch says simply. ''And this looker has a block around him. He's the only one. It's fascinating. Even I can't quite get to him. It means you're trying to forget him.'' There's a twinkle in her stolen eyes when she says that, like she's waiting for some juicy gossip. ''I'm curious as to why that is. I know, I know,'' she holds her hands up. ''It's none of my business, but - sue me, I'm nosy.'' Another cheeky grin. ''I get that from my mother.''

Laurel would prefer not to talk about this. She doesn't even like to talk about Henry with her husband. This witch is the last person she wants to talk to. But she needs to keep her talking. She takes another drink of water. ''He doesn't exist,'' she admits quietly. ''He never did. I've been trying to let him go. I figure it's not healthy for me to keep hanging onto him.''

''Oh, an imaginary friend?'' The witch looks mildly amused by that but also appears distracted, peeking through the venetian blinds. ''We've all been there,'' she muses. She steps back, a look of vague impatience crossing her face before she turns back to Laurel with another sharp edged smile. ''Let me guess. Dream lover?'' A nasty smirk poisons the softness of Henry's face. ''Winchester not cutting it in the sack anymore?'' She looks puzzlingly delighted at that notion. ''You had to make up some fantasy hunk in your head just to get off?'' She laughs at the disgust on Laurel's face, waving it off entirely. ''Don't feel bad. There's no shame in it. Plenty of married women get tired of the same old - ''

''You need to stop talking,'' Laurel warns. She stands up, slowly so it doesn't look like an attack, and then turns her back on the witch, placing the water on the desk.

The witch does not seem to have an issue with Laurel moving around freely. She does apparently have an issue with Laurel's lack of humor. ''Anyone ever tell you that you're a huge stick in the mud?''

A wry smile plays across Laurel's lips. Yes, actually. Oliver used to tell her that all the time. It was one of his favourite excuses.

The witch behind her is quiet for a second and then huffs. ''Fine. Be that way,'' a different but still familiar voice says. ''How about this? Is this better?''

Laurel whirls around. She does her best to not react too much to the sight of her sister's face. There is a split second, just one tiny second, where she looks at Sara's face and thinks, completely unfairly, What if...? But, no, that makes no sense. Sara would never. Those aren't even Sara's eyes. It is her. A near perfect image of a younger Sara, the one from before the League, before the boat, with her misguided bangs that don't fit her face and her pretty white dress that doesn't quite fit her personality. But those aren't her eyes and the expression is all wrong. It almost fits, that odd, sad sort of fondness, but it's not Sara. ''How...How would that be better?''

''Fucking - '' the witch breaks off in a long suffering sigh, throwing her hands up in exasperation. ''What's it take?'' She turns away, propping a hand up on her hip and grumbling under her breath. ''Who do you want me to be?''

''How about you show me your real face?''

''Someday,'' the witch says, after a moment. ''Maybe.''

Laurel frowns. ''Why are you so scared to show me who you really are?''

The witch turns back to her and lets out another laugh, brittle this time. ''It's not fear. It's...'' She pauses. ''It would be a distraction.''

''A distraction,'' Laurel parrots. ''Why? Because we know each other?''

The witch winces. She looks pale in the overhead lighting. It's the first bit of real humanity she's shown. It was easier to hide in Henry. He was blinding, hard to look at, larger than life despite not being alive at all. Sara, so young, nearly childlike in her innocence, shows the cracks. There are far more of them than Laurel anticipated. ''I didn't say that.''

''Come on,'' Laurel says. ''Let's not pretend. I know you. I don't know how, but I know I'm not some stranger you picked at random.''

''No,'' the witch allows. ''You're not. But it's been a long time. We don't know each other at all anymore.''

Laurel isn't quite sure why that stings so much. She looks around the small office space. She looks at the stained carpet, the gruesome bathroom, the horrible lighting. What's a better place to die? Here or a prison? ''Are you going to kill me?''

The other woman looks alarmed by the question. ''What?''

Laurel shrugs her shoulders. Seems like a simple question. Is that not where this is heading? Is that not the point? ''You need me without a soul,'' she reminds her. ''Way I see it, you've got two options to get there. You can use your pet soul eater, just like you do for your Dolls, but the problem with that is the bodies tend to deteriorate, right?'' She doesn't wait for an answer. ''So if you want me for an extended period of time...'' She trails off. She does not, truth be told, want to voice it. ''Your best bet would be to kill me and start all over again. Go with your original plan.'' She looks at the witch, meets her eyes, and, feeling bold, takes a step toward her. ''But you haven't,'' she states. ''You could have killed me at any time. I was an easy target. Instead, you've waited all this time. Why?''

It would have been easier. She's thought about that off and on since she's been back. She has not lived much of a life in the month she's been back. Her time has been spent house bound, bed bound, sick, and scared. She is grateful for every second, but if death is inevitable, if this witch is inevitable, it's hard not to think that maybe it would have been easier if they had just plucked her from the graveyard that night. It would have been easy for them to do. She was so out of it and lost that she would have gone with anyone. At least then it would have hurt less. At least her poor family would have avoided the heartbreak of losing her for a second time.

''Maybe I didn't want to kill you,'' the witch says softly. ''I know you won't believe me when I say this, but I'm not enjoying this. I don't want to hurt you. I never did.''

Well, that's a load of bullshit.

''You called me a drain,'' Laurel says. ''You preyed on my depression to get to me. You blamed me for my own murder. Said I was asking for it. What kind of person does that? And now - Now what? You want to play at gentleness? Tell me you're sorry? You didn't mean it?'' She regards the other woman coolly. ''Sorry. Not buying it.''

The witch takes the condemnation in striding, nodding slowly. She's not as scary in this skin. ''You were frustrating me.''

''Oh, that's your excuse?'' A scoff. ''You called me a burden to my family.''

''Because you are a burden,'' the witch says, voice hardening. ''Sorry, Princess, but that's a fact. You think that's - '' She breaks off, shaking her head. ''That's our plight, Laurel. Women like us... We don't get the happy ending.''

''Women like us,'' Laurel echoes. ''What's that supposed to mean?''

''It means you and I are the same.''

''I am nothing like you.''

The corner of the other woman's lips pull up. ''No. No, of course not. You could never be like me. You're the saint. You're the savior. Silly me. I forgot you were holy.'' She moves fluidly, slinking back over to her vacant chair and sinking down into it again. ''There are no good choices here, Laurel.'' She smiles sadly. ''We do what we have to.''

A lump forms in Laurel's throat that she can't choke down. ''You don't have to do this,'' she tries. ''You don't have to do any of this.''

''If it's any consolation,'' the witch says. ''I wish I didn't have to. I wish you could be free.'' She doesn't sound like she's lying. That might be the worst part. ''When all of this is over, I hope your soul will finally be at peace. You deserve that much.''

Laurel's eyes sting with tears and, for some godforsaken reason, she just wants to laugh. It's just so absurd that this is happening. She fought so hard to want to live, to just not want to die, and yet the only peace the world has allotted for her is death.

She looks at the witch again. She tries, again, to find something to latch onto. A thread to pull. Something in the witch's eyes that can tell her who's hiding behind that mask. There's nothing. In another life, she may have known this person, but not anymore. There is nothing for her to know in this hollowed out shell. This power hungry witch who destroys everything in her path without remorse. Who in her life could have turned into this?

''Everything was going according to plan, you know,'' the witch says. ''Everything was going so perfectly right up until Halloween. Right up until that little witch ruined everything.'' She scowls darkly. ''When you think about it, Hanna Moretti is really the one who should be getting the blame here. I didn't want you to suffer. I wanted to make everything from here on out as painless as possible. She ruined that. Shame on her.'' She shakes her head. Clicks her tongue in displeasure. ''She'll burn for that.''

''What...'' Laurel has to clear her throat. ''What do you mean everything was going perfectly? I thought - ''

''What? You thought that night was the beginning?'' The witch, believe it or not, looks surprised by that. ''No, sweetie. Things have been in motion for longer than that. I've had my eye on you for years.''

''...Years?''

''Pretty bird - ''

''Don't call me that.''

''It was always going to be you.'' The witch rises to her feet again, inching toward Laurel like a predator approaching its prey. ''It had to be you,'' she says seriously. ''You were the only one. You're my second chance. I wasn't about to waste that. I did what I had to do.''

''What you...'' Something about that turns Laurels stomach. ''What does that mean?'' She takes a few steps back, trying to distance herself from the approaching wildfire. ''What did you do?''

The witch looks, for a second, hesitant to answer that. She looks pitying. She stops moving, clasping her hands in front of her. There is something infuriatingly condescending about all of it. ''Who do you think convinced Damien Darhk that the Lance family was the perfect way to infiltrate this city and Green Arrow's inner circle?'' She says it so plainly. Her eyes sparkle when she says it. She looks so proud of herself. ''Who do you think told him Quentin Lance was the way in? Who do you think told him you would be the easiest to kill? You were always going to be the one, kiddo. You were always going to be the lesson.''

Laurel doesn't have any response to that. Her body feels heavy and weak and she wants to gag, bile rising in her throat, dread squeezing at her insides. It makes sense when she thinks about it. Darhk knew from the beginning who he was going to use to wound them all. He played with Felicity's life, with William's, but they were just distractions. She was always going to die. There was never any other plan. He chose her the moment he stepped foot in this city. He needed her father and Green Arrow to fall in line, to hurt. Of course he was going to go after the Black Canary. It was a good move. He clearly didn't foresee that the stay at home husband he wrote off as a minor complication would make him pay in blood, but she was the best person to go after if he wanted to splinter Oliver and her father.

Everyone was so wrapped up in their grief that nobody stopped to question how he knew Black Canary was the answer.

It makes sense that someone was feeding him information. Someone had to point her out to him. Let him know that not only was she the best way to hurt Oliver and control her father, but she was the easiest target. The outsider, the weakest fighter, existed only in halves, not truly part of the team. She was so easy to throw away with minimal effort on his part and maximum hurt. He killed her so lazily, so easily, like he had been planning it out for months and that was because he had.

Because of her. Because of this fucking witch.

None of it was random. It wasn't bad luck. She wasn't asking for it. It was planned.

''You think he figured that out on his own?'' The witch laughs and laughs like it's all one big joke. ''You think that piece of shit knew all the best moves to play without some help? No. That was me.''

''You...''

''You walked the path I made for you,'' the witch says. ''So that you and I could end up here. Like we were meant to.''

''No, no - ''

''I'm sorry.'' Abruptly, unbelievably, the witch switches from smug back to apologetic and regretful, cloyingly sweet and phony. ''I'm sorry.'' She crosses the room, grabbing onto Laurel, bringing Sara's hands up to her face. ''Little sassafras, I'm so sorry. Please believe me when I say that. I didn't want to do it. It was heavy handed, I know, but - ''

''You - '' Laurel swats her away with trembling hands, staggering back. ''You set me up to die!''

''I needed a surefire way to trigger your inheritance,'' the witch practically pleads. She looks desperate for Laurel to understand. It's hard to tell whether or not it's fake. ''You had been through so much and you were still so damn resilient. I had to trigger it. Don't you get that? I had to. I need that cry.''

When she reaches out again, Laurel ducks away from her, pointing a shaky finger at her. ''You stay away from me.''

The witch looks hurt by the rejection. ''I brought you back. I was always going to bring you back.''

''You were going to bring me back without a soul!'' She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''You have no idea what you did to me.''

''I've been in your head,'' is the response. ''I know exactly what I did to you.'' The witch gives her the fakest look of sympathy. ''I'm sorry about your baby.''

''You,'' Laurel nearly growls, ''do not get to talk about that.''

''I understand your anger. I do. I know what it's like to be violated. I am sorry for what you went through, and I'm sorry for your loss, but this was the only way. I want you to understand. Don't you understand?'' The witch takes a step. ''If you live in a world where monsters can swallow you whole, you have to make damn sure they'll choke on you. That's all I'm trying to do. I want to make sure they choke on me. They - '' There is a dark, hunted look in her haunted eyes. ''They're always hungry. You have no idea.''

She sounds unhinged.

That shouldn't be news. Everything she has done so far has quite clearly been the work of someone unstable and unwell. This is different. In every previous meeting they've had, this witch has been smooth and controlled. Until now.

Laurel feels like she is in a room with a ticking time bomb.

''I'm sorry you had to get caught in the middle of this,'' the witch says. ''I am. I wish you could just live your life. But it's you. You're it. You're my only shot.''

Laurel has no idea what that means, but she's itching to get as far away from here as possible. ''Your only shot at what?''

No answer. The witch goes back to the window. She peeks out the blinds again, murmuring something under her breath. Laurel attempts to pull herself together, but she feels electrified with rage and fear. She can feel the scream rising in her throat, but she stubbornly shoves it back down. If she uses the cry right now, she'll alert the Moretti brothers and Marlene. She'd rather go for stealth here. There's no way she could take on Marlene. Even the Canary Cry is no match for witchcraft.

''I waited for as long as I could,'' the witch tells her. In Sara's voice, the regret and sadness is hard to take. She turns back around, leveling Laurel with her baby sister's puppy dog eyes. ''I did. I gave you time. I let you live. And you lived. I watched you. I saw it happen. You built yourself a world. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you.'' She smiles and it almost looks real. She takes a few slow, measured steps toward Laurel. ''You fell in love, you had a daughter, you loved, and you helped people. No matter what. Right until the end. You were happy. I gave you that.''

''Screw you,'' Laurel fires back. ''You didn't give me anything. My life is mine. I did that. I built that. You think letting me live means I owe you?''

The witch tightens her lips in frustration. ''Everything you have,'' she says, eyes narrowing, ''you have because of me.'' She spits it out as if Laurel is acting like an ungrateful, insolent child. ''Your daughter, your husband, Black Canary. You had a chance to live a real life.'' Her eyes darken. ''You should be grateful. Not everyone gets that chance.'' She says it so bitterly. ''You have a legacy that no one will ever forget now. You're a fucking icon. Did you know that?''

Oh, Jesus.

Not this crap again.

''I'm not an icon.''

''This city thinks you are.''

''They're wrong.''

The witch screws up Sara's face. ''That's not the point,'' she insists. ''This world is a wretched, dying, miserable place, and it will only ever get worse. They need a hero like a dying man in the desert needs water. They need a name and a face and an empty place where they can put their fear.'' She shrugs. ''You fit the bill. You are that empty place. You're a shelter. The first one to be unmasked. That means something. They can google you and look at your Instagram and read all those bullshit flowery articles about you and think to themselves, we're safe as long as there are people like her willing to die for us. And, yeah, it certainly helps that you're a soft looking white woman. Palatable even to the Fox News crowd.''

''Actually,'' Laurel refutes. ''I have it on good authority that Fox News hates me.''

The witch laughs. It's a genuinely amused laugh, and she does this thing where she looks away, bashful, and then back, with a coy look in her eyes. It's so familiar. There's something about her tonight, something about her posture, her laugh, even the way she talks that ignites some long forgotten memory in the back of Laurel's mind. The witch takes another step, smiling at Laurel, voice low. ''You're a god, Canary.''

It's not as complimentary as it sounds. It's actually really, really terrifying. ''I'm - I'm not a god.''

''Of course you're not,'' the witch agrees easily. ''No one is. You think that matters? You can't choose what people make you. This is what they've chosen to make you. The light at the end of the tunnel. A symbol of hope and justice. Loved.'' She smiles, shaky around the edges, and there's something about it... There's something about her smile and her eyes that suddenly feels like home.

When the witch moves forward, inching her way into Laurel's space, Laurel can't bring herself to move away.

''I could have done this years ago. You never would've gotten the chance to have any of this. But I didn't.'' She brings Sara's cool hand up to Laurel's face gently. ''I didn't. I wanted you to have this. I wanted you to have the time I never had. And look what you've done with it.'' She moves her hands to grasp Laurel's, squeezing tightly. ''They'll never forget you now. Isn't that enough? Can't you rest now?''

Laurel closes her eyes. She's finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden. It has nothing to do with what the witch is saying, that gentle, terrible manipulation. It's because it's... It's that laugh. The cadence of her voice. The way she chooses her words. The way she moves. It's all so familiar in this fragile, delicate grief stricken way and she so badly wishes it wasn't. She opens her eyes and looks at the witch wearing Sara's face. ''Can I ask you a question?'' Her voice is quiet and raspy. ''Who's Siobhan?''

It catches the witch so off guard that the image of Sara blurs for a second. She lets go of Laurel's hands and takes a step back. ''Excuse me?''

''That - '' Laurel wants, more than anything, to be wrong about this. ''That's the name you gave the Moretti family when you roped them into this. Was there a reason you picked that name?''

The witch backs away from her. ''It's just a name.''

It's not. It's not just a name. It's a memorial. ''I had a dream,'' Laurel whispers. ''Earlier tonight. I was having all these flashes. They were like memories. Only they weren't my memories.''

The witch looks shaken by that. The illusion of Sara flickers for a second, blonde hair darkening, face changing shape, blurring in front of Laurel's eyes. ''You're lying.''

''Why would I lie about that?''

''That's not...'' The witch shakes her head. ''That's not possible...''

''A connection goes two ways,'' Laurel says. She bites her lip. She's not sure how to proceed. She's not even sure she wants to. ''Have you ever been in a car accident?''

The witch looks spooked, trapped by the question. She tries to distance herself from Laurel, stomping over to the back of the office to check out the back window for whatever or whoever it is she's waiting for. She looks taller now. Taller than Sara is.

Laurel can't stand to look at her for too long. She keeps her eyes on the front door and doesn't dare turn around. There is this increasing pressure on her chest, this unforgiving weight resting on her shoulders because she knows now. She knows who this is. She wishes she didn't. She'd rather look at the masks. ''My cousin was in a car accident when she was fifteen,'' she says shakily. It's a pointless thing to point out. The witch already knows. ''It's what triggered her scream. Her best friend died in the crash. I never knew her. I know my family mentioned her name, but it was a long time ago and I was just a kid. I remember now. Her name was - ''

''Siobhan Sweeney.''

That isn't Sara's voice.

It's a whisper from behind her, jagged and rough and hurt.

Laurel's heart clenches. She doesn't want to turn around. She doesn't want to see, but she has to. She needs to know once and for all. To see her with her own eyes. Slowly, holding her breath, she turns around.

Her cousin was a beautiful girl, with dark hair and pale skin. She took after her father in looks for the most part. Except for those eyes. Those Ellard eyes. You could always tell she was an Ellard from those piercing green eyes, so much like her mother's, like Laurel's. She was all poise and grace when they were younger, effortless elegance and confidence just seemed to ooze from her pores.

As it turns out, despite what everyone else thinks, despite the gravestone bearing her name in that Tacoma cemetery, she still is. Same sleek dark hair tumbling down her shoulders in waves, same poise and elegance, same piercing eyes. She's still just as gorgeous as Laurel remembers. Just as intimidatingly self-assured and put together.

The only difference is the grisly looking scar marring her skin, stretching across her throat and up her left cheek, all the way to her discolored eye. That, and the darkness swimming in her eyes, practically surrounding her.

It's enough to make her unrecognizable as the joyful fifteen year old ballerina Laurel once knew.

''Oh, Edie,'' she murmurs sadly. ''What have you done?''

.

.

.

end part eleven

---

AN: I want to make it clear that Dinah's Connor is NOT a whitewashed Connor Hawke but more like Connor Lance-Queen from Injustice. There is actually still a chance the real Connor Hawke could make an appearance later on.

Title taken from the poem of the same name by Anne Sexton.