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.

14. A Common Wound

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: This is the part of the story where things are going to get a bit more action oriented so consider this a blanket warning for violence (largely show typical violence, some of it might be a bit bloodier) in this and several future chapters. This chapter also deals with a character having a panic attack toward the end.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Fourteen

A Common Wound

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November, 2016

That night, in the hospital, in between tears and frightened visitors, Laurel asked him a question.

Do you think it will hurt?

He assumed she was talking about her recovery, about how much pain she would be in once the drugs wore off and she refused another dose. He assumed this because she was, at the time, alive. There was no reason to suspect she was going to be anything but come morning. The doctor had told him she was strong, that she appeared to be out of the woods, and so he allowed himself to assume that they had, once again, cheated death. He assumed, when she had asked him this question, that she was simply asking how hard it was going to be for her to, for the millionth time, get better.

You know what they say about assuming.

He understands now. He hadn't then. He hadn't wanted to.

It makes sense when he thinks about it now. Some people, especially people who die slow, can sense it. They can feel the spreading cold, taste it on their tongue, hear the call of the void. It's not an unusual phenomenon. Bodies are curious and unusual things.

Panic attacks often mimic that feeling. That specific feeling of dread, that sense of impending doom, that switch inside of you that you only get to flip once, those internal alarm bells that tell you something is wrong, that awful, constricting feeling of, I don't want to die.

But panic attacks lie.

That night, while she was heavily drugged, before she plastered on that eerie mask of calmness for her friends, when it was just them, he mistook her question, her discomfort, for just another panic attack. Just another lie. She had been through severe trauma and she was devastated about the miscarriage so he thought it had all triggered a panic attack.

That's not what it was.

He has thought a lot about that night in the months since it happened. A part of him is still there, in that hospital room, trying to decode everything that happened, solve the mystery. Find what he missed the first time around. He's been trying in vain to figure out what was real: her calmness or her fear. Was she calm? Ready and waiting? Or was she afraid? He doesn't know. He was right there when it happened, he was looking at her, listening to her, and he still doesn't know.

Maybe he wasn't supposed to. Maybe she didn't even know. Maybe it's not something anyone can ever know. His brain still feels like it was somehow a failure on his part. He keeps thinking of all the things he could have done, all the things he could have said, all the comfort he could have given her in those final moments.

He could have said, No, it won't hurt, it will be quick and painless, like going to sleep, please don't be scared.

He could have said, I'll be right here with you every step of the way, I'll hold your hand, you won't be alone.

He could have said, I love you, I'm sorry, I'm scared too.

He didn't say any of that. Instead, feeling jumbled and somehow both foolishly confident and overwhelmingly terrified at the same time, he said, Probably, but we'll deal. You've been through worse, sweetheart, don't worry so much.

Laurel was right when she said they had to leave that room. She was right when she said they couldn't stay there forever. It's been nearly eight months. He should stop thinking about it. He needs to stop thinking about it. Stop blaming himself for something that was in no way his fault. There was no way he could have known she was going to die. He did the best he could. He was there with her, he held her and promised her he wasn't going to leave and reassured her everything was going to be okay, but he didn't fix it. He couldn't fix it. He couldn't protect her just like he couldn't protect Mary, couldn't keep her safe in her own home. He just keeps thinking the same thing over and over. That's always been his problem. That's the glitch in the machine. His biggest weakness.

For a long, long time, his world could be condensed into one order, one objective, one job, one sentence that changed his entire life, shaped him as a person, and created his future in one single second:

Take your brother outside as fast as you can, and don't look back.

But that's just it.

He did look back.

He's always looking back.

He can never just let things go. He has to hang on. He has to dissect them. He has to take them apart until he can find something, some tiny little thing, that will allow him to blame himself, to carry the weight so no one else has to. It's his ridiculous, unhealthy bad habit. He's Atlas. He takes the weight, the world, onto his shoulder so no one else has to. He leaves pieces of himself behind in all the corners he's been in, all the puzzles he could never solve - Kansas with his mother, Missouri with his father, Cold Oak with Sam, Carthage with Ellen and Jo, New Jersey with Bobby, the ruins of CNRI with Tommy, that Star City hospital room with Laurel. He holds onto so much, stubbornly refusing to let it go, that he winds up with insomnia, nightmares, and hallucinations; screaming at his dead wife at five thirty in the morning, begging her to tell him if she wanted to die.

Before marriage and Mary and retirement, he used to work things out by drinking and hunting. Found solace in the bloodshed, understanding at the bottom of a bottle, and covered it all up with false bravado. He doesn't have those things anymore. He is a different person now. Sometimes he forgets that; how much he's changed since becoming a husband and father, how Mary has totally reshaped who he is as a person. He doesn't have any real outlet these days. Maybe that's why it's been so hard to stop grieving. Stop thinking about what happened in April. Let Laurel back in all the way. Be as they were before.

Taking a step back into his old life, picking up the gun again, chasing the violence and the bloodshed, should help him. Give him a place to put all that rage. In theory, this is who he used to be. This is what he's good at. Strategizing, coming up with some batshit action hero plan, hunting things, saving people, the family business. It should make him feel better. Cleanse his system.

Right?

Except here he is, once again stalking through a condemned building, hunting a witch, things he's good at, things he knows, and he does not feel cleansed. He does not feel at home.

He mostly feels annoyed, guilty that he's not at home with his daughter and that he won't be able to take her to school this morning, and kind of jittery.

He has been retired for over four years, he's about to ambush a powerful witch - who may or may not be his wife's dead cousin who his father supposedly killed sixteen years ago - and his only backup is a team of people he doesn't trust, his wife's shady doppelganger, and Teenage Dream over there. Sam's either across the country or in the air, Cas is at home with Mary, Laurel's been kidnapped, Charlie's in Kansas. He's about to go into a firefight in fucking No Man's Land with no limbs.

Fuck his life.

Dean keeps his gun drawn as he pushes open the bathroom door in the last empty apartment. Nothing. He pulls the shower curtain back just in case, but sees nothing but some suspicious stains and an old mousetrap. He steps over to the window, peeling back the grimy curtain to peer out into the alley. The sky is slowly lightening, but it doesn't look like they're in for much of a sunrise with those clouds. Looks like they've got another gray Pacific Northwest November day ahead of them.

Sunrise is around 7:30 in the morning these days. Laurel was taken shortly after midnight. She's been gone for over seven hours. A lot of things can happen in seven hours.

He wants to believe Hanna when she says that Laurel will likely be fine as long as they don't have the chance to move her out of the city, but more importantly he wants to trust Laurel. She's the Black Canary. She's smart, she's well trained, and she's stubborn. She can handle herself. He is not infallible, is the thing. He'll always believe in her, more than anyone, but much like the rest of her family, he still sometimes makes the mistake of thinking of her as...frail. Weak, even. Something easily torn and broken. Someone to be protected. There are many reasons for this line of thinking, but none of them matter.

Laurel has big, wide, trusting eyes that are easy to read. She cries easily. She is all skinny legs and dainty wrists and delicate fingers. When she bottomed out, went to that dark place all addicts eventually go to, she lost so much weight that she was just skin and bones. He remembers walking in on her when she was getting out of the shower a few days after Christmas and he could see her ribcage and he's never been able to get that image out of his head. He doesn't remember why it startled him so much, it couldn't have been the first time he noticed how unhealthy she was getting, how her sharp features were quickly becoming far more than sharp. Perhaps it was how flustered she was when he walked in on her, rushing to cover herself before he saw too much of what she had done to herself. How ashamed she looked when he, her husband, saw her naked. Whatever it was, it scared him to see it and then, stupidly, he allowed his fear to turn into anger and all he got out was a harsh, ''What the fuck are you doing, Laurel'' and when she flinched, he turned and walked away from her, slamming the door behind him.

Laurel has panic attacks and depressive episodes that leave her in bed for days at a time. She tried to commit suicide two years ago and he still remembers finding her collapsed on the bedroom floor. Yes, sometimes he sees that as a frailty. She is so openly vulnerable, completely unafraid to be raw, to show the world her wounds. It scares people. That naked vulnerability and unapologetic openness. Maybe it's that. Maybe that's why he worries so much, why he constantly feels the need to protect her. He doesn't want the world to change her or break her.

Or maybe it's deeply rooted sexism.

Either way it doesn't matter. These are excuses. It's a flawed thought process. These things are not a sign of weakness or fragility. It's just being human. Laurel Lance is the most unapologetically human person he has ever met. And humans are not weak. They will tear you down.

Right now, she just needs to keep herself alive and intact long enough for him to find her. She can do that. He should trust that she can do that. That she can survive without him.

He lets the curtain fall back, turning away from the window. ''Apartments are clear.''

''Copy that,'' Felicity Smoak says in his ear, excessively peppy for this ungodly hour.

She probably has coffee down at her underground lair.

Probably warmer there too.

Less rats.

He's not at all enthused about the tech bug that he let Thea talk him into wearing. It's going to throw his concentration off with a bunch of yappy folks talking over each other in his ear. He has no coffee where he is. Far too many rats. It's fucking chilly.

Listen. He has become accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle over the past six years.

''You clear the warehouses yet, Spartan?'' Felicity asks.

''They're clear,'' John responds, instantly. ''It's a ghost town here. I'm heading back. Anyone got eyes on them yet?''

''Not yet,'' Thea's voice says.

''There's a black Escalade at the entrance to the docks, but no one's in it,'' Oliver says. ''There's no other movement I can see.''

Dean tries to tune them out, exiting the bathroom and giving the one bedroom apartment one last look over before he heads back out into the dark hallway.

''All I am saying,'' Hanna's voice echoes up the stairs, irritated and a little wheezy, ''is that you shouldn't be smoking around an asthmatic. It's disrespectful.''

''My whole life, no one's ever accused me of being respectful,'' Dinah snaps back, undoubtedly sneering. ''Watch your fucking step.'' He turns, watching as Dinah leads Hanna up the stairs, one hand on her back, practically pushing her along, nearly pushing her into the hole that has rotted right through the wooden staircase. ''Besides,'' she adds on, muffled by the unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. ''If I were you, I'd be more worried about the mold. Place is crawling with it.''

''That's true,'' Dean nods at Hanna. ''Lots of mold.'' As soon as they approach, he leans in closer and snatches the cigarette out of Dinah's mouth. ''So we're not adding to it. The last thing we need is Lizzie McGuire over here dropping dead from an asthma attack in the middle of this.'' He flicks the cigarette away, ignoring Dinah's scowl, and looks back to Hanna.

She's glaring at him, hands on her hips. ''That's littering.''

He stares at her for a second, and then turns and walks away from her, muttering under his breath about ungrateful children. Having her around is making him dread Mary's teenage years.

Hanna follows after him, hurrying to keep up with him. ''Do you honestly believe teaming up with the Star City Vigilantes is a good idea?''

''You know my wife is one of those vigilantes,'' he reminds her mildly. ''Right?''

She rolls her eyes. ''Obviously.''

He looks back behind him toward Dinah. She's just popping another cigarette into her mouth from the pack she stole from the gas station they briefly stopped at, only this time she's got a lighter and - wait. Dean stops what he's doing, patting down his pockets for his lighter. ...Yep, she picked his pocket. He looks down at her and she turns, catching his eye with a proud smirk.

She's good, he'll give her that. It's rare someone can pick his pocket. Last person who got away with that was Bela Talbot.

''But you have to admit they're not the most competent bunch,'' Hanna goes on, allowing him to steer her over to where fresh, clean air is coming in through the broken window. ''I mean, what even are they? They're not quite hunters, even though they seem to think they have the right to be people's judge and jury, but they're not, like, regular people either. They're just a bunch of dramatic weirdos who managed to find each other and con themselves into thinking they're doing some good, but, like, are they really?'' She crosses her arms. She is, turns out, a major rambler when she's nervous. ''Have they stopped much? Because I know they've caused a lot of crap, but what have they stopped? All they do is get each other - and a bunch of other people - killed with the yearly terrorist attacks. They got Laurel killed. Can we trust them to save her?''

Wow, okay.

It's not like she doesn't have a fair point in there, but wow.

Harsh.

''Yeeeah,'' he says slowly, drawing out the word. ''Just so you know, they made me wear one of their fancy little earpieces and you didn't bother to keep your volume down there, so...'' He pulls his earpiece out and shows it to her. ''Say hi to everyone you just insulted.''

Hanna's mouth opens, forming a little 'o' shape in shock, and her face flushes red.

He puts the earpiece back in with minimal grumbling, just in time to hear Felicity ask, in a small voice, ''We're not totally awful, are we?'' No one answers her. ''I don't think we're awful.''

He honestly feels bad for them.

''We're not awful,'' says John.

Thea says, helpfully, ''Meh.''

''We've stopped a lot,'' Felicity says. ''This whole city could have died from the superflu and...stuff. We've sent a lot of drug dealers to jail. I mean, Vertigo? Remember Vertigo? And Slade Wilson! Granted, he killed... Um. Anyway, we've done a lot of good!''

''We've done a lot of good,'' John agrees.

''50/50,'' Thea says. ''Maybe 60/40.''

Felicity asks, slowly, ''Which side gets the 60?''

Oliver says nothing. He's probably brooding.

''Go wait outside,'' Dean tells Hanna. ''Get away from the mold. Stay out of sight.''

She presses her lips into a thin line, but decides to listen, treading away from him, carefully stepping over the debris. She gives Dinah a dirty look when she passes by and in return, Dinah blows smoke after her retreating form. When she turns back, she sends Dean a cheeky grin.

He rolls his eyes so far back in his head it hurts, and gets back to clearing the building. One more floor, and then he can get out of here. He moves cautiously, keeping his weapon drawn, listening for any sound of movements, and luckily, Dinah keeps her trap shut. She follows after him at a leisurely pace, unhelpful but unwilling to go spend her time with Hanna. He wonders, admittedly very briefly, if she's trying to help. Be his backup if something jumps out at him.

Probably just wants to chain smoke in peace.

He's almost at the end of the third floor when he finally decides to ask, turning to her, ''Anything I should know about... Well, me.''

She blows a smoke ring. ''Like what? You know he's a demon.''

''Yeah, but what was he like - I don't know - as a person?''

She freezes up, but brushes it off quickly, shrugging her shoulders. ''Dull.''

''Not exactly what I'm looking for here.''

''He was a doctor. Worked in the emergency room.''

''He was - '' Dean is not entirely sure how to take that. ''An ER doctor? Really?'' ''Really.''

''Huh.'' That's surreal to think about. In another life, he could have been a doctor.

''Oh, and he was a Marine.''

He stops short and she is paying so little attention that she crashes into him, cursing under her breath. He doesn't care about any of that, turning to look at her incredulously. ''He was a Marine? Dee. He was a Marine?!''

''He was a Captain, yeah.'' She doesn't look bothered. ''So what?''

''So... Dinah, he's had Marine training!''

''Oh, honey,'' she laughs. ''Were you really planning on beating him in a fight?''

''I'd like to have the option!''

''I've got movement,'' Oliver's voice says softly, and Dean immediately holds a hand up, shushing Dinah.

She looks immensely offended.

''Do you have eyes on Laurel?'' He asks.

''No,'' Oliver's voice is tense. ''They've got someone they're moving to the car but I can't see... Speedy, you got anything?''

''It's her,'' Thea says. ''It's Laurel. I can't see her face, but it's her. I recognize her clothes.''

''Can you tell...'' Felicity trails off. ''Is she hurt?''

''I - I don't know. She's upright and walking.''

''Okay,'' Dean speaks up. ''That's good. Don't approach them right now. Wait until they're on the move.'' Everyone responds in agreement. Everyone except one of them. ''Oliver,'' he warns. ''You have one job. Do not fuck this up.''

Beside him, Dinah snickers.

''I'm just trying to get a better look,'' is the hissed reply. ''I'm not going to approach.''

''I'm keeping an eye on him,'' Thea says. ''Don't worry. We've got this.''

He decides it's best not to respond to that. ''Dinah, go wait with Hanna,'' he orders shortly. She doesn't move, looking at him with a raised eyebrow, so he turns on her with a glower and snarls, ''Go.'' It has literally no affect. He didn't really think it would, but figured it was worth a shot. ''...Please?''

She snorts at him, eyes lighting up with what looks to be sincere mirth. She lights up another cigarette, says nothing, and then tosses his lighter back at him before turning and walking away. Hopefully to do what he asked.

Time will tell.

He clears the rest of the third floor quickly and quietly, takes a look at the roof, and then heads back down, listening to the conversation between Team Arrow. He does one last sweep of the lobby, which is apparently where Hanna has decided to set up camp, sprawled out on a disgusting looking couch, massaging her temples. Dinah is standing in the open doorway, blowing her smoke out into the alley instead of directly at the asthmatic. Close enough. He goes to the basement next, stepping foot into the dark, dank, grim looking room just in time to hear Felicity say, ''I've got them stopped at a red.''

''Can you see Black Canary?'' John questions.

''Negative. Footage is too grainy. I can try to enhance it, but it doesn't matter. We know she's in there. Green Arrow, Speedy, you guys close by?''

''We're close,'' Oliver says. ''I want them farther out before we move in. Keep them on track.''

''Got it.''

It's nice to sit back and let other people do the dirty work for him. Dean is completely okay with admitting that. Clearing a few apartment buildings is a milk run compared to a car chase. ...He'd be really good in a car chase, though.

For the record.

''Spartan,'' Oliver's voice comes through. ''Are you in place?''

''Just setting up now.''

''Speedy, you ready?'' No answer. ''Speedy?''

''I'm here,'' she says. ''I'm ready. I was just thinking. No Man's Land is blocked off for a reason. I know it's worth the risk, but what happens if we trap 'em in here and a building falls on us? Like, we sort of covered that but not really. What's the contingency plan? What do we do?''

There is a long, long pause and then Oliver says, completely deadpan, ''Die.''

Dean hates himself for it, but he can't help but laugh. He just about trips up the stairs, trying to bite his lip to keep his laughter in. There is no reason for Oliver Queen to know that he successfully made Dean laugh.

Hanna Moretti has not gotten that message. She's sitting up on the couch when he appears back in the lobby and the second she catches sight of his face, she's scowling. ''Are you laughing?'' She crosses her arms. ''What are you laughing at? What could possibly be funny right now?''

In the open doorway, Dinah turns around to look at Hanna with a roll of her eyes.

Dean snatches up Hanna's bag before she can stop him, digging around inside the for the blueberry muffin he grabbed for her at the gas station while Dinah was stealing shit. ''Eat your muffin.''

''You guys got muffins?'' Thea sounds wounded. ''I didn't get a muffin.''

''I'll buy you a muffin when we're done,'' he appeases, throwing the muffin at the sulking witch.

''Deal,'' Thea says happily. ''Not a bran muffin though. I hate bran muffins.''

''Everyone hates bran muffins.'' ''There's this trendy new bakery that just opened up by my place and they have these mini coffee cake muffins that will change your life,'' Felicity pipes up.

''Oooh, yes, that. I want that,'' Thea declares dreamily. ''I'd eat a pile of those.''

Dean says, simply, ''Got it.''

''You have to buy Overwatch one too because she found them.''

''Yes please,'' Felicity chirps out.

''I'll buy everyone a round of celebratory coffee cake muffins,'' he agrees. ''As soon as we get my wife back.''

''Canary loves coffee cake,'' Thea says.

''I know.''

''We should get her one. Maybe two. It'll be a nice welcome home. And maybe a cup of coffee. Or tea. I bet she could use a nice cup of tea right about now.''

''Or peppermint hot chocolate,'' Felicity suggests. ''Don't knock it till you've tried it.''

''Mint and chocolate is a disgusting combination.''

Felicity gasps in offense.

''I said what I said,'' says Thea.

''Oh, booo!''

''It's an overrated combination,'' John agrees, much to Felicity's audible horror. ''But you guys are kidding yourselves if you think any of that is a suitable breakfast. Muffins are just cake. We tell ourselves it's not, but it is. It's cake. You're having cake for breakfast.''

''I am an adult and if I want to have cake for every meal, I should be allowed to have cake for every meal,'' Thea responds, indignant.

''You'll get scurvy.''

She scoffs. ''Scurvy isn't a real thing. That's, like, something pirates get.''

''First of all,'' Oliver decides to weigh in. ''Scurvy is a real thing. It's a vitamin c deficiency. I've had it.''

''You've had scurvy?''Felicity asks, but goes ignored.

''While we're on the subject of reality,'' John tacks on. ''Pirates. Also a real thing. You know that, right? It's important to me that you know that.''

''Second of all,'' Oliver continues. ''Can we talk about this later? Maybe when we're not trying to save our friend's soul?''

Dean leans against the banister of the wooden staircase, ankles crossed, checking his watch. Starting to get distracting now. The whole having the entire Island of Misfit Toys in his ear thing. Don't get him wrong, he loves one of those misfit toys dearly and he gets why they want to be in contact with him, but this is...off putting.

On the other hand, it's also strangely fascinating to listen to them interact with each other. There's an undercurrent of tension between Oliver, John, and Felicity - whether that is because of the reveal about John working for ARGUS or something else, he doesn't know - but they are way less obnoxious than usual. The fact that they have a concrete mission, a way to help, seems to have bolstered their spirits. They remind him a lot of his kid.

Sometimes Mary used to get obnoxious when he made dinner because she wanted all his attention all the time. It's not as bad now, but when she was around two-ish, she would whine and cry so much he'd have to stop what he was doing to pick her up before she made herself sick. She would follow him from room to room (she still does that sometimes) and when he tried to make dinner, she would sit on the floor and hold onto his leg, letting out just a constant barrage of, Daddy, Daddy, need milk, pick me up, I need a hug, come play.

He loves her but holy shit.

That was a truly maddening phase.

So he found a solution. He plopped her down on the floor, gave her a bowl of something, and told her to stir. Worked like a charm. She rarely ever whines when he makes dinner now because she loves to be his ''helper.''

Robin Hood and his Merry Men over there remind him of that. They're stirring right now.

Good for them.

He'll have to remember to give them some head pats and stickers if they don't fuck up.

''On second thought,'' Thea says. ''Don't worry about the muffins, Mr. Canary. Green Arrow's going to cover it. Muffins and hot chocolate all around.''

''Score,'' says Felicity.

''Wait - ''

''And Spartan gets a grapefruit,'' Thea says, cutting off Oliver's complaints. ''Or some muesli. Probably a protein shake. Maybe just some raw eggs.''

''Hold up, I didn't say I didn't want a muffin,'' John says.

''I never agreed to - ''

''Hang on,'' Dean interjects, mostly to cut Oliver off. ''Did you just call me Mr. Canary?''

''I did,'' Thea confirms. ''No good?''

''No, I'm into it. I want a t-shirt.''

''We'll get you a mask next.''

''Don't you fucking dare.''

''And a cape.''

''Okay, I'm sorry,'' Hanna butts in, drawing his attention back to her. ''How are you so relaxed right now?''

''Chill out, Lollipop Guild,'' Dinah says, without even looking over her shoulder.

Hanna rolls her eyes. She wraps up the mostly uneaten blueberry muffin in the already greasy saran wrap and shoves it back into her backpack.

''I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm in a fairly relaxing position here, Kim Possible. I don't have to do shit,'' he says, grinning. ''I've got a bunch of leather fetishists - ''

''Uh, we can still hear you,'' Felicity reminds him.

'' - Herding the sheep and when they get here - well, hey, you're the big gun, right? All I have to do is point and shoot and - zip, bang, boom, Canary's flying home and I'm gonna make her some avocado toast. With a poached egg on top.''

''That would kill me,'' Dinah throws out dryly.

''Oh, hey, good to know,'' Oliver mumbles.

''But,'' Thea's voice is small. ''After the muffins, right?''

''Yes,'' he says. ''After the muffins.'' He looks at Hanna, pale, drawn, and exhausted even in the dim light of the condemned apartment. ''Kid, are you sure you're up for this?''

''I'm up for this.'' Her voice is tense and cutting, but when she grabs her backpack, rummaging around inside, he notices she's trembling. Could be just because of the chilled late November air, but he knows that's not why.

''What are you doing?''

''I'm - I'm looking for my inhaler.''

There is a question of concern on his tongue, but there is no time for him to say anything. Without a word, Dinah has slithered back into the equation, sidling up to him and producing the inhaler from her jacket pocket.

Hanna takes it, snatching it from her with a scowl, but she looks dubious about it, like she's worried Dinah may have tampered with it.

''You left it on the table,'' Dinah explains.

''Oh.'' Hanna flushes crimson. She doesn't thank Dinah, but there is a lingering, awkward silence between them.

''You should really keep track of that thing,'' Dinah advises. She takes another cigarette out, but doesn't bother to steal Dean's lighter again to light it up. Just rolls it between her anxious fingers. ''Kids,'' she mutters to herself, slinking away from them, cat-like. Always cat-like. ''Always losing their shit everywhere. If it's not the inhaler, it's the glasses.''

Hanna blinks, seemingly thrown off guard, and then she looks away from Dinah's retreating form and back to Dean. ''I don't wear glasses.''

''Just take a few breaths, Hanna,'' he says. ''Maybe do it outside, away from the mold.''

She sighs, wandering back over to plop down on the gross couch instead. He really doesn't like that she keeps sitting on that couch. It looks like it has several diseases.

Dean looks over at Dinah, back in her position by the open door, looking out into the alley. She is a mess of contradictions. She says one thing, but does another. She sneers and glowers, huffs and puffs, but never actually blows the house down. She advertises a total lack of regard for human life, but she agreed to protect the Moretti kids and fretted over Mary and remembered to grab Hanna's inhaler when no one else did. She wants to be hard but she's soft at her core, unable or unwilling to shut it all off, to rip out her heart, the only place where her own child still remains.

She's lucky that way.

She can be as sour and unpleasant as she wants, play up her snark and try her hand at being the bad guy but she will never be as dangerous as she thinks she is. No matter what happens, what has happened, or what will happen, she will always be Dinah Lance. Her heart remains the same.

Dean is not sure he can say the same for his own Earth-2 doppelganger. He is not as confident in his heart as he is in hers. A terrified, angry, grief stricken, frozen in trauma mother is one thing. A demon is another.

He should not have brought her here. He's not sure anything could have convinced her to stay behind, but if there is a demonic version of him who wants her dead and that demonic soldier is presumably going to show up then they're fucked.

Shouldn't have brought Hanna here either. She is eighteen years old. Too young to be the de facto leader of a coven that's being picked apart and way too young for them to use as a weapon. But he's going to use her anyway. What choice do they have? He looks back over at her, the coddled, sheltered, asthmatic, diabetic teenager they're using for power. She's back on her feet, pacing nervously, shaking her inhaler. She fumbles with it for a minute and then finally manages to take a hit.

It occurs to him then, as it should have before, that this is…kind of a dick move. Desperate is desperate, but this is a child. Her grandmother and brother have been murdered, her mother is soulless and brainwashed, her father is a spineless pathetic excuse for a man, and her uncle is a violent sociopath. She can put on a show of haughtiness all she wants but in the end, she's just a scared kid. And here he is leading her into combat.

He's an asshole.

''Hanna.'' He grabs onto her wrist lightly, just to get her to stop pacing. She stops, looking over at him with her Bambi eyes. ''Are you sure about this?''

She stiffens, and then jerks her hand away from him. ''Stop asking me that! I'm fine. There's just a lot of dust and probably toxic mold in the air.'' She clutches her inhaler to her chest like a teddy bear. ''I can do this. You know what they did to Mattie. I'm ready.'' She turns on her heel and goes back to the couch.

Dean watches her for a minute, and then he smells the smoke. He turns his head just in time for Dinah to prop her arm up on his shoulder. She's grinning, smoking yet another cigarette (he's amazed she can still scream if she smokes that much on the regular), and holding his lighter, flicking it open and closed.

He doesn't even know when she took it.

She winks at him, ignoring his long suffering sigh, and then drops the lighter in the pocket of his flannel shirt.

''I've got eyes on them,'' comes Oliver's voice, followed by the sound of a motorcycle revving. ''If the kid's not ready, she better get ready. Speedy - ''

''I know, I know, it's showtime.''

''I was going to tell you to come in from behind on the right.''

''...Oh.''

''Just make sure you fall back when I tell you to.'' Dean tries to tune out the sound of their chattering. ''Hanna, give me the map.'' When she digs the spelled map out of her backpack, sure enough, that freaky little drop of blood is moving along the streets, unsteady but fast.

''Wow.'' Dinah crushes the cigarette under her boot. ''It's like a screwed up Marauder's Map.''

''Hey, it kinda is,'' Hanna smiles, even huffs out a tiny laugh at that, but looks like she hates herself for it.

He arches a brow, looking between them, but doesn't bother to ask what the fuck they're talking about. He watches the drop of magic speed along, getting closer and closer to their location, listening to the sound of motorcycle engines and Oliver's tense voice over the comms. Then he hears it. A loud bang, distant shouting, and Felicity's startled yelp, followed by Thea's, ''Sorry! Didn't know it was going to be that loud.''

''Okay.'' Dean spins Hanna around to shove the map back into her backpack. ''We need to move. Dinah,'' he points up the stairs. ''Go.'' She listens, for once, hurrying up the stairs, taking them two by two as she disappears upward. ''John,'' he says. ''Dinah's headed up to the roof. You're her handler. Handle her. Make sure she doesn't bail or do something stupid.''

John chuckles wryly, but says, ''Understood.''

Dean steers Hanna through the dilapidated and decaying lobby and over to the entrance to the alley. ''You know what you're doing, right?''

''I know,'' she nods.

He steps out into the alley, into the cold morning, but holds her back with one hand, keeping her secluded in the alcove, out of sight. ''You're sure you can do what you said?''

''I can try,'' she says. ''I'm not an elemental witch.'' She looks up at the sky, quickly growing lighter. ''But I'm angry,'' she adds on darkly. ''I can do it.''

''Good. Stay angry.'' He peers around the brick, listening for the sound of the approaching caravan. It's quiet in No Man's Land, like a graveyard, so it's not hard to pick out the oncoming sound of engines or the sound of something crashing through the chain link fence.

''For the last time,'' Felicity says, voice low. ''Are we sure this is a smart plan?''

''I never said it was a smart plan,'' Dean responds.

''You did! You said it was a good plan.''

''But I never said it was smart.'' He looks back at Hanna one last time. ''Stay here until I come get you,'' he orders, as the sound of screeching tires gets louder, closer. ''Make sure they can't see you.''

''What if this doesn't work? What if she just kills us all?''

Dean checks his gun, counting the bullets before he tucks it out of sight. ''Then I guess we'll go down swinging.''

''Can't you just lie to me and say something comforting?''

He places one hand on her shoulder, bends down so he's eye level with her and says, as seriously as he can, ''Something comforting.''

That's where he leaves her.

He steps out into the growing light of day. The plan to force the witch and her cronies off the road is a precarious plan at best, but it... Seems like it's working. Probably because they're idiots. Which does not reflect strongly on his plan, but he's been retired for four and a half years so he thinks running a few morons off the road is commendable. This isn't like riding a bike.

Dean watches, with mild shame and embarrassment, as a black Escalade comes careening around the corner and into the alley, with smoke pouring out of the windows. Thea gets in front of it on her bike, blocking them in, but no one in the vehicle seems to notice. Bodies start falling out of the vehicle, coughing and sputtering on the smoke.

One of them - not a Moretti, not Laurel, and not the witch - pulls out a gun. His movements are unsteady, but practiced. He knows the way the gun fits in his hand, he knows the weight of it, but only barely does he get the chance to raise it. There is a soft whooshing noise, barely audible over all the coughing, and then an arrow is flying through the air, knocking the gun out of his hand.

The Green Arrow leaps on top of the Escalade like he thinks he's Spider Man, sending a kick to the goon's face, sending him sprawling back before he turns quickly, drawing back his bow and sending an arrow toward another henchman on the other side of the car.

It's all very dramatic.

Can't help but admire the guy's drive, though. He's got a gunshot wound and he's still slinging arrows. That's either brave or stupid. Dumbass is gonna permanently fuck his shoulder up if he's not careful.

Dean coughs and waves away some of the smoke. It's sincerely mortifying that these are the people who have caused so much trouble in their lives. It's sad. It's a sad thing. Everyone involved in this should be embarrassed. He certainly is. I mean, this was a stupid plan.

And it worked.

Ricky Moretti is the one who recovers enough to turn on Dean, sputtering in anger, face red with fury. ''A smoke bomb?!'' He roars. ''You got the Green Shithead to fucking smoke bomb us?!''

Dean blinks for a second and then grins, wheezing out a laugh. It only seems to aggravate the meathead further.

''You fucking - '' Moretti moves to draw his weapon, but doesn't get far before Thea shoots it out of his hand.

''Let's start with a fact check,'' she says coolly. ''I smoke bombed you, loser. Secondly, you need to get your anger issues under control. Can't be good for your blood pressure. You're like fifty, bud.''

Moretti glares at her momentarily and then swings his attention back to Dean. ''Weak. It was weak. You didn't even have the balls to do it yourself, you had to get someone else to do your dirty work for you.''

Dean gives an exaggerated shrug. ''I'm retired.'' He looks away from the roided up douchebag and over to the Escalade, where Oliver is keeping the witch's Dolls at bay. Now that the smoke has mostly cleared, he can see Laurel standing there in the grip of one of the witch's men. There is someone standing in front of her - the witch, he presumes - but he can see her hands are cuffed, she's gagged, there's a sonic dampener around her neck, and there is blood on the denim shirt of his that she must have thrown on last night.

When the witch turns and he gets a look at her face, at those familiar Ellard eyes, he can't even bring himself to care. All he can see is Laurel, bruised and bloody. There is a second of unbearable fist clenching tension where he sees red, and then he moves past it.

He looks at the witch, her dark hair, her familiar eyes, her blood speckled white dress, and he offers her a perfectly pleasant smile. ''Howdy,'' he greets. ''It's Edie, right? Laurel's not so dead cousin?''

A moment passes by and then Felicity hisses out, ''Wait a minute, what?''

Even Oliver and Thea exchange a passing glance.

''You could have told us - ''

Dean clears his throat quietly, and Oliver shuts up.

If Edie herself is shocked he has figured it out, she doesn't show it. She laughs instead, breezy and nonchalant. ''It's nice to finally meet you face to face, Mr. Winchester.''

''It's Dean,'' he corrects, flippantly. ''Mr. Winchester is my uppity brother. Besides, I think we're past the formalities at this point, don't you?''

''I apologize,'' she says smoothly. ''My mother raised me to have manners. What did your father raise you to do?''

He laughs, which he's not sure is the response she was looking for. He looks over at Laurel. ''Hey, pretty bird,'' he greets, softer. ''Rough night?''

She rolls her eyes and holds up her cuffed hands, letting out a bitter snort. He takes some comfort in that, even as the two men holding onto her seem to tighten their grips. At least she's not too injured to be pissed off. That's a good sign.

''I've heard a lot about you and your brother,'' Edie tells him.

''All good things, I hope,'' he says, before giving her an exaggeratedly judgmental onceover. ''Haven't heard a thing about you.''

Edie never loses that twinkle in her eye, even as her smile slips for a split second. ''Say...'' She takes a few steps in his direction, pausing only to narrow her eyes at Thea when Thea twitches as if she wants to intercept. ''Where is the kid anyway? He up on one of these rooftops with a sniper rifle? Is this an assassination?''

''So far,'' he says calmly, ''it's a conversation. Sorry to disappoint you, but Sam's not here. You just get me.''

''Oh, wow.'' She feigns surprise. ''I didn't realize you two were ever out of each other's sight. What if something happens to him?''

He tries to keep his expression neutral. He doesn't think he manages it. ''Is that a threat?''

She seems delighted that she has gotten a reaction out of him. ''No. Just a question.'' She takes another step. ''I guess that was then, though, hmm? This is now. Your life is different. Diapers and sippy cups and taking care of your kid and your sickly wife. Sort of traded one burden for another, didn't you?''

Dean says nothing, looking over her shoulder to meet Laurel's eyes. She still looks more annoyed than anything else. He looks back to Edie, watching her reaction closely when he asks, ''Where's the other me?''

She falters. ''Excuse me?''

''Come on now, Miss Edith.''

''It's Edie.''

''Don't play coy. The other me. Earth-2 me. Onomatopoeia. I know he's working with you.''

''You've got it all figured out, don't you?'' She looks amused, eyes seeking out Moretti for a moment.

He does not look nearly as amused. He's smart enough not to move with Thea's arrow pointed right at his jugular, but he's eyeing his surroundings and there's something about his frantic body language, like he's ready to explode, body angled toward Edie as if -

Oh, shit.

This stupid fucking idiot is in love with her.

It has been made clear just from what Mattie and Hanna have said that he is, without a doubt, screwing the witch, but this is so much worse. He loves her. This guy really is a moron.

''I'm curious,'' Edie says, sounding thoughtful. ''How did you figure it out?''

Dean looks back to her, watching her close. He's not a huge fan of how close she is to him. ''Pretty easy to put the pieces together once I had all the right pieces,'' he says. ''I had some help from my daughter. You know. You've met her. Haven't you?''

The smile drops right off her face.

''Did you seriously think a four year old was going to keep your secret, Edie?'' He asks, leaning closer, taking note of the way Moretti balls his useless fists. ''Did you think I wouldn't find out?''

''Oh, relax,'' she says, but steps back. ''It was just a little dream walking.''

''You violated her,'' he says. ''You tried to pick her mind apart and manipulate her into doing your bidding.''

''That seems rather dramatic.''

''Did you tell Laurel what you've been doing to her child?''

Edie sighs heavily and crosses her arms. He's going to take that as a no.

''She's been in Mary's head the same way she's been in yours,'' he tells Laurel, watching her eyes widen in horror. ''She tried to get her to lead you to her. That's why Mary's been so off. It wasn't the cold. She's terrified and she couldn't tell us because she was threatened.'' The look in Laurel's eyes is one of abject terror and rage. Even Thea noticeably tenses, ready to turn her arrow on Edie. He looks back to Edie. ''You want my advice? You better run while you still can. Might be the only way you get out of this alive.''

She doesn't seem too worried. ''It's cute you think that.''

''That goes for you too, Moretti,'' he calls out. ''And your brother. You will regret this. I want you to know that,'' he says it calmly, but bluntly. ''Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even next week, but one day, after you've lost, you will regret this. You will suffer.''

''I respect your confidence,'' Edie says with a tight smile. ''But I have places to be and I'm sure your little girl misses you so if we could just move this - ''

''Yeah, yeah,'' he interrupts, brushing it off. ''Places to be, people to brainwash, souls to suck, whatever. Here's the offer: Laurel's coming home. That's non-negotiable. You are going to let her go and she is going to come home with me.''

''Oh, she is, is she?''

''And in return...'' He breaks away, splintering off from the group and walking back over to the building. This is where things start to go murky. Where the lines are crossed.

''Hold on,'' Felicity's voice says in his ear, clouded with concern. ''We don't have anything to offer her.''

Dean grabs onto Hanna, clamping his hand around her wrist, yanking her out of her hiding spot. ''I'll give you the last Weber witch,'' he says, and, as expected, it peaks Edie's interest.

Nobody else seems to think it is a good idea.

''Wait,'' Hanna gasps out, eyes widening in shock and betrayal. ''You told me I was here to help!''

''Dean,'' Thea's voice is low. ''What the hell are you doing?''

''She's the last of the Weber coven,'' Dean tells Edie. ''I've done my research. I know who they are. That's old world magic and you know it. I know you know it. You're in love with the craft. I'm sure you know their worth. This coven has been around for centuries and this girl,'' he jerks Hanna, ''is all that's left. You killed the grandmother. Incapacitated Marlene. Hanna's the head now.''

''Hey,'' Oliver hisses. He's still got his arrow pointed at the goons, keeping them from charging, but he looks antsy. ''This wasn't part of the plan.''

''You know she's a threat to you,'' Dean goes on, tightening his grip on Hanna when she whimpers. ''That's why you sent Onomatopoeia after her. You're scared of her.''

Edie balks at that, scowling. ''She's just a girl.''

''So are you,'' he says. ''But you've sure caused a lot of trouble. Imagine what she could do with all the power she has.''

Hanna makes a distressed noise in the back of her throat and screws her eyes shut.

''You need her out of your way,'' Dean goes on. ''Take her. Kill her. Use her. Drain her power. Take her soul and turn her into a weapon. Whatever you want. I don't really care.''

''Dean,'' John says. ''Whatever you're doing - ''

''Why are you all just standing there?'' Hanna bursts out, switching her gaze over to Oliver. ''Are you just going to let him do this to me?''

Oliver looks at her, then at the Dolls, then back to Hanna. He's clearly having a crisis of conscience over there. ''I'm warning you,'' he tries. ''You hand that girl over and we're done.''

''Whatever you need Laurel for,'' Dean says. ''Use the girl. She was born for this.''

''I'm afraid it doesn't work that way,'' Edie says.

''You let her go and she's just going to keep being a thorn in your side.''

''You honestly expect me to believe you're willing to hand over some poor kid to the slaughter? I thought you were a hero.''

''I'm a hunter,'' he says, shoving Hanna forward, sending her sprawling to the pavement. ''She's just a witch.''

Hanna lets out a shuddering sob, lifting her tear streaked face.

Edie looks wary, stepping back slightly before flinging her gaze back to Laurel. ''You see,'' she says, voice calm and infuriatingly patronizing. ''What did I tell you about him?''

Dean has been avoiding Laurel's gaze thus far, unwilling to look at the disbelief and disgust on her face, but when Edie addresses her, he can't help but sneak a peek. She doesn't look angry the way he thought she would. She doesn't look disappointed. She just looks curious. She's squinting her eyes at him like she's trying to see something, decode something. He looks away.

''Uncle Ricky!'' Hanna desperately cries out to her uncle, the one person here who has even the slightest chance of getting her out of this. ''You have to help me,'' she pleads. ''You have to stop her. Please, please, she killed Mattie! Please don't let her kill me too!''

Moretti has no reaction to that. Zero remorse. No grief. Doesn't even flinch. Looks her right in the eye and offers her nothing.

Edie does.

She turns back around to look at the girl on the ground and she laughs. ''Oh, honey. Are you really trying to appeal to him to save your life?''

Hanna cowers, lowering her gaze to the ground, but can't escape Edie's attention.

Dean eyes the distance between where he is and where Laurel is. He glances at Thea out of the corner of his eye, subtly gesturing for her to step back when she starts to look a little cagey.

''Princess,'' Edie's cooing down at Hanna. ''Who do you think gave the kill order? It was him. He wanted you dead. He wanted you gone.''

Hanna sniffles. ''Yeah,'' she mumbles weakly, lifting her head, dry eyes meeting Edie's. ''I figured.''

There is a sudden clap of menacing sounding thunder and Edie stiffens up, taking a step away from Hanna just as the girl raises her hands to the sky. A bolt of lightning comes crashing down upon her but instead of striking her down, it winds around her like a protective cocoon. She holds her hands out, lightning wrapping around her, and then she sends it hurtling at Edie. There is a gust of wind, a flash of light that has everyone shielding their eyes, and when it dies down, Edie is stuck, trapped in place, lightning wound around her like rope.

It's a mind boggling thing to see. Dean has met a lot of witches over the years, a lot of them incredibly powerful, but he has never seen that. Apparently no one else has either, because aside from Moretti shouting her name, no one moves to help Edie, backing away instead, staring in awe.

It's an astonishing feat. Some real X-Men level shit.

Or it would be.

If it, in any way whatsoever, worked.

Edie is stunned by the lightning strike, that is obvious, but it doesn't last. She regains control quickly once all is said and done. She looks more momentarily disrupted than anything else. Then she laughs. She cackles. How very witch-y of her.

Dean notices, out of the corner of his eye, the way Moretti relaxes, the way one of his hands inches toward the gun in his holster.

''Well, now, that was very dramatic, Goldilocks,'' Edie says gently, patronizingly. ''But, uh, Hanna, sweetie.'' She shakes the light off, stepping out of it like she's stepping out of her dress, brushing off her clothes, heels clicking on the pavement as she approaches Hanna again. ''You're not an elemental witch.'' She crouches down on the ground in front of the girl, reaching one hand out to tilt Hanna's chin up. ''Did you think that was going to work?''

Dean is about three seconds away from hauling Hanna to her feet and tossing her ass back inside the building just to get her away from Edie before she gets her neck snapped.

Hanna just seems bemused by it all. ''Truthfully, no,'' she says. ''I just needed you to get a little closer.''

Everything after that happens quickly.

Hanna lunges, attacking Edie like an animal, tackling her to the ground, grabbing onto her face, fingernails digging into her cheeks, drawing blood, and all hell breaks loose. Light seems to ooze out of Edie, draining out of her. Moretti only gets out a frantic shout of her name, one hand reaching for his gun, before Thea rushes him.

A shot goes off from the roof, taking down one of the Dolls holding onto Laurel, a second hits the other in the shoulder, and Dean takes his chance, jumping in to grab onto her and pull her to him. He throws an elbow into the Doll with the shoulder wound and tugs Laurel out of the line of fire, away from flying arrows and bullets and witches. ''Hey.'' He pulls the gag from her mouth. ''Laurel, hey, are you okay?'' It comes out frantic and he knows his grip on her is tighter than it should be as he looks her over. ''Laurel - ''

''I'm fine,'' she gets out. ''I'm fine. How did you - Where's Mary? Is she safe?''

''She's safe.'' He looks down at her cuffed hands. ''She's at home with your dad and Cas.''

''Dean, there's a girl,'' she gasps out. ''There's a little girl - ''

Abruptly, before she can say any more, things start going in the other direction. He can hear both Felicity and Thea cry out, followed by Hanna shrieking, and when he whirls around, things take an ugly turn.

Oliver is on the ground, weakly trying to pick himself up, Hanna is slumped on the ground with an angry red mark on her cheek, and Onomatopoeia is crouched in the middle of the chaos. He stands straight slowly, completely calm. Not a trace of anger or anything else on his face. He looks almost bored. The eye of a hurricane.

Everything goes eerily quiet for a second while Dean takes in the sight of his doppelganger, and then reality seems to catch up with him and he hurriedly shoves Laurel behind him.

''Morning,'' the other him greets coolly. He surveys the scene shortly before fixing his gaze on Dean, pulling his lips back into a lethal smile. ''I don't know, Edith,'' he says to her, even as his gaze never leaves Dean. ''This all seems like a lot before coffee.''

Edie doesn't respond to him. She's still slumped on the ground, breathing raggedly, looking disoriented and out of it.

''You know,'' Onomatopoeia says. His voice is softer than Dean expected it to be. ''I could've sworn someone told me you were retired.''

Dean does his best to keep his game face on, even under the unnerving circumstances. ''Did you think I wouldn't come for her?''

''No, I knew you would,'' his Earth-2 self says easily. ''Few years ago, I would have done the same.'' He looks at Edie on the ground, still dazed, rolls his eyes, lets out a disgusted sounding sigh, and hauls her to her feet. She seems to cling to him weakly, blood dribbling from her nose. He shows precisely no concern for her wellbeing, shoving her at Moretti, giving Thea a slight raised eyebrow when she moves as if to stop him.

She backs off.

''You want to know what I've learned, Dean?'' Onomatopoeia looks relaxed as he looks around, eyeing both ends of the alley, up at the rooftops, undoubtedly looking for Dinah. ''Dinah Lance gets us killed on every earth.'' He looks back at Dean, curious. ''Is she worth it?''

Dean doesn't even have to think about it. ''Yes.''

His doppelganger laughs.

''Dean,'' Laurel murmurs, pulling his attention to over Onomatopoeia's shoulder. Oliver has gotten back to his feet and drag Hanna behind him, but behind him, there is a group of Dolls stalking down the alley. Dean looks over his own shoulder where more are approaching from behind. Boxing them in.

Okay, all right, this isn't a great spot to be in. However, he's been through worse. He thinks. Probably. No, definitely. He was in hell for 40 years. This is an inconvenience, that's all. Maybe a situation. At the most. Not a dire emergency. No need to panic. He does wish Sam and Cas were here, though. At least they're competent more than 60% of the time. He'd even go so far as to give them 80%. Maybe 75%.

''What's going on?'' Felicity's voice demands.

''They're trapped,'' John says. ''I'm coming down.''

''Do not come down here,'' Dean orders. He takes his eyes off what's happening in front of him for five seconds, just five seconds to hiss at John, but five seconds is enough.

He catches sight of a flash of red leather in his peripheral vision, but doesn't realize what's happening until he hears both Laurel and Oliver's simultaneous shouts of, ''Speedy, don't!''

Thea, stubborn and brave and full of stupid Dearden courage, doesn't listen. She throws herself at Onomatopoeia, undoubtedly hoping to catch him off guard. She does not.

Onomatopoeia catches her by the throat and Dean can feel Laurel's entire body just clench behind him. ''Yeah, Speedy,'' his doppelganger mocks. ''Don't.'' He looks pleased with his brand new leverage. ''If I were you,'' he says lazily, turning his attention, ever so briefly, to Oliver. ''I'd stay still.''

Oliver's hand jerks and Dean can hear John warning him to stay where he is. Oliver moves his hand away from his bow and doesn't move.

''Good dog,'' Onomatopoeia says. He drops Thea in a heap on the ground, but leans down to look at her, meeting her eyes, putting a finger to his lips to shush her. ''Do me a favor, kid,'' he practically whispers. ''Take one of those arrows and hold it to your throat.''

Dean clenches his fists and has to force himself not to react as Thea, looking horrified, clearly trying to fight against it, does what she's told.

''Wait!'' Oliver breaks away from Hanna and makes an attempt to rush toward her. ''You want a hostage, you take me.''

Onomatopoeia chuckles, turning his head. ''No one wants you, boy.'' He looks back to Thea, cocking his head to the side. ''Now, little Speedy.'' He crouches down, grabbing her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. ''This,'' he brings his other hand to the side of her neck, ''is your carotid artery. When I tell you to, you're going to take that arrow and cut it nice and deep. Do you understand me?''

Despite the fury in her eyes, she nods.

''Thank you,'' he smiles, letting go. ''For your cooperation.''

John's voice is tight as he asks, ''What the hell is happening?''

No one has an answer.

Even Dean doesn't know what to say to that. He's seen demons before. None of them have ever had the power to do this. The only people he has seen who could make people do whatever they wanted them to do were Azazel's special kids and that was a long time ago. Ansem Weems, Andy's psychopathic brother who almost made Dean blow his brains out with a look, and Jake Talley, the kid who killed Sam, the kid who said put that gun to your head and poor Ellen did exactly that.

Onomatopoeia stands, turning to Laurel. ''Okay, birdie. Let's not drag this out. Unless you want your girl to end up a stain on the pavement, I suggest you take a page from her book and listen.''

Laurel hasn't taken her eyes from Thea. She's going to agree. She's going to do whatever he tells her to if it means saving Thea.

A sharp, harsh laugh breaks through the tense silence and in a rare moment of synchronicity both Deans send Moretti matching withering glares. ''Not going how you pictured,'' he drawls. ''Is it, Winchester?''

''Pretty close, actually,'' Dean finally pipes up, as casual as possible. ''It's a good show,'' he says to his asshole shadow self. ''I'm impressed. Really. You're clever. And powerful. Good for you. Six out of ten. I had to dock some major points for one thing, though.'' He winces in mock sympathy, taking a step back, forcing Laurel to move with him. ''You forgot ear protection.''

There is a noise from the right, the sound of boots on metal, and Onomatopoeia turns just a little too late to stop Dinah. She leaps from the fire escape, more cat than canary, and lands right on his shoulders. She gives him no chance to throw her off, grabbing his head and leaning down to scream directly into his ear.

It's far less...explody than Dean was hoping it would be. It's a blow. Onomatopoeia goes down hard, groaning, struggling not to holler in pain, face ashen, practically gray, blood vessels noticeably bursting, but his head doesn't actually explode.

Which, okay, good to know that's not something Laurel has to worry about.

Still disappointing in this specific case.

There is a second where, hilariously, no one from Edie's side seems to know what to do because they clearly were not expecting another Laurel to fall from the sky.

They get over it.

In the span of time it takes Hanna to send a rippling wave of light at the Dolls coming in from the left, the ones from the right have already charged. Oliver takes his chance to tackle Thea, wrestling the arrow from her grip, there is a shot from the roof, taking out one of the incoming Dolls, and somewhere in the melee, Dean loses sight of Edie. He turns to Laurel, fully intending to get her out, but he only catches a tiny glimpse of her before a body slams into his from the side and then he's on the ground.

He barely has a chance to react to the pain before some weasely looking kid is pulling out a knife and trying to slam it into Dean's eye. It's a little too easy to catch the kid's wrist and twist until he drops the knife. He throws a punch, mostly just to get the kid off him, and before the Doll can recover, Dean has slammed his head into the dumpster and knocked him out.

Dean grumbles out an expletive, hauling himself to his feet, eyes desperately scanning the chaos for Laurel. He doesn't see Edie anywhere, which is disconcerting, but he does see Moretti pulling Laurel into the apartment building. He takes one step before he hears a gun cock beside him. He turns just in time to see an arrow hit the gunman in the knee. He goes down, dropping his gun.

Dean turns to his savior.

''Go,'' Thea urges. ''We've got it handled here. Get Laurel.''

He hesitates briefly, for maybe one second, trying to spot Edie, and then he races across the alley and into the apartment building. It's unnervingly quiet inside. It didn't feel overly sinister before, but now it does. He doesn't trust this silence. He takes the earpiece out of his ear and slips it in his pocket. He needs to not be distracted by the sound of Felicity's understandable but shrill worry right now. He needs to focus. He moves to the right, checking for any movement. When he moves to draw his gun, it's not there. He pauses shortly. It must have fallen out when he was tackled. He doesn't spend long debating about it. He's not going back for it. He doesn't have time for that.

Not in love with the idea of doing this unarmed, but he's not sure about a gun fight either. He'd rather Moretti not hear him coming. Besides, he's sure he can find a weapon if he needs one.

Dean turns the corner and -

Oh, what do you know.

A weapon.

He reacts instantaneously, reflexively, to the gun aimed at his face. He throws his hand out and disarms the new guy, stealing the gun from him in seconds, other hand curling into a fist that he slams into the guy's nose. The other man, presumably one of Edie's action figures, stumbles back, hands coming up to clutch at his nose, giving Dean enough time to unload the gun and toss it away. Despite the blood gushing from his nose and the missing gun, the guy doesn't give up.

Gotta give him credit for that.

Dean takes a punch, allowing the guy to get closer, and then he lunges, easily pinning the smaller man against the wall, arm against his windpipe. ''We don't need to do this,'' he warns. ''I let you go and you can walk away from all of this. Go home to your family.''

The Doll doesn't budge. ''Edie is my home now.''

''No, she's your captor,'' Dean tries. ''She's brainwashing you.''

''She freed me,'' the Doll says, and whips out a knife. He swings it before Dean can react and manages to slash him on the cheek.

Dean recoils, falling back, but barely even feels the wound.

The Doll gets in a few swings, but they're too wide, showing his inexperience, and Dean is able to dodge them with little trouble. Somewhere around the fourth useless swing, he decides enough is enough and catches the guy's arm, diverting the direction of the attack and sending the knife plunging into the Doll's gut. He twists the knife and the Doll sinks to his knees, blood dribbling out of his mouth.

He crumples to the ground and Dean lets out an uneasy breath of relief. He's not jazzed that he just had to kill some poor brainwashed bastard, but he also didn't want to die. That's the thing with these Dolls. They may be inexperienced and untrained, but they don't give up. They just keep coming. He bends down to check the guy's pulse and just as he's pressing his fingers to the neck, he hears that familiar clicking sound.

He looks up, sees another one at the end of the hallway with a gun trained on him, and he reacts. He rips the knife out of the first one's gut, flips it around, and throws it as hard as he can. The knife embeds itself in new guy's shoulder, surprising him enough to make him drop the gun. It does not slow him down much. When the dude starts reaching for the knife in his shoulder, Dean rushes at him, kicking the gun out of the way and throwing punches.

The punches land, but don't seem to be having much of an effect on this Brawny Paper Towel Man looking Doll. On the other hand, the Doll's punches are unmistakably having an effect. Dean's ears are ringing after the first two. He goes for the knife in the man's shoulder, but the guy catches his hand, resisting with everything in him. Quickly, before he can get his wrist snapped, Dean uses his other hand to strike the guy's throat, elbows him in the nose, and with Lumberjack thrown off guard, he push kicks him right through the rotting wood of a nearby apartment door.

He follows him, stepping over splintered wood, and grabs onto the first heavy thing he can find. An old rotary phone. He hits without warning, slugging the guy in the side of the head as he's trying to struggle to his feet. He hits him again, and again, and one more time for good measure, until the big guy finally stops trying to get up and the phone is in pieces.

Dean drops the phone and takes a second to catch his breath, wasting time he doesn't have to look around what can only be described as the frilliest apartment known to man. It's one of the only apartments he was unable to clear during the earlier sweeps because it was locked and he didn't think it was worth the effort to kick it down.

The place looks virtually untouched. There is some clutter, some broken knick-knacks and shattered glass from the quake, he can see mold creeping up the far wall and covering the ceiling, but other than that, it's as if time has stood still. There is an indent in the plastic covered couch and what looks like it was once a half-eaten TV dinner is practically fossilized on the coffee table. Everything in here - as pink and frilly and floral as it may be - looks like it's waiting. He looks over at the small kitchenette, the teakettle sitting on the table beside a mug and a bag of tea.

It gets to him more than he'd like it to. Even after everything else that has happened, all the ridiculous bullshit Green Arrow has brought to this city, the Undertaking is still the one that stings the most. Of course it is. That one was personal. That one took Tommy. Even Damien Darhk and his sad HIVE no longer compare. I mean, Laurel came back.

Tommy didn't.

He won't.

In retrospect, taking a minute to catch his breath, gape at the overabundance of lace, and have a trauma response to a years old TV dinner wasn't the best idea he's ever had because the next thing he knows, he's being strangled with those pink flowery curtains. He instinctively tries to claw at the fabric around his neck, trying to pry it away from his throat to no avail.

Lungs burning for oxygen, he tries to think fast, slamming his elbow back into the attacker's ribs. There is a grunt of pain and it seems to throw the man off just enough for him to loosen his grip, allowing Dean to grab onto his arm and flip him over. The man lands hard on his back, but recovers way too quickly. Dean pulls the curtains away from his neck and turns to grab for a weapon. It's a stupid rookie mistake. You never take your eyes off an attacker. Not even for a second. He can't even grab onto the nearby lamp before the Doll lunges. Then, suddenly, he is being tackled. He lands on the wooden table in the kitchen and it immediately splinters and he goes crashing through, landing on the ground, winded and dazed.

He doesn't even have a second to regain his bearings before the latest Doll wraps his meaty hands around his neck and crushes.

Dean struggles against him, trying to grab at the man's face, his nose, his mouth, his eyes, anything to distract him, but nothing works. This Doll works with a disturbing amount of ease, strangling someone with his bare hands so effortlessly, no hesitation in his movements whatsoever. He's done this before. Possibly more than once. It is a visceral reminder that not every person Edie has brainwashed was innocent.

Desperately, Dean gropes around for something that will help him. His fingers brush against the stainless steel kettle and he fights to grab onto it, latching onto it and bringing it up, bashing it into the guy's head. He goes reeling back, blood trickling down the side of his head, and Dean is left gasping for air, trying to shake it off and not pass out.

Still, the Doll recovers. Recovers a little too quickly. When he grabs a sharp piece of wood from the remnants of the broken table and charges, Dean just...reacts. It's a reflex, dirty and brutal, but instinctual. The guy surges, going full force and Dean reacts by kicking him hard in the knee. In the two seconds it takes for Asphyxiation Kink Doll to lose his grip on the piece of wood and start falling, Dean catches the piece of wood and drive it up -

- and right into the guy's throat.

There is a gurgling noise, a brief look of shock, and then the Doll slumps onto Dean, bleeding all over him, very dead.

It's not how he wanted this to go.

And, man, he is really out of practice.

With some difficulty, he rolls the dead weight off him and slowly pulls himself up to his feet, panting and sore, rolling his shoulder. Logically, he knows he is injured. He can taste the blood and feel the dull threat of pain later on, but he's not feeling much at the moment, adrenaline coursing, acting like a protective armor. He's going to take advantage of that. He still needs to get to Laurel.

He steps over the bodies and high tails it back into the hallway, racing up the stairs, avoiding the giant hole in the stairs, and onto the second floor. Then he turns the corner and a shot goes off. He dives back behind the corner, narrowly missing a bullet to the face. ''Oh, come on,'' he grouses. ''Seriously?''

He looks around for something that can be used as a weapon, but there's nothing, and he can hear the other man approaching, ambling down the hall. All right. Whatever. That's fine. He doesn't need a weapon. He closes his eyes and attempts, in a half assed way, to map out how this is going to go down. After a heartbeat, he opens his eyes, listens to the footsteps getting closer, and the second the guy turns the corner, raising his gun, he strikes. He charges the Doll seconds before the trigger is pulled, easily redirects the gun so the shot goes into the ceiling, and sweeps the man's legs out from under him, grabbing the gun from him as he goes down.

When the Doll struggles to his feet, Dean takes the shot. The bullet only hits the man in the arm but when he stumbles back, he can't quite keep himself from tumbling down the stairs.

Dean lets out a breath. He looks down at the gun in his hand. Well, so much for the stealth attack. Might as well use it while he's got it. He turns to survey the empty hallway. When he cleared this floor earlier, he made sure to leave all the doors open. He didn't want any surprises. Now they're closed. He lets out a quiet, sardonic laugh, shaking his head in exasperation.

He checks to see how many bullets are left in the gun. Two. Well, all right. He can do something with that.

Absently, he wipes away a bit of blood coming from a wound he's not even sure the origin of before it can drip into his eye. He starts down the hallway, keeping his gun at the ready. The hallway is mostly dark, save for a few beams of daylight leaking in through the wooden slats of the boarded up window at the end of the hall. Everything is silent. He can hear every creak as he stalks through the hall, listening intently for any noise, any sign of movement. His eye catches one door to the left about halfway down the hallway. He's not sure why, but something just doesn't look right about it.

It's the light coming from under the door, likely from an open window, and the shadows. He swears that shadow shouldn't be there. He creeps closer and looks up at the peephole, listening intently for the sound of breathing, and then he moves on.

As suspected, once he is out of sight, a shadow passes by under the door and there is a noticeable creak. He gives it a few seconds, long enough for the person to move away from the door, and then he doubles back and brings his foot to the door. The door caves in and he bursts through, raising his gun just as Moretti whips Laurel around, one hand over her mouth, pressing her back against him, the other holding a gun to her head.

His gaze is cold, cruel, and focused. No hesitation, no sign of humanity. It's far more chilling than looking into a Doll's empty eyes. Ricky Moretti has a soul. He has free will. He has choice. He doesn't have to do these things. He can be whoever he wants to be. And this is who he has chosen to be. ''I wouldn't,'' Moretti warns.

Dean doesn't lower his weapon, but he doesn't fire it either. ''Laurel,'' he speaks calmly, without taking his eyes off Moretti. ''You okay?''

She struggles to nod and when he risks the quickest glance over at her, Moretti jerks her around, shoving her away from his body, moving his hand from her mouth to around her throat, pushing the sonic dampener up, nearly hitting her in the chin with it.

''Hey!'' Dean takes a step closer, but it doesn't do any good.

In one move, Moretti has his gun pointed at Dean with one hand and the other is crushing Laurel's windpipe. ''Drop it, Winchester.''

''What are you going to do? Kill her?'' Dean mocks. ''Don't think your girlfriend would take too kindly to that.''

''She'll get over it.''

''Oh, right, because she never holds grudges. She needs her, Moretti.''

''I don't need her,'' Moretti says. ''I think she's more trouble than she's worth.''

Dean looks at Laurel, trying to gauge the expression on her face. ''Yeah, you know.'' He lowers his weapon. ''I agree with you there,'' he chuckles. ''She is trouble.''

And then Laurel brings her knee up, slamming it hard into Moretti's groin. He sinks like a stone. Even with her cuffed hands, she easily disarms him, grabbing his gun as he folds over, pistol whipping him once and then again when he tries to pull himself up.

In the quiet aftermath, once he is motionless on the floor, she looks over at Dean, catching his eye. She smiles at him, fleeting but genuine and - holy shit. He can't remember the last time he felt this relieved.

It is a short-lived feeling.

In the blink of an eye, before he can even take the cuffs off her, both guns are ripped out of their hands by an unseen force and when they turn to the door -

There's Edie.

She is standing in the doorway, pale, barefoot, and fucking pissed. She looks unwell, twitchy and sweaty, blood smeared under her nose, on her cheeks from the wounds where Hanna's fingernails dug into her. She looks smaller somehow than before. More human. The guns hover uselessly in the air for a second and then she waves a hand and both weapons just disintegrate. Turn to sand that spills harmlessly on the ground.

''I don't like guns,'' she says, stepping over the pile of sand. She cranes her neck to look around them, over to Moretti's prone form. ''Hmm.''

Dean swears she looks faintly amused at the sight.

She clears her throat. ''Is he dead?''

''Edie,'' Laurel starts. ''Listen to me - ''

''I think I've done quite enough of that for today, kiddo,'' Edie says. She barely even looks at Laurel. Her bloodthirsty gaze is mostly on Dean at this point. ''But you,'' she smiles. ''I think it's time we had a chat. Just you and me.''

''Not really in the chatting mood,'' he says.

She laughs, but it sounds hoarse and choked. ''That's fine. I think I'm going to do most of the talking. You'll be too busy choking on your own blood.''

''Wait, wait!'' Laurel jumps in front of him before he can stop her. ''I'll go with you.''

Edie doesn't falter. ''Yes, you will.''

''Laurel.'' Dean puts his hands on her hips, attempting to move her out of the way, but she plants her feet and shrugs him off.

''Please,'' she begs. ''I'll go with you. I'll do whatever you need me to do. Just please leave him out of this.''

''Leave him out of this,'' Edie scoffs. ''He's been in this from the beginning, Laurel. Now, if you'll excuse us, darling, the grown-ups are talking.'' Then she flicks her wrist. There is no way to stop the wave of hot magic that sweeps through the room, knocking them both off their feet.

Dean hits the wall hard, drywall cracking, and then he sinks to the ground. He hears a door slamming shut and when he looks up, Laurel is nowhere in sight, trapped behind the closed bathroom door. There is pain spreading throughout his body, but when Edie turns to him, he makes sure he's smirking. ''So that's the game, huh? Revenge?''

She looks at him curiously. ''What makes you think this is a game?''

''Your enjoyment.'' He hauls himself to his feet, swallowing a groan. He expects her to wave her perfectly manicured hand and throw him back down to the ground, but she doesn't.

She stays right where she is, calm as can be, watching him pick himself up off the floor. ''Dean Winchester,'' she murmurs. ''God's Righteous Man.''

''Edith Hart,'' he throws back. ''Psychotic witch bitch.''

It doesn't faze her. ''Don't you ever get tired of playing hero?'' She paces over to him, taking in the sight of him. ''No,'' she whispers. ''No, of course you don't. Not when it's her.''

He doesn't respond, looking over her shoulder at the bathroom door. It's strange. He can hear Laurel trying to jiggle the doorknob to get to him, but he can't hear her yelling. He looks away from the door. He's not going to advertise this to her, but he sincerely doubts leaving Laurel alone is going to work well for Edie. ''How've you been, Edie?''

She smiles a little, almost like she wants to laugh. ''Oh, just peachy,'' she says mildly, clearing her throat again. ''You? How's life since you got what you wanted?''

''What I - ''

''Laurel,'' she states. ''You're welcome for that, by the way.''

''You want me to thank you for what you did to her?''

''I did give her back to you.''

''Gave her - You know she's dying, right?'' He looks at her pale face, trying not to glower. ''That's what you did. You brought her back to torture her. She's sick.''

''Are you saying you'd rather I never brought her back at all?''

''I don't want her to suffer.''

She smiles at him again, softer this time, somehow pitying. ''Yes, you do.''

He opens his mouth to deny that, but she takes a step toward him and he shuts his mouth. Best not to piss off the homicidal witch when he's alone and unarmed.

''It's just you and me here, handsome,'' she says. ''Let's be honest with each other.'' She takes another step, one hand reaching out to grip the wooden column. For a second, he's concerned she might try to destroy it. It's a load bearing pillar and burying her enemies in the rubble does sound like the kind of stupid she seems to subscribe to. But she doesn't. She just holds onto it with one hand, as if trying to hold herself upright. Her attempts to appear casual are not quite cutting it. ''You don't care about her suffering. You just care that she's here. The only pain you care about is yours.''

''That's not - ''

''Hey, it's okay.'' She holds both hands up and he can't help but notice the way she sways slightly, even though she's trying to hide her unsteadiness. ''It's human nature. We are selfish creatures. We don't want to be in pain anymore. We want to be happy.'' She looks at him for a minute, moving to circle him. ''Look at you.'' She moves behind him and he feels her cold fingers on the nape of his neck, scratching at him lightly. He tenses, fists clenching at his side, but refuses to give her a reaction. ''You reek of desperation.'' Her fingers tweak his ear playfully. ''You got your wife back.'' She ghosts back around to grin at him, too close for comfort. ''Your family is whole again. But something's still missing, isn't it? Having her back isn't quite the magical fix you wanted it to be. You're still the raw wound you've always been. Your wife's a miracle, but you're still an ache. You can pull the people you love from the fire, but you're still burning right along with mommy, aren't you?'' She steps even closer to him, destroying all personal space, until he can smell the sharp metallic scene of blood and something...floral?

She reaches out to touch his jacket, fixing the collar. ''I can relate.'' She peers up at him, seemingly relishing in his discomfort. ''I've been burning for sixteen years. Thanks to your father.'' She clears her throat again and reaches up, unexpectedly gentle, inspecting the shallow cut on his cheek. ''You anything like your father, Dean?''

He looks down at her, impassive, jaw clenched. Up close, she doesn't look nearly as intimidating as she wants to be. She looks...sick actually. Her pupils are blown out her skin is waxy and glimmering with sweat, and none of her movements are as smooth as she wants them to be. He has no idea what Hanna did to her after her original plan failed, but whatever it was, Edie seems thrown off. If he didn't know better, he'd say she's been drugged.

''My father made a mistake,'' he says, as evenly as he can.

''A mistake?'' She draws her hand back. ''That's what I was? A mistake?''

''Of course you were a mistake,'' he says, and smiles at her, perfectly pleasant. ''If he hadn't screwed up, you would be dead. Way I see it, that would've been a public service.''

''You - ''

''You killed fourteen people.''

''That... That wasn't - ''

''Wasn't what?'' He inches even closer, mostly just to see what she will do. She backs away. ''It wasn't on purpose? It was an accident? Well, what about this? Is this an accident? Everything you're doing, everything you've done - Is this all just an accident too?''

''Laurel would be dead,'' she seethes. ''If I had died back then,'' she attempts to shout, only to break off in a cough. ''She would be dead now. What would have happened then?'' She starts to laugh, hostile and bitter, only to be cut off by a violent coughing fit. She tries to shrug it off, waves her hand like she's trying to wave away an imaginary cloud of dust. ''All those people lining up to protect her, pretending they care about her, how long until they would have forgotten she existed? How long until that numbskull in green replaced her? They would have washed her away like she was never there and you would have watched. And you know that. You know that, Dean. Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that would have been better?''

''Oh god,'' Dean rolls his eyes. ''Are you going to kill me or not?''

She doesn't respond, too taken aback by his nonchalance.

''I'm serious,'' he says. ''Shit or get off the pot, Blair Witch. I have things to do and I can't stand the sound of your miserable, whiny voice.''

She looks like she has been slapped. Then she looks murderous. ''Watch it, Winchester.''

''Altruism doesn't suit you, Edie,'' he snipes right back. ''The only reason you brought Laurel back was to destroy her. You do not get to tell me to be grateful for that.'' He studies her expression closely, trying to decide where to go from here. Does he stall or attack? He's unarmed, she's a witch, and he still needs to get to Laurel and get her out without being turned into a frog. ''You think I don't get why you're doing this?'' He scoffs. ''Please. You can dress this up as love or mercy or whatever you're trying to sell, but we both know that's bullshit. You tell yourself you're doing this because you want Laurel's scream to - what? Replace the one I'm assuming my father cut out of you?''

When she takes a step back, he takes a step closer.

''But that's not it, is it?'' He keeps moving closer to her, inching into her space - a truly stupid move, but the only one he's got. If he can distract her, maybe Laurel will be able to get away. ''This is about your pain,'' he accuses. ''And hurt people hurt people. You think I don't understand that? You think I don't know what that's like?'' He backs her up against the wall, trapping her in. She doesn't stop him. He has no idea why she isn't stopping him.

She looks almost scared of him, but he can't tell if it's real. He can't tell if it's because of him, if it's because of what Hanna did, or if it's because of what his father did. Whatever it is, he feels like he should take advantage of it. He's just not sure he trusts it. She doesn't seem like the person to so easily show a weakness.

''I got a smart mouth and your cousin's got barbed wire eyes, but you...'' He puts a hand on the wall beside her head and she flinches, visibly swallowing. He still can't tell if she's playing a role. ''You went the extra mile,'' he says. ''Thought your pain was unique. No one has ever suffered the way you have suffered. So you're going to make them. Is that it?'' He laughs mockingly. ''I've got news for you, sweetheart.'' He leans in close. ''You're not fucking special.''

''You should watch your tongue,'' she advises. ''Before somebody cuts it out.'' She places her hand on his chest and he swears for just a split second, he sees her eyes flash - literally flash - with light. The second she touches him, her bony fingers digging into him, he feels this shocking jolt, as if a thousand electric currents are running through him from head to toe. It's a knock-the-wind-out-of-you, so-excruciating-you-can't-even-scream kind of pain, pulsing throughout his entire body. He groans in pain, knees giving out beneath him. He attempts to claw at her, push her away, but it does nothing.

Then, all at once, there's Laurel.

He knew she'd make it out of the room Edie locked her in, knew she'd be able to get out of the handcuffs, but he assumed she would grab a weapon. Something to defend herself with. Hit Edie over the head with. Nope. She pops up behind her psychotic cousin, useless cuffs dangling from one wrist, and she grabs Edie by the hair, dragging her away from Dean before she practically throws her across the room. It's surprisingly savage.

Dean gasps for air, one hand clutching at his chest as the pain recedes, fading fast, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion.

When Edie tries to get to her feet, Laurel doesn't hesitate. She grabs an old, dusty, burnt out pot from the kitchen floor, stomps over to her, and swings. The first hit sends Edie staggering back. The second flattens her.

She doesn't get back up again.

''I did warn you not to touch him,'' Laurel says calmly, tossing the pot off to the side. ''You didn't listen.''

Edie tries to get back up, even with the blood on her face, but she can't quite get there. She's laughing maniacally, choking on her own blood, but she's still trying to struggle to her feet. ''Dinah Laurel Lance,'' she pants out. ''Always trying to save the world.''

''Not trying to save the world right now,'' Laurel says. ''Just him.''

Edie coughs out a pathetic sounding giggle, but she sounds like she's having a hard time catching her breath. She manages to get up onto her knees, only to immediately cry out in pain, doubling over.

Laurel tilts her head to the side suspiciously. ''Edie?''

Dean scrambles back to his feet, rushing over to grab onto her arm and pull her back. ''Don't touch her.''

''Why?'' She looks over at him and, despite everything, she looks visibly torn. ''What's happening to her?''

Edie makes another distressed noise of pain, crouched over on her hands and knees on the dirty floor. She coughs and retches, bringing up nothing but blood, and then looks up, directing her attention to Laurel with something awfully similar to fear in her eyes. ''You,'' she chokes out. ''You - You did something to me. What did you do?''

''Me?'' Laurel looks bewildered. ''I didn't do anything. Edie, what's - '' She doesn't move, shaking her head, but she looks...hesitantly concerned. ''What's going on?''

''This isn't Laurel, Edith,'' Dean says. ''I think you know what's happening.''

Edie, still wheezing, unable to catch her breath, laughs. ''Little brat.'' She sounds almost reluctantly impressed. She coughs again, clears her throat, and then devolves into a harder, more desperate coughing fit. When she pulls her hands away from her mouth, there are bloody flower petals in her hand.

''It's Hanna,'' Dean says, latching onto Laurel's wrist. ''She poisoned her.''

''I did,'' a soft voice says from the doorway. ''With oleander.'' Hanna takes a step into the room, eyes focused on Edie, watching her struggle to breathe and cough up blood without a hint of remorse. ''My grandmother kept some of the oleander she used on my grandfather. Dried it and kept it pressed in the pages of her grimoire. In case she ever had a use for it.'' She smiles dimly, hollow looking and tired. ''I found a use for it.''

Dean and Laurel share a quick, helpless look. On the ground, Edie is still wheezing and gasping, desperate for air, blood on her lips. She looks angry, like if she could just get up, she would be snapping Hanna's neck, but she also looks scared. She doesn't want to die. We're all the same when we're clawing for survival.

He isn't sure where he is supposed to stand on this one. He knows where Laurel stands just from one look at her. She doesn't want this to be happening. She doesn't want Edie dead. Witch or not, she's her blood and evidently she feels some kind of way about that. Dean does not. He wants the witch dead. He wants her gone. He'd kill her himself if he could. He will kill her himself. But not now. Right now, he thinks he might care about the kid more.

''Okay,'' he says, breaking away from Laurel to take a step over to Hanna. ''Good job, kid. You got her. She's down.''

''You don't need to go on any further than this,'' Laurel tries, edging toward the witch.

''Yes, I do,'' Hanna says sharply. ''She killed my brother.''

Laurel winces, glancing at Edie. ''I heard,'' she says softly. ''I'm so sorry, sweetheart.''

Hanna blinks back tears. ''Yeah, well, that's why she needs to die.''

''It won't bring him back,'' Dean advises. ''It won't ease your pain. Revenge can't be what you need it to be.''

''You want her to live?'' She eyes them both incredulously, betrayed. ''After all she's done? She's a monster. She made us monsters too.''

''No one can make you a monster,'' Laurel says. ''Only you have the power to do that.''

''She deserves to die.''

''This isn't about what she deserves,'' he tells her. ''This is about you. You're a good witch. You're not a killer. Don't let her make you one. Killing her like this means she wins.''

''If you do this,'' Laurel says softly, ''you can't come back from it. No matter how bad she is.''

''There is no back,'' Hanna insists. ''There's nowhere for me to go now. I don't care what this makes me. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing - '' She breaks off in a gasp, eyes rolling into the back of her head, body going limp as her mother's hands placed on either side of her head gently guide her to the ground.

As soon as Dean sees Marlene Moretti standing there, poised and surprisingly well coiffed for someone who was recently poisoned, he grabs onto Laurel and yanks her back. Hanna's alive, her chest is rising and falling evenly, she's just asleep. She looks, in all honesty, peaceful. She probably hasn't slept so peacefully since all of this started.

Marlene looks at him for maybe three seconds and then she steps over her daughter's prone body and glides over to Edie, stilettos clicking against the floor. She kneels down beside Edie, watching silently for a moment as her boss practically coughs up her insides. ''Hmm,'' she murmurs. That's it. That's her only reaction. She lays a hand against Edie's cheek, then drags it to her jawline, her throat, and then she snaps her fingers, and Edie slumps, unconscious, still wheezing, but no longer coughing up blood and petals.

Marlene stands, brushing off her dress, fussing over a spot of blood. She turns back to Dean and Laurel.

Dean holds his arms out, trying to keep Laurel behind him. ''Marlene - ''

''Go.'' She nods to the door. ''Take Hanna and go. Now.''

...Oh.

Okay, not what he was expecting, but he sure doesn't need to be told twice. He's just gathering Hanna up into his arms when he hears Marlene's unnervingly calm voice.

''She'll need time,'' she says and when he and Laurel turn, she's looking down at Edie' unconscious body. ''To recover from what my daughter has done to her.'' She looks back at them. ''Not just the oleander poisoning, but the power leeching.''

''The...'' Laurel frowns. ''The what?''

Marlene bends down, turning Edie's head to display the bloody fingernail marks on her face. ''The power leeching,'' she says again. ''I believe Hanna was aiming to drain her. The same way Edie drains witches.'' The ghost of a smile passes across her face. ''She's very clever, my girl. Ultimately, she failed, but Edie will still need time to heal.'' She levels a piercing gaze at them. ''I'd suggest you use that time to form a plan of attack. Hopefully a better one than this.''

''Hey,'' Dean can't help but pipe up. ''That's - My plan worked.''

''Barely.''

''How are you...'' Laurel does not look particularly trusting of Marlene's apparent helpfulness. ''I thought you were soulless.''

''I am,'' Marlene confirms. She doesn't seem too bothered by that. ''My soul is withering away in the soul eater's nest. Edie struck a deal with the thing. She feeds it regularly and it leaves a few souls alone. Stores them but doesn't eat them. It's so the bodies will live longer. Even then, I'd estimate I only have about five to six months - at best - before my body gives out. And that's a generous estimate. I'd say more than likely three to four. Less if one of them gets too greedy and they turn on each other. And they will turn on each other sooner or later.''

Well, that's...grim.

''But,'' Laurel takes a step. ''You're not - ''

''Brainwashed?'' Marlene smiles thinly. ''No. I'm a woman, Laurel. I'm good at faking it.'' She chuckles at the surprise on their faces, though it lacks any real humor or emotion. ''Did you honestly believe I wouldn't have taken precautions against her little hex?''

''You knew she would come for you,'' Dean realizes.

''She made her intentions clear from the beginning,'' she nods. ''She wanted us on her side. She needed us. She also knew we were never really on her side. Other than,'' she throws a look over her shoulder at Moretti, ''the oaf over there. My mother and I knew she would make her move eventually. We just weren't expecting the level of...violence she was willing to display.'' She pauses, frowning curiously, as if she's trying to pull up her emotions but can't. ''The Weber coven is very old. I am very old,'' she says ominously. ''I've met people like Edie before. I used to be a person like Edie. Before I had children.''

At that, Dean and Laurel share a look. Neither one of them wants to be the one to say it. He looks down at Hanna, sleeping like a baby in his arms. ''Marlene, there's... There's something you should know. About Matteo.''

''Yes,'' she says, voice clipped. ''I know. He's dead.'' There is no real emotion on her face, no trace of grief, not even a shadow of sadness. It's hard to watch. She understands her son is dead, but she can't particularly feel any type of way about that without her soul. Either that or she's in major denial. ''I gave up everything for my children,'' she says, still eerily calm. ''The same way my mother gave up everything for my sister and me. The power. Immortality. My place in the Grand Coven.'' Her eyes move to Hanna. ''They were worth it. I picked a bad man,'' she admits. ''But my children were worth it.'' She keeps looking at Hanna and then raises her eyes to Dean and Laurel. ''Edie will never know love like that,'' she says firmly. ''I don't think she can. She doesn't have it in her. I'm not just talking about motherhood. That's not for everyone. I'm talking about love in general. Someone burned that out of her a long time ago. She wouldn't give up power for anyone. Not a lover, not a child, and not you.'' She looks at Laurel. ''You'd do well to remember that. If you think you can love her back to who she was, you're wrong. You can't save this one, Canary.''

Laurel squirms under the scrutiny of Marlene's cutting look, flinches at the idea of not being able to save someone. That's her biggest weakness as a hero, and it's one Dean understands all too well. She has not yet accepted that not everyone can be saved. That sometimes she will fail, lose innocents, get there too late or not at all, and it won't make her a failure or an imposter. It just makes her human. Quite frankly, knowing her, he's not sure she'll ever understand that. If she doesn't want to see something, she doesn't.

It only reaffirms his stance on the terrifying matter at hand.

When the time comes, and it will come, Laurel cannot be the one to deliver the killing blow. It will have to be him. Whether she agrees with that or not.

''But,'' Marlene continues. ''At the end of the day, Edie is a bug. She can be squashed.'' She creeps over to Laurel. ''It's Hazel Aelard you need to be worried about. If she is unleashed, she will lay waste to this city and everyone in it. Leave nothing but hellfire in her wake. You might want to consider doing something to prevent that. That is, after all, what you hero types do, isn't it?'' She smiles at them, but once again, there is nothing to it. It's just an empty void. Like a corpse smiling. ''Just be careful,'' she advises. ''Edie wants you broken. She needs you scared. She needs you on your knees. She may not be a global threat, may not even be a citywide threat, but your little corner of the world?'' She clicks her tongue. ''That, she can destroy. That, she can steal.'' She looks in between them, gaze lingering on her daughter limp in Dean's arms. ''Look out for each other,'' she says. ''The worst things imaginable can happen in the blink of an eye. Just like that.'' She snaps her fingers and -

- they are no longer standing in that abandoned apartment.

Dean blinks and shakes his head, attempting to shake off the feeling of dizziness, like a warped head rush. He shifts Hanna's dead weight in his arms and looks around, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness. It doesn't take long to realize that they are in the warehouse across the alleyway. He looks at Laurel, meeting her quietly disturbed gaze.

Neither one of them seems to know what to say.

''Laurel?'' They both turn to the stairs, watching John sprint down to get to her. He pulls her in for a hug but it only lasts a second before he draws away to assess her injuries. ''Are you okay?'' He touches her cheek, wincing at the sight of blood and bruises.

''I'm...fine,'' she says faintly.

''How did you two...?'' He trails off, shaking it off. ''Never mind. Doesn't matter. We've got a problem.''

Fucking understatement.

Dean swallows a sigh. ''What kind of problem?''

''Dinah. She led Onomatopoeia away from us, but she's taking a beating and bullets don't seem to stop this guy.''

''Damn it,'' Dean mutters. ''All right. Take her.'' He thrusts Hanna at John, ignoring the other man's protests. ''Where are they?''

''Dean - ''

''Where are they?''

''Roof across the street, but I don't think you should - ''

''Get everyone out,'' Dean orders shortly. ''We got Laurel. Now get her out.''

''Wait,'' Laurel calls after him. ''Dean, you can't - ''

''I'll be fine,'' he assures her over his shoulder. ''Just get somewhere safe!'' He races out of the warehouse and across the now curiously empty alleyway, ignoring the way Thea calls out to him, and into the old apartment building. He isn't thinking about what he's doing, which is reckless, and he's completely unarmed, which is stupid, but all he knows is that if he doesn't do something, Dinah is going to die.

He knows she's not his wife, he is perfectly aware that she is a surly psychopathic and highly unpleasant person, cruel, manipulative, and vicious, but there is no version of this story where Dean Winchester's hands kill Dinah Laurel Lance. It's just not going to happen. He will not allow it. Not on this earth.

He heads straight for the roof, taking the stairs two at a time without even bothering to check and see if Marlene, Edie, and the furiously hardheaded Moretti are gone. He is not quiet or stealthy about it in the least. When he reaches the locked door to the roof, he kicks it down, bursting out into the open air just in time to see his doppelganger backhand Dinah, quite brutally by the looks of it, sending her sprawling to the ground.

There is blood smeared on his hands and his neck and his face and Dean can't tell if it's his blood or Dinah's, but when she goes down, she stays down. Dean takes maybe two seconds to formulate some sort of plan - not enough time to formulate a plan, by the way - and then does quite possibly the most dangerous thing he could do.

''Hey, Cap!'' He waits until Onomatopoeia turns, looking more exasperated than anything else, and then he tackles him. It doesn't go extraordinarily well for him. Sure, he brings him down. He even gets in a few good punches, clobbering him as much as he can while he can, but...

It's a demon.

Every punch just serves to piss him off further. This is a dumb, amateur-ish, desperate plan. Onomatopoeia takes far more punches than Dean expected him to, likely trying to get Dean to wear himself out, but quickly grows vexed. It is not at all surprising when he manages, with a creepy amount of ease, to catch Dean's fist, knee him in the gut, and throw him off of him like he's just tossing away a piece of trash.

Dean lands hard on his back, blinking up at the gray sky.

His stupid shadow is shaking his head at him disapprovingly, wiping a spot of blood from his mouth. He looks mildly inconvenienced. At the most. ''Seriously?'' He doesn't sound angry. Again, just barely inconvenienced. ''You came up here without back up?'' He saunters over to Dean, all cocksure and arrogant. What an asshole. ''I thought you were supposed to be some big shot hunter. You should have known better.''

His eyes slide over to Dinah's lifeless form for a minute and Dean takes that minute to look around for something to use as a weapon. Out of all the debris scattered around, he spots two things that might be able to help him. A steel rebar and what looks like a broken, rusted pipe. They're both behind the other guy. He just has to get to them. There is no way he's going to be able to dive for either, so... Gonna have to do this this shitty way.

Aw, fuck.

He heaves a long suffering sigh and drags himself back to his feet, bringing Onomatopoeia's attention back to him. ''Well, I'm retired,'' Dean smirks. ''Maybe I'm just havin' trouble getting back into the swing of things. Think you could help me with that?''

And then – grudgingly - he attacks.

It goes about as well as can be expected. He sends a perfect right hook and it does absolutely nothing. He thinks it hurts him more than it hurts the vaguely insulted looking demon. He makes a halfhearted attempt at another punch, but Onomatopoeia catches his fist, looking at him with a pitying expression. ''Really?'' He arches a single brow. ''I mean - really?'' He grasps onto Dean's shirt and throws him backward.

Dean goes crashing back to the ground, rather painfully, but... It works. He gropes around, finally managing to latch onto the pipe. He's up in seconds, slamming the pipe into his other self's head as hard as he can. It's not perfect, but it does at least a little more damage than his bare fists. He swings the pipe repeatedly, driving the other man back, closer to the edge of the roof. It works for a few hits.

Then Onomatopoeia recovers. His movements are slow, lazy, and deliberate. He catches Dean's wrist again, with this little sigh like he's disappointed that his Earth-1 counterpart is nothing more than a lousy human, and twists it back slowly and painfully, until the piper goes clattering to the ground. Onomatopoeia is quick and brutal. He kicks Dean in the knee, sending him to the ground, and then he sends an uppercut that lays Dean flat out on his back.

Onomatopoeia chuckles quietly and picks up the abandoned pipe. ''You shouldn't have come up here, Dean,'' he says quietly. ''Believe it or not, I don't want to kill you.''

''You're right,'' Dean says. ''I don't believe you.''

''Suit yourself.'' Onomatopoeia starts to lift the pipe. He doesn't get far. Out of nowhere, a bullet rips through his shoulder. He grunts and drops the pipe, stumbling back, but seems more startled than injured. He looks at his shoulder and then back to the rooftops, inky black shifting over green. ''I hate it when people shoot me.'' Another gunshot pierces the quiet morning air and this time, it hits him right between the eyes. He staggers back and sways, but, incredibly, he remains standing.

Dean has no idea what the hell is going on, but he's going to roll with it. He grabs onto the steel rebar, jumps back up to his feet, and stabs his doppelganger in the chest without a single second of hesitation. Doesn't matter that the guy looks exactly like him, he's creepy and he's grating on everyone's nerves here, so he's getting a rebar through the chest.

It doesn't - and won't - kill him, but it does injure him, blood pouring out of his mouth, a stunned, gurgling noise escaping his lips.

Dean twists the rebar. ''You shouldn't have come up here,'' he mocks, and then he gives him a shove and sends his Earth-2 self off the roof.

In the ensuing silence, he releases a small breath of relief, but isn't feeling quite as triumphant as he should be. He turns, scanning the rooftops for any sign of the shooter. His first thought had been John Diggle, but he's not over on the roof of the warehouse anymore and that's not where the shots came from anyway. He narrows his eyes suspiciously, turning in a circle, looking at every rooftop he can see, searching the windows of nearby buildings for any possible sniper. There's nothing. No sign of anyone and no sign that he is in any danger.

He opts to put that aside for now. That's a problem for another date. He has bigger fish to fry right now. He heads back over to Dinah, checking her pulse, making sure to check for any other fresh injuries, and then he takes the earpiece of out his pocket and puts it back in place. ''Felicity? You still there?''

''It's Overwatch, thank you, and, hey, quick question: where the hell have you been?''

''I need you to contact Cas and tell him to get down here as soon as he can.''

''What? Why?''

''I'm going to need his help with something.''

''With...what?''

Dean makes his way back over to the edge of the roof, peering over to look at the body on the ground. ''Containment.''

.

.

.

October, 2012

''Wait, she's STILL not in labor?''

Dean sighs at the question, pushing out the door of the diner and into the bright and sunny October morning. ''No, Sam, she's still not in labor.''

''But last night - ''

''False alarm.''

''Again?'' Sam sounds flabbergasted. ''Jesus, she's had a lot of false alarms. How's she holding up?''

Uh.

...Not well.

Dean looks around the parking lot, trying to catch sight of his very pregnant and very, um, emotional wife. ''She's been better,'' he says. ''Exhausted and sore, mostly.'' He spots her over by the Impala, pacing back and forth by the passenger side door, one hand on her back, looking queasy. ''I think she's moved past grumpy frustration and into weepiness. I took her out for breakfast and she burst into tears because she could only get down a few bites. Should've seen that one coming.''

Sam makes a somewhat concerned noise on the other end of the line, but sounds distracted.

Dean tries, with difficulty, to set aside the impending birth of his child for a minute because that's not what Sam called for. ''Tell me again what this thing's called.''

''Uh, it's a...a manananggal,'' Sam stumbles over the word helplessly.

''Gesundheit.''

''Hilarious,'' is the dry response. ''It comes from the Tagalog word tanggal. Basically means ''to remove.'' This thing is supposedly like a vampire so I guess that's referring to the removal of blood? I'm not sure. It's native to the Philippines so I'm having a hard time nailing down any concrete info about it. It's not like there are a lot of experts in demonology in Sun Valley.''

''The Philippines, huh? Then what the hell's it doing in fuckin' Idaho?''

''That's what I'm trying to figure out. I know the first victim recently came back from Manila so my working theory is that the thing somehow attached itself to him like a spirit. I don't even know if that's possible, but that's all I got. All I know is I've got three dead bodies and something with wings and a huge tongue tried to get the drop on me last night.''

''Wings? As in... WINGS? Okay,'' Dean squeezes the flimsy takeout container a little too tight. ''I don't like this. Where in Idaho did you say you were? Sun Valley?'' He checks his watch. ''I can be there in - ''

''No,'' Sam says firmly. ''Absolutely not. Are you crazy? Your wife is eight days overdue. She could pop any minute now. You're not coming to Idaho. Besides, you are the last person who should be helping me with this. These things prey on couples in love and pregnant women. Some lore says not only does it suck blood but it eats the hearts of fetuses. You show up and this thing'll either suck you dry or smell Laurel on you and set a course for Washington State. You stay where you are.''

Well.

That does give him pause.

''Sam - ''

''I'm okay,'' his brother says. ''I've got this. If I need backup, I'll call Jody or Garth.''

Does not make him feel better, honestly. Jody and Garth are good but they're not him.

''I just need you to check Dad's journal and Bobby's books,'' Sam says. ''I'm getting nowhere with research and the internet fucking sucks out here. So far I know salt, garlic, and ash repel it, but I don't know if that's enough to kill it. Garth's looking into it for me, but you have access to what's left of Bobby's collection. It's a long shot because these things don't typically step foot on US soil, but - I don't know, it's Bobby. He knew everything.''

''That he did,'' Dean agrees quietly. He approaches Laurel, handing her the takeout container, mouthing ''Sam'' when she looks at him quizzically. ''All right, well, most of Dad and Bobby's stuff is in the Kirkland lock up, but give me an hour or two and I'll look through what I have with me and get back to you.''

''Got it.''

''I want you to check in with me as soon as you kill it.''

''Just so we're clear,'' Sam says testily. ''I'm not a kid.''

Dean rolls his eyes, but does successfully exercise self-control and doesn't snap right back ''yes, you are, dumbass.'' He thinks that's progress. ''Yeah, but you're tall,'' he says off handedly. ''Some people might say you're too tall. You clomp around like a giant. Eliminates all possibility of stealth. It's a real liability, Sammy.''

Sam lets out one of those pissy oh-so-offended huffs of his. ''Dean.''

No appreciation for humor whatsoever.

Dean chuckles at his own joke - because someone has to - and looks over at Laurel to see if maybe she's going to throw him a bone and laugh with him. In short, no. She does not appear to be in the mood for that currently. She's about three shades paler than she was, bent over, hands braced against the hood of the car, wincing and trying to breathe through pain. Abruptly, his humor vanishes. ''Shit, Sam, I gotta go. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Do not go after this thing until I call you with the info.''

''Okay, but - ''

''And text me the spelling. I have no idea what you said and you probably botched the pronunciation.''

''I did not botch the - ''

Dean ends the call, cutting off his brother's protests, and rushing over to Laurel. ''Hey, baby, you okay?'' Automatically, in what is quickly becoming a reflex, he moves his hand to press on her lower back.

''Just a contraction,'' she says, even though her voice is tight with discomfort. It passes after a few seconds of her deep breathing and she stands straight, immediately reaching for her water bottle that she's placed on the hood. ''I'm fine.''

He's not convinced. ''Are you sure?''

''I'm sure.'' She takes a few gulps of water, eyeing him somewhat incredulously, as if his concern is unwarranted somehow. ''You should be used to this by now.''

''I'm never going to be used to seeing you in pain.''

''Well, you better get used to it, buddy. One way or another, labor is imminent and I need you with me. Not passed out in the corner.'' She puts the cap back on the water bottle and brandishes it at him, giving him a stern look. ''You better not pass out.''

''I'm not going to pass out,'' he dismisses. ''Why does everyone think I'm going to pass out? Listen, I don't care how gross the 'miracle of childbirth is,'' he says, putting air quotes around the 'miracle of childbirth' part. ''I don't care about the bodily fluids or the smell or the blood or the stretching – ''

''Oh my god, I care!'' She yelps, holding her hands up. ''I care a lot! Please do not talk to me about the stretching!''

''All I'm saying is that I have been to actual literal Hell, nothing can compare to what I saw there, and I'm not going to pass out.''

''Well, good for you,'' she mumbles, pushing her glasses up. ''That's great. You've already got a leg up. Congratulations.'' She's quiet for a minute and then sighs heavily, looking at him with big apologetic puppy dog eyes. ''I don't mean – I'm sorry I implied it's great you were in Hell.''

He can't help the small huff of laughter that escapes. ''Sorry I mentioned the stretching.'' He leans in to kiss the side of her head. ''Come on. Let's get you home.''

''I should run to the bathroom first,'' she says. ''I thought that particular issue would get better once she dropped, but nope. I still have to pee every five minutes. You have no idea how terrifying it is to sneeze.'' She thrusts the bottle of water at him. ''Be right back.''

''Would it help if I said you're a cute pregnant lady?''

''No!'' She pauses, throwing a look over her shoulder. ''...A little.''

He watches her waddle - walk, sorry, she hates whenever someone dares to suggest that she waddles now - back over to the diner, eyes narrowing in concern. She hasn't had a good morning. Or a good night. She was up all night with contractions, she's been extremely nauseous this morning, even with her regular dose of Zofran, and he's starting to wonder...

Nah, best to put a pin in that thought right now. If the contractions get worse or closer together, he'll reevaluate, but she's been consistent in her certainty that this is just more false labor and it is her body after all.

Dean puts her food and water in the car and pulls out his phone, leaning back against the hood to google whatever the fuck Sam's hunting. ''Holy shit,'' he mutters, scrolling down to look at the illustration of the creature. ''It really does have wings.'' Googling this monster does not make him feel any better about Sam hunting it all by himself. He gets that it's entirely unreasonable for him to hop in the car, leave his heavily pregnant, overdue, contracting wife alone to go all the way to Sun Valley, Idaho, but that doesn't mean he can't call Garth and demand he get his ass down there to provide back up. Even if he sends someone else, it will at least be something. He makes the call, but all he gets is Garth's obnoxious voicemail. He waits a few minutes and then calls again, leaving a terse message, instructing Garth to call him back as soon as he can. He's just hovering over Jody's name, debating whether he should call her when Laurel pops back up.

She looks over his shoulder, grasping onto his arm. ''What are you calling Jody for?''

He hesitates for a second, but ultimately decides not to make the call. Maybe Sam was right. He's not a kid and he can handle himself. ''Nothing.'' He slips his phone back into his pocket. ''I just had a question to ask her, but it can wait.''

She waits until they're both settled in the car before she asks, oddly carefully, ''Is Sam okay?''

''He's fine. He's just got me on research duty.'' He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as he turns the ignition, trying to figure out how she feels about him helping out with a case, even just from the sidelines. It has been a few months since he quit hunting and she has been nothing but supportive, but sometimes he gets the feeling that she doesn't believe he's committed to his retirement. Which he is. It's been a change and he doesn't know what to do with himself half the time, but...

There's a baby coming soon - any minute now, really - and he wants to be there for that. He needs to be there when she's born and he needs to be there every day after that. He's going to be a father. Where else would he be?

Laurel doesn't look like she's given the comment much thought. She's popped open her leftovers, staring glumly at the pancakes and turkey bacon that she barely ate. ''I'm so sad,'' she declares. ''Look at these pancakes. They look so delicious. I love cinnamon pancakes.''

''I know you love cinnamon pancakes.''

''Now they're just going to go to waste,'' she says, nibbling sadly on a piece of turkey bacon. ''Because I have no appetite.'' She tosses the piece of bacon back in the Styrofoam container and picks at the pancakes. ''Another thing I thought was supposed to get better once the baby dropped.''

''You do still have HG,'' he reminds her gently, steering the car out of the parking lot.

''Ugh.'' She flips the container clothes and glares, somewhat halfheartedly, down at her bump. ''Get out of me! I want pancakes!''

He feels his lips quirk up into a half smile, but tries to squash it.

''I guess you're right,'' she sighs. ''It doesn't matter. I'd probably just throw them up anyway. I'm so sorry, pancakes,'' she says, mournful as she flips the container closed. They're both quiet for a minute, Laurel mourning her wasted breakfast, Dean trying to get them to the Star Bridge without running into the morning traffic. He's already dreading going over the bridge. It's consistently backed up in the mornings.

''Wait.'' Laurel spots something out the window. ''Is today Halloween?''

He takes a quick look over at what caught her attention as they pass by. A storefront with Happy Halloween signs, fake cobwebs, and black and orange streamers covering the window. ''Uh, yeah.''

She looks aghast. ''Did you know today was Halloween?''

''I got the message when our waitress popped up at our table with cat ears and whiskers.''

''Oh, I...'' She blushes. ''I just thought that was a choice.''

''You thought she just woke up on a Wednesday and said to herself, You know what this outfit needs? Cat ears.''

''I don't know,'' she yelps. ''Halloween hasn't been on my radar this year. This month has mostly been about nesting, Oliver drama, and pre baby panic attacks for me.''

''I noticed,'' he admits, sobering, glancing over at her. ''Well, now I'm sad I don't have the appetite for cheap candy. It's going to go on sale tomorrow and I'm too full of baby to enjoy it. I love clearance candy.'' She pouts down at her belly. ''I don't want to be unkind, but you are really harshing my buzz, kid. Dean, tell your child to get out of me. She's not listening to me.''

He absently reaches out to pat her belly, but is far too focused on the increasing traffic as they approach the bridge. ''Get out of your mother, child.'' Once he has successfully switched lanes without one of these anxious commuters ramming into them because they're too busy texting to pay attention to the road, he relaxes slightly. Enough to wonder aloud, ''Hey, what if all these demands are just making her more and more indignant and she's going to stay inside forever out of spite?''

She side eyes him. ''You think our unborn baby is being obstinate in the womb?''

''I'm just saying look at who her parents are.''

Dread creeps over her face. ''Oh god, I'm doomed.''

He chuckles, looking over at her as a small smile breaks out on her face. It's good to see her smiling. She hasn't been feeling well at all for the past few weeks - past nine months, if we're being honest - and he's been as supportive as he can be, but it kills him that there's nothing that he can do for her. This is just something she has to cope with for the time being. And she hasn't been the best at coping. There has been a lot of stress and absurd shit happening in their lives over the past nine months.

''There is a T-rex in the crosswalk,'' she says.

It takes a second. ''What?'' He whips his attention back to the crosswalk, watching a kid in a t-rex costume waddle across. The poor kid can barely move in the thing, attempting to hustle across the street with little baby steps, t-rex arms flailing. He clears his throat, struggling to keep a straight face. ''See, if you had seen that, would you have just thought that was a choice?''

''I don't know, babe, weird things happen here,'' she says. ''We have a Robin Hood.''

The littlest dino comes so close to making it all the way across the street, but trips at the last minute and topples over like a tree.

Laurel full on snort laughs, nearly choking on her sip of water, attempting to hide behind a curtain of her hair to cover up her laughter.

The parents rush over to help the tiny dino and when the dad picks the kid up, the kid's little feet are still going, trying to run. Dean is trying really, really hard not to laugh at a child falling down, but he is not succeeding.

''Okay,'' Laurel gets out through her laughter. ''That made me feel better.'' She nudges her glasses up, flips open the takeout container again to swipe the half eaten piece of turkey bacon, finishing it off in one bite.

The light turns green, finally, and the car rolls on, leaving the dinosaur behind to hopefully make it to school without another wipe out. The traffic is not usually this bad on this side of the bridge. It's Orchid Bay, the downtown core, that's the worst. But today isn't a normal day apparently. He's not sure why. It's a Wednesday. Halloween can't possibly bring out this many people. It's a children's holiday. He barely remembers it every year. Well, that's not true. He never fails to remember the candy. ''Seriously,'' he mumbles under his breath. ''What is with the traffic today?''

''We live in a congested city,'' Laurel says from beside him. She doesn't say anything else, but she patiently allows him to grumble and curse as they inch along.

Maybe going out for breakfast wasn't the best idea. He suggested it because Laurel had a shitty night, barely got a few hours of fitful sleep before she woke up at six thirty and couldn't get back to sleep, and he thought getting out and getting some fresh air and pancakes would be good for her. He still stands by that, but going all the way to Avalon Park might have been overkill. ''We should've just gone to that place down the street with those breakfast sandwiches you like,'' he says. ''We could have walked there. Walking's supposed to help induce labor, right?'' No answer. ''Hmm? Laur?'' He looks over at her, expecting her to be picking at her pancakes and bacon.

She's not.

She's got her eyes shut tight, one hand on her stomach, the other practically crushing the takeout container, pain written all over her face.

He looks at the cars in front of them, and then back to her. ''Contraction?''

She nods, inhaling sharply. ''Big one,'' she gets out, voice tight.

''Want my hand?''

She doesn't even hesitate to grab onto his hand, squeezing tightly. She has quite the grip. Way stronger than she looks. He keeps one eye on the traffic to make sure they're not going anywhere and then he reaches over to take her takeout container, turning to put it on the backseat. She doesn't protest, focusing on breathing deeply, clutching at his hand. The contraction lasts much longer than the others. Long enough for him to worry.

''Laurel - ''

''Okay,'' she breathes out, body relaxing. ''Okay, it's over.'' She opens her eyes. ''Did you time that one?''

''No, but it was definitely longer than the others.'' He looks at her closely. ''Are you sure this is false labor?''

''I'm sure,'' she says. It's not particularly convincing. ''...I think,'' she admits, quieter. ''Even if it's not, the contractions are still irregular.''

''Still,'' he tries. ''Maybe you should call Alex when we get home.''

''There's nothing she can do for me.'' She squirms in her seat, still looking uneasy. ''It's just a waiting game at this point. You know that.''

He decides it's safer not to force the issue right now. He looks back at the traffic, eyeing the car behind them in the rearview mirror. Every time they inch forward, that sleazy suit with the douchebag sunglasses lurches after them in his prissy little midlife crisis car, phone pressed firmly to his ear, chatting away, barely paying attention. If that self-important jackass hits his car...

Reluctantly, still apprehensive and distrustful of trust fund dick over there, he looks away from the rearview mirror and back to Laurel. She looks visibly tense and she keeps shifting in her seat. He watches her for a second, concerned but consciously trying not to smother her. It's only when she blows out a frustrated sounding breath that he can't help but speak up. ''Are you sure you're - ''

''I'm fine,'' she says, despite the grimace that crosses her face. ''You have to stop asking me that every two minutes. I'm just sore. My hips hurt, my back is killing me, this baby is so low it feels like there is a bowling ball between my legs, which makes sitting for too long freaking unbearable, and I'm so exhausted. I barely got any sleep last night. I think I just need a nap.''

Uh-huh.

She settles back against her seat, taking off her glasses and closing her eyes, breathing in through her mouth, out through her nose.

Okay, so, truth time.

Dean is roughly about 70-75% certain that Laurel is in labor. Real labor. He may not be an expert in childbirth, but he does know his girl. He has spent years learning to be fluent in her. He knows her. His suspicions started last night. Poor Laurel has been dealing with prodromal labor for weeks now. It sucks and he can see her growing more and more exhausted and frustrated with every passing day, but her midwife has assured them - repeatedly - that it's all just part of the process. Her body is getting ready for the main event. When it comes to the prodromal labor, they've found a rhythm over the past few weeks. Alex keeps reminding him that teamwork can be essential to labor and, at this point, with all the practice, labor might be the only thing they're ready for. But last night was a shitshow. She was miserable. She's never been that hysterical about false labor before. Typically she handles it pretty well.

Nothing helped. Not a bath or a shower, not counter pressure on her back or hips, not pacing or bouncing on the yoga ball. The contractions didn't let up the way they normally do. They started around eleven and lasted all night long, finally subsiding enough for her to get a few hours of broken sleep at around four. They kept getting stronger and closer together and she spent most of the time in between back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom, throwing up what little dinner she had eaten until she was just dry heaving. And she was...off. Physically and emotionally, she was just off. She was so keyed up, pacing around because she was too uncomfortable to sit, periodically telling him that she couldn't do it, didn't want to do it, and they were naive and arrogant to even think about having a baby in this corrupt and broken city.

She might've had a point with that last one, but she's never reacted like that before. There's been quite a few times where she's been the calm one, raising an eyebrow at him when he anxiously suggests calling Alex or taking her to the hospital. Real labor, on the other hand... He knows she's petrified of the upcoming delivery. Not just because of childbirth but because of motherhood.

As strange as it sounds, Dean still isn't entirely sure how Laurel feels about having a baby. She hates pregnancy, he has gotten that message loud and clear from the beginning, but the parenthood part? He's not sure where she falls on the spectrum there. He hasn't been able to get an accurate read on that. He's not sure she knows either. She wanted to go through with the pregnancy and have the baby, was quite adamant about it, but that is just one part of the equation.

The happiest he has ever seen her was on their wedding day. She was ecstatic. Downright giddy. Even through the nausea, she was so brilliantly happy. He hasn't seen much of that happiness lately. Not when it comes to the baby. Every now and then, he'll catch her talking to the baby, chatting away easily. She has her moments, even if she doesn't notice it, and she fakes it well enough to fool everyone else, but she is in a precarious position here and no one else seems to get that. He knows she's had a rough pregnancy, he knows there is no way for him to understand how that feels, and he even knows that there has been a lot going on lately completely separate from the pregnancy that's contributed to her emotional state, but he worries.

Her fear is understandable, he feels it too, and he gets that she physically feels like crap and that her body is changing and being flooded with hormones and it's all so out of her control, but he still feels concerned with her level of...whatever's going on. Apathy? Disinterest? Fear?

Sometimes she doesn't feel like his Laurel anymore. She used to be so in control and put together. She has been nothing but open about her mental health struggles since she had her first panic attack in front of him a couple months into their relationship, but she had a handle on her MDD and PD for years. Years. He was the one who was a mess in this relationship. But now, ever since she got pregnant, he can see her sliding downhill and he doesn't know how to help her. He's not sure he's equipped to catch her if she falls. He just knows he's extremely worried about what's going to happen once the baby is born. And he knows she is too. He can see it on her face.

Up until now, their baby was more of an abstract thing, an inevitability, but something that was far off in the future. Now that her due date has come and gone, reality has sunk in. Despite how miserable she is being pregnant and her frustration over being overdue, he catches those split second looks of relief that cross her face every time the contractions peter off and turn into nothing. He doesn't know how to fix it for her. Give her happiness. He can take over the brunt of parenting when the baby's here, make sure Laurel's getting enough rest and staying hydrated, but he can't love her out of this dark place she's inching toward.

He wants to believe that her slow growing disconnect with life is just exhaustion and hormones and that things will be better when the baby's here and she finally stops throwing up every day, but - well, he doesn't believe that at all.

Dean looks over at Laurel, sitting there looking down at her stomach. It's not hard to believe she would be, either knowingly or unknowingly, in denial about real labor. He looks in front of him, at the lineup of cars slowly inching their way forward. There's a turn up ahead. If he takes it and goes around, he could get to the bridge faster. He waits until they're close enough and then says, ''All right, that's it. I'm turning here.''

''We don't live down here,'' says Laurel, though she waits until he has made the turn to point that out.

''It's a shortcut. We'll just go around. Beat those poor suckers to the bridge,'' he declares. ''I know what I'm doing. I've lived here for a couple years now and - ''

''Uh, okay,'' she says as he prepares to take a left. ''But just so you know - ''

He takes the left and promptly runs into a new problem. ''Son of a bitch!''

'' - There's construction down there.''

He sighs heavily, resting his forehead on the steering wheel in defeat. Well, that's it then. He's going to wind up having to deliver his kid in his car. It's going to be so...unsanitary.

Laurel puts her glasses back on and reaches over to pat his arm. ''Thanks for trying, honey.''

He lifts his head up to look at her, checking her over. She seems a bit better. Still pale but she's smiling at him and she doesn't look at all freaked out by the possibility of labor right now. That's good. Better than last night in any case. Maybe he can relax. Focus on the traffic. The line of cars isn't moving quite as slow as the other, but they're still at a crawl. Not much of a shortcut. After a few minutes, he checks his watch and grumbles out, ''I can't believe I'm missing the Golden Girls for this.''

Laurel turns to look at him, squinting. ''...What?''

''There's a Golden Girls marathon on today.''

''You have seen every episode of that show several times.''

''Yeah, so? It's a marathon.'' He gives her a serious look. ''Those women raised me, Laurel.''

She laughs. ''Uh-huh. All right.'' She turns in her seat so she's facing him. ''I have a question. When I told you that I wanted to incorporate my grandmother's name into our baby's name, you were all for it. Then when I worried that Beatrice might be too old fashioned, you immediately suggested calling her Bea. Was that you being sweet or was that because of Bea Arthur?''

He blinks a few times, trying to swallow his laughter. ''Two things can be true.''

''If Betty White asked you to run away with her, would you?''

''Would you not?''

''I can't believe I married a nerd.''

''Yep,'' he nods. ''And now you're stuck with me for the rest of your life.''

She shakes her head at him, but he can see the twinkle in her eye and the grin on her lips. They lapse into a comfortable silence again as they crawl past the construction. The flow of cars open up a bit after they pass the construction, but the roads are still crowded with people heading downtown. He takes the ''shortcut'' and squeezes onto the bridge, but they've still got a long road ahead of them from the looks of it. He's fiddling with the radio when he hears Laurel groan beside him, rubbing at her lower back.

''I'm taking the world's longest nap when we get home,'' she grumbles, brows furrowed in discomfort.

''Yeah, you didn't get much sleep last night.''

''I haven't gotten much sleep in months,'' she says. ''And it's only going to get worse from here on out.'' She sends him a wry smile. ''You ready for that?''

''Is anyone ever ready?'' He reaches one hand out to massage the knots of tension in her neck and shoulders.

''Maybe when I wake up, we could go take a walk down by the bay,'' she suggests, stifling down another yawn. ''See if that gets things moving.''

''Sounds good.''

''Do you think I should talk to Alex about scheduling an induction?''

He looks over at her in surprise. ''An induction?''

''Yeah.'' She bites her lip nervously. ''Would you be okay with that?''

''It's your body,'' he says. ''Your choice. Whatever you want to do, I'm with you 100%.''

''I feel like there's a but coming.''

''An induction means a hospital birth.''

''I know.''

''You specifically told me you wanted to avoid that.''

''I know,'' she says again, quietly. ''I didn't want - I don't want...'' She trails off with a sigh. ''I hate being in the hospital. It's stressful, there's too many people, and zero privacy. And this is my family's tradition. And I know I should let her come on her own, but I...'' She looks down at her stomach, lips pressed into a tight line. ''I can't be pregnant anymore. I'm not good at this part.''

''Laurel,'' he says. ''You've done amazing.''

She rolls her eyes at him, not at all soothed by that. ''You'll have to stay with me,'' she warns. ''If I go with an induction in a hospital setting. You have to be with me at all times. I'm going to need you. You'll have to be my advocate.''

''I know.'' He reaches over to take her hand, threading his fingers through hers, bringing her hand close so he can kiss her knuckles. ''I've got your back, I've always got your back, you know that.''

If he's being honest, he would be on board with a hospital birth. It's not that he doesn't trust Alex as a midwife. He just wants Laurel to have everything she could need readily available. If something goes wrong, he wants a doctor there. If she ends up having a panic attack or wanting an epidural, he wants her to have what she needs ready for her. He understands that this is a ''tradition'' in her family, but he'd be lying if he said the whole home birth angle doesn't freak him out. But he also wants Laurel to be as emotionally comfortable as possible and he can admit she might not be in a hospital. Hospitals have not exactly been places of great comfort to her. The last time she spent any length of time in one was when her grandfather was dying. Before that was during her first trimester when the vomiting got so bad that she had to go in a few times for fluids.

''We should finish up the nursery today,'' she says, breaking the easy silence between them.

He frowns in confusion. ''Haven't we been finished with that for at least a month?''

''I think I want to rearrange some things.''

''Does it even matter?''

She arches a brow. ''It's our daughter's nursery.''

''But she's going to be in our room for at least the first six months, right?''

''That doesn't mean she doesn't deserve a nice room,'' she argues. ''What about for naps? I want there to be proper feng shui.''

Dean shakes his head, glancing at her fondly. ''Do you seriously think she's going to notice the feng shui in her room? She won't even know she has hands.''

''I'll notice.''

''Oh, okay, I get it. This is a nesting thing.''

''It's not a - '' She stops. ''All right, yes, it's a nesting thing. That, and...'' she holds up a finger. ''I was googling yesterday - ''

''Oh god, the googling.''

'' - and I read this article about a couple who hung a picture above their baby's crib and the picture fell and hit the baby on the head.''

Okay, that's horrifying. And also why she shouldn't google. ''Is there a happy ending to that story?''

Her response is a grim, ''No.''

Dean stares at the traffic in front of him. Well, pictures are a hard fucking no for his kid's room then. ''Do we have any - ''

''The bumblebee print.''

''I'll move it as soon as we get home.''

''Thank you,'' she beams. ''Can you also take out the trash when we get home? I'm way too pregnant for that.''

''Be honest with me,'' he throws her a smirk. ''You're going to miss using that as an excuse to get out of things.''

She laughs, eyes lit up, but does not agree or disagree with his assessment. The traffic on the bridge is, thankfully, not nearly as slow as the traffic getting there. It's slow moving, but at least it's moving. Maybe they won't be stuck here all day. They make it about halfway across the large looming Star Bridge and then Laurel leans forward to change the radio station. She is flicking between channels, trying to find something suitable, and he's just about to say something when he hears her sharp intake of breath. Her hand clamps down on his leg just as the car rolls to a stop behind a moving truck and when he looks over at her, her face is tight with pain and her eyes are shut tightly.

''Again?'' He manages to get her to disengage from his leg - with some difficulty - and gives her his hand to squeeze. She braces her other hand against the dash and her breathing turns into a guttural moaning sound that he has never heard her make before. ''Laurel,'' he tries - yet again. ''I really think we should call - ''

''Shit.''

''What?''

She doesn't answer, but she leans back against the seat, trying to catch her breath as the contraction ends. Her eyes are wide and stunned looking, which does nothing to quell his worry. ''Ohhh no,'' she mumbles out, closing her eyes.

''What? What's wrong? Honey, you gotta talk to me here.''

She doesn't, not until they're moving again and she's caught her breath. ''I - '' She opens her eyes. ''I think my water just broke.''

For some reason, Dean is having a hard time processing that one. ''...In...my car...?''

She recovers enough to send him a look caught between incredulous and bemused.

''No, I'm - I didn't mean - '' He shakes it off. ''Are you sure? For real?''

''Well,'' her voice is trembling and she's clutching at the door, sitting frozen and awkward in her seat, like she's too afraid to move. ''Either that or I'm peeing and I can't stop.''

...Probably best not to say it. ''Now to be fair, there have been a few times where you've sneezed and - ''

''That is not what's happening!''

''Okay,'' he reaches out to rub her shoulder but the traffic's moving again and he'd rather not get into an accident. ''Okay, okay - Laur, okay - ''

''Stop saying okay!''

''Okay. I mean - No. Sorry. Just - Don't panic.''

''I'm not panicking! Are you panicking?''

''I'm not - I'm not panicking,'' he says, but he does have to stop to take a few deep breaths. Which is not panic, for the record. He's just taking a knee for a second. There's a lot to think about. All the books and preparations and impatience can't prepare you for this moment. ''Everything's going to be fine,'' he decides. ''We knew this was going to happen. She had to come out sometime. We just need to get you home. You can take a shower, get some dry clothes, maybe rest a bit, and we'll call Alex.'' He's nodding to himself with every word, feeling very comfortable with his plan, even though she hasn't said a word. ''Should've put a towel down on the seat.''

''Are you seriously worried about your car right now?''

''I wouldn't say I'm worried. More like reasonably - '' He stops instantly when he looks over at her and sees the look on her face. ''No,'' he says. ''Of course I'm not.'' He glances at her again, arching a brow. ''Are you sure you're not panicking? Because you look a little - ''

''Oh my god,'' she gets out, shaky. ''Oh my god, I can't do this!''

''Uh, I think I'm supposed to be the one freaking out? You're ruining the stereotype.''

''I can't have a baby!''

''...Kinda think that train's already left the station.''

''I've never even held a baby!''

''A little weird,'' he admits. ''Are you sure? Not even once? How have you never held a baby? Even I've held a baby.''

She doesn't answer, but she looks petrified.

''Ah, well,'' he tries to brush it off. ''It's not a big deal. It's easy. Don't stress about it.''

''What if I drop her?''

''Babies bounce.''

''Dean.''

''You won't drop her,'' he soothes. The traffic comes to another stop and he looks at her, expecting to see her paralyzed with fear. She's definitely not paralyzed. She's bawling. ''Sweetheart,'' he tries. ''Why are you crying?''

''I can't do this,'' she blubbers.

He's not entirely sure what he can say to that. ''All right, well, I can't do it for you.''

''I'm not talking about giving birth,'' she cries. ''I can do that. It's not like I have a choice. I'm... What if I don't - Or what if I can't...'' She buries her head in her hands, visibly trying to piece herself back together enough to coherently get out her thoughts. ''What if there's something wrong with me?''

''What do you mean?''

''I - '' She stops short. Releases a slow breath. Something about the look on her face is breaking his heart. She looks so scared and defeated. ''Laurel - ''

''Never mind,'' she interrupts quickly, hastily wiping away her tears. ''It doesn't matter.''

''No, I think it does,'' he argues. ''What do you mean what if something's wrong with you? What do you think is wrong with you?''

''Nothing,'' she insists. ''Just...'' She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, a nervous habit he recognizes. ''I'm extremely uncomfortable right now,'' she says. ''And I'm really, really scared. Can you honestly tell me you're not?''

''Oh no, I'm terrified,'' he readily admits. ''We're going to be parents. That's fucking surreal. But...'' He trails off. Cannot figure out a way to accurately describe the strange mix of fear, joy, and peace that he has felt over the past few months. Living this life with her, waiting for his child to be born, it's not something he ever pictured for himself. It didn't seem accessible to him. Somehow, he still found it.

Sometimes he misses the violence and bloodshed of his old life. It was what his father programmed him to be. It was what he was born for. Michael's perfect sword. A body meant for brutality. All he knew was vengeance and chaos. It made sense to him. It was simple and easy. But violence isn't the only thing he was made for. Laurel has spent years trying to get that through his head, begging and pleading with him while he grew restless and drank himself into unmanageable sorrow and claustrophobia. He didn't truly understand what she was trying to get across to him until there was a baby on the way, until he quit drinking, until he could finally, for the first time in his life, see clearly through his own eyes and not his father's. He doesn't feel all that restless anymore. He just feels...home.

''We're going to be parents,'' he says again, softer. ''I think I've been waiting for her for a long time.''

''Yeah,'' she grouches. ''41 weeks.''

Right. 41 weeks. A lifetime. Same difference.

He looks over at her quickly as they approach the other side of the bridge, heading into the downtown core and, eventually, their apartment. It's bizarre to think that the next time they head over the bridge to eat at their favourite breakfast place, they'll have a baby with them. He doesn't think that's the main thing on her mind. ''There's nothing wrong with you,'' he says, but it falls on deaf ears.

She doesn't respond, shifting - once again - in her seat, arching her back with a groan, tilting her head up to look at the roof. ''Okay,'' she grimaces. ''It feels like someone is stabbing me in the back with a hot poker.''

''Is that normal?''

''I don't know. I've never done this before.'' She closes her eyes, releasing a shaky breath, and he can tell just from the look on her face that she is about to start crying.

''Maybe you should call Alex,'' he suggests.

She doesn't answer for a second, keeping her eyes squeezed shut, but then she nods. ''Yeah,'' she croaks out. ''Yeah, that's a good idea.'' She rummages around in the pocket of her oversized hoodie, fumbling with her phone with shaky hands.

''I'm going to be with you the whole time, you know that,'' he can't help but remind her. ''I know you're scared and I know I can't take that from you, but I'm not going anywhere. I'll do whatever you want me to do, say whatever you need me to say, but I won't leave, okay? And I'm not just talking about labor. I'm talking about every day after. You and me - we're a team. Right?''

She smiles weakly, still looking nervous and teary, but maybe not quite as hopeless as before. ''Right.''

''Right,'' he nods. ''So we're going to do this and we might even be great at it. Who knows. We just have to take it one step at a time. And that we can do.''

She nods, taking in a deep breath. ''That we can do.''

.

.

.

November, 2016

The worst things imaginable can happen in the blink of an eye.

Try as she might, Laurel cannot get Marlene's warning out of her head. She just keeps hearing it again and again, that ominous warning of impending doom that she can't quite figure out.

The worst things imaginable.

What does that even mean? What else could Edie possibly do to her? What's left? She already had her killed. She already brought her back wrong and gave her hallucinations and nightmares, all these terrifying, never-ending forms of mental torture. She poked around in Mary's head and tried to kill Dean and used Henry's face to torment her. If Edie wants to take what's left of her, what is left to take?

Laurel looks down at Hanna's limp form, still sleeping soundly, draped across her lap. At least someone is finally getting some rest. Absently, using whatever maternal instinct she has the energy to muster up, she pulls up the blanket that Dean scrounged up from the depths of the Impala's seemingly bottomless trunk. She rubs the girl's shoulders to warm her up and thinks of Mary.

Her little girl, at home with a cough, without her mom and dad to take care of her. Her sweet, smart, giggly four year old who has had to deal with more upheaval in her short life than some people deal with during entire lifetimes. Edie was in her head. Laurel is still trying to come to grips with that. She is dealing with severe information overload here, but that is the one thing she keeps going back to.

Her husband's father slaughtered her cousin sixteen years ago and left her broken and disfigured; destroyed her so terribly that she turned into something monstrous.

Okay, that's bad.

Said cousin somehow played Damien Darhk like a fiddle, waved a carrot in front of his face to get him to charge at her family, and got him to use them as pawns knowing that she would become his victim.

Yep, that's devastating to think about.

But what Edie did to Mary, whether it was ''just a little dream walking'' or something more sinister, is on an entirely different level. Using Henry's face as a way to disarm the Black Canary was one thing. She didn't even know who Henry was. She knew who Mary was and she knew what she was doing when she chose to use her.

She will burn for that.

Laurel looks up at the others, but none of them so much as looks her way, too busy frantically trying to get Earth-2 Dean contained before he wakes up. Dean and Cas are easily the most concerned, rushing to get several Devil's Traps and various other protective sigils painted on the floor and walls. They have brought out every protective element they have at their disposal right now, right down to holy water and spelled chains and shackles, and they still don't seem confident that Earth-2 Dean can be successfully contained.

''He's from a different world,'' Dean had muttered earlier, while he was busy rummaging around in the trunk. ''We don't know what the rules are there. We're flying blind.''

Laurel watches him work, listening to him explain what a Devil's Trap is to John. He still looks beat up from earlier, but it doesn't seem to be slowing him down at all. He's wiped most of the blood away. The cut on his cheek has been cleaned and butterfly bandaged. He doesn't even look tired or sore. Despite the four year retirement, he has not skipped a beat.

She cannot say the same for herself. She has been out of the game for less than a year and she couldn't even take down Lady Shiva. She is the Black Canary and she couldn't even save herself. She had to be rescued like a common damsel. She knows she should give herself some grace. There has been a lot of trauma lately, she is not in the best shape of her life right now, and she was drugged. Not to mention Lady Shiva seems to be highly skilled and her training undoubtedly outweighs Laurel's.

It's just that every time something like this happens, every setback or minor failure she has means that she has to spend the next few days bracing herself for Oliver's inevitable comment about how useless Black Canary is. It's a pattern. She is getting sick and tired of that. And she can't even blow up and call him out on it because then she's just seen as ''unreasonable'' and ''over emotional'' and gets asked if she's been drinking.

She runs her hand over the vines running up her hand and arm, the visible evidence of the red string of fate connecting her to Oliver Queen forever. She doesn't often think about how crippling Green Arrow is to Black Canary, but it's hard not to right now. Edie is hers. She is her monster to fight. She cannot have him getting in her way right now. Might be time to cut the cord. That's a decision best made at another point in time. Preferably after a shower, a much needed nap, and hopefully a vat of coffee. But it is something she's going to have to think about - and sooner rather than later. She no longer has the time or the patience to do the whole ''is she or is she not a part of Team Arrow'' dance she has been doing for the past couple years.

She rubs the base of her neck, grimacing in pain. She is not someone who can shake off a beating. Her head is pounding, she's sore and bruised all over, lightheaded and nauseated from exhaustion and dehydration, and she is really feeling the absence of that Ketamine. It is also a feeling she recognizes and it is not a pleasant one. She tries to lick her lips, but her mouth is too dry.

All she can think is that she has no idea what to do next. She doesn't know how to stop Edie. She doesn't know how to kill the soul eater and free the captive souls. She doesn't know how to save Sin and get her out of the situation she's in. She certainly doesn't know what she's going to tell her family about this. Dad and Sara will be hard enough, but how is she supposed to tell Aunt Valerie what's become of her precious daughter? Should she even tell her anything at all? She feels like she's stuck in quicksand with no way out. She now knows who the witch is. She knows why Edie is doing this and she knows what she says she wants, but where do they go from here?

A sudden screech of alarm startles her out of her tired wallowing and she snaps back to attention, seeking out the source of the shriek.

Felicity is pointing at finger at the body on the ground. ''He moved,'' she accuses. ''His fingers - His fingers twitched.''

''Shit,'' Dean shoves the can of spray paint in his hand at Thea. ''I knew the tranquilizer darts weren't going to keep him down for long.''

''He's already mostly healed from the fall,'' Cas adds, crouching down next to the body to get a good look at Earth-2 Dean's face. He seems strangely unmoved by the eerie sight of his best friend's doppelganger. Lucky him. The guy's nothing more than a lump on the ground right now and Laurel still wants to throw up just looking at him.

''Let's see how this works,'' John steps over to them, syringe in his hand. The body twitches once when the needle goes in, eyelids fluttering slightly, and then goes limp.

''What was that?'' Thea asks, taking a step back.

''Midazolam,'' John says. ''About two times the recommended dosage.'' He moves back over to the first aid kit, capping the used syringe and discarding it in the plastic baggie.

Laurel follows his movements without even realizing what she's doing, searching for the vial of midazolam. She can see it sitting there on the flimsy looking chair. She can't seem to look away from it. It's a good thing she's got Hanna basically pinning her down. She doesn't trust herself right now. There's no way she could.

She snaps out of her stupidity and looks back to the others. No one is looking at her. No one but Dean. He catches her eye, this quietly piercing look on his face that tells her he saw every bit of that. She looks away from his prodding gaze and looks back down at Hanna.

''It's not much stronger than what's in the darts,'' John says. ''I don't know how long it will last. It's already a quick in and out drug and if he's managed to metabolize seven tranq darts already - ''

''It'll be like trying to sedate a grizzly with nothing but Advil PM,'' Dean says. He stares down at his doppelganger with folded arms. Laurel can practically see the wheels turning in his head. ''Okay, we need to get him in the Devil's Trap. Cas, make sure those chains are tight.''

''If they even work on him,'' Cas mutters, but still dutifully bends down to check the iron shackles.

''You,'' Dean points a finger at Dinah lurking over by the door. ''Make sure you stay back. I want you as far away from him as possible.''

''You know what would be far enough away?'' Dinah throws back at him. ''The Maldives.''

''Well, we'll be sure to keep that in our back pockets,'' Thea throws out casually.

''That goes for you too, Oliver,'' Dean warns, holding up his hand to stop him. ''Move back.''

Oliver looks insulted. ''What? No way. I'm - ''

''If he wakes up and starts tearing out throats, I don't want you anywhere near it.''

Oliver looks confused and maybe even a little mystified by Dean's admittedly uncharacteristic protectiveness.

At least he does until Dean adds on a bark of, ''You die, Laurel dies.''

Oh, right.

Yeah, that makes more sense.

''He's right,'' John says. ''You need to step back.''

''Besides,'' Thea says, crowding both Oliver and Felicity out of the inner circle and back over to Dinah. ''You're already wounded. No need to aggravate your shoulder any more than you have to.'' She gives them all a cheerful smile before she heads over to stand closer to Laurel and Hanna while the others get Earth-2 Dean into the Devil's Trap.

''Realistically speaking,'' Felicity says softly to an increasingly jittery looking Dinah. ''This guy traveled to another earth to find you. I don't think fleeing to the Maldives is going to cut it. Better to stick with us. At least we can keep you safe.''

Dinah laughs mockingly. ''Oh, goody,'' she snaps. ''So happy to be under your protection. Because you white hats did such a fabulous job keeping that one alive.'' She nods to Laurel. ''I feel so safe.''

Felicity visibly recoils, cringing guiltily and stepping away from Dinah, unusually silent.

It seems to hit the entire group in this big wave of guilt, reaching all of them at once. Normally, Laurel would feel bad for them, guilty that she has - even inadvertently - caused them to feel this way. Right now she's at capacity when it comes to complicated emotions. There is no room for their guilt on her shoulders. And their continued guilt over her demise is starting to exasperate her. She's going to have to put a quick stop to it. ''What happened to me wasn't their fault.''

''Laurel,'' Dean says. ''You don't have to - ''

''Edie set it up.''

Every head in the room- save for the creepy bearded version of her husband - snaps over to her. There's a solid six seconds of silence and stunned staring before someone, Dean, is able to get out an unnervingly cold, ''What?''

''She was involved with Darhk,'' she says. ''She manipulated the whole thing. She knew he wanted to weaken the Green Arrow and his team. She knew I was the weakest link because of my position within the team and she knew to use my dad. She set up the dominoes, she watched them fall, and it all worked out perfectly. Just like she planned.'' She looks down at Hanna. ''That grave was always going to be mine.'' Silence stretches out in the space between, but she is too chicken to look up and see the inevitable horror on everyone's faces.

''Are you - Are you serious?'' Thea is the one who finally asks the unavoidable question, her voice sounding small and tight.

Laurel sighs. She slips out of the jacket Dean wrapped around her shoulders earlier and then removes the stolen denim shirt, balling it up into a makeshift pillow to put under Hanna's head. She gets herself to her feet, shrugging back into the jacket before reluctantly looking up at her friends and family.

''She's been watching me for years. At least a decade. And she's been planning. Darhk was the catalyst she needed to finally put that plan into action. I walked the path she made for me,'' she tells them, matter-of-fact, emotionless. ''We all did.'' She looks to Dean, standing there with a roll of duct tape, jaw clenched. ''That means no one could have stopped what happened that night. There may have been a...'' She shifts from foot to foot, licking her lips. ''A confluence of circumstances that we all contributed to over the past year that helped her along, but even if it hadn't happened that night, it still would have happened. A car accident, a home invasion, random mugging, drive by shooting, forced overdose. There are many ways to die, but that's just how it worked out. She used Damien Darhk as a murder weapon, he was too stupid to see it, and you all got dragged into it. For that, I am sorry. But I was always going to die. She needed me to.'' She surveys their stricken faces for a second, and then zeroes in on John. ''It was Edie's fault,'' she says, quiet but firm. ''No one else's.''

There is a painful, drawn out pause before Oliver turns to Dean and Cas and asks, with stony resolve, ''How do we kill a witch?''

So much for that No Killing rule of his.

Cas answers, deadpan, ''With precision.''

Laurel drifts away from them after trying unsuccessfully to catch Dean's eye. He's busy tearing off a piece of duct tape for his lookalike's mouth and she can tell just from looking at him that he's trying not to think about this new revelation. She's not sure what she wants him to do anyway. He can't fix this. Can't make it better. She pulls his jacket tighter around her shoulders and wishes, for perhaps the billionth time, that she was wearing pants and not her tiny sleep shorts.

How inconvenient of Edie to have her kidnapped in the middle of the night.

Fuck.

Laurel closes her eyes, struggling to swallow down the sudden hitch in her breath, the ache in her throat. Edie had her kidnapped. Edie had her killed. Edie. The beautiful, sly, quick-witted ballerina she used to look up to. She feels like she still hasn't processed that. It hits her every few minutes like a wave, a tsunami of crushing grief and betrayal, but nothing is sinking in yet.

A hand on her shoulder brings her out of her stunned stupor and she shoves it all down, turning to look at Felicity, standing there smiling at her cautiously. ''Hey,'' she whispers. ''How are you?''

Laurel has no idea how to answer that. ''Cold.''

Felicity frowns, worry bright in her eyes. She keeps looking at Laurel like that. Ever since she rushed down here when they were certain Edie and her Dolls were gone, her focus has been shifting between Oliver and Laurel, obviously concerned but unsure what to say. When John wanders over to them, eyes on Laurel, Felicity doesn't even give him a chance to talk. ''Are you sure she doesn't have a concussion?''

''I'm not a doctor,'' he reminds her. ''No way I can say that for sure. She did pass all the field tests.'' He looks at Laurel, bending slightly, squinting at her, reaching out to cup her face, studying her pallor and her pupils. ''Any confusion? Dizziness? Nausea? How does your head feel right now?''

''No, no, yes, and like shit,'' she answers honestly. ''But I don't think that's from a blow to the head. It's the drugs.''

He doesn't appear to be terribly comforted by that. Neither does Felicity, her frown deepening in concern. They share a brief look and then he draws away from Laurel, still looking her over critically. ''I want to take Hanna to an ARGUS medical facility,'' he says. ''She's diabetic, asthmatic, and likely severely traumatized at this point. I think it would be best to monitor her at least until she wakes up.''

''I think that's a good idea.''

''You should come with,'' he says. ''Get checked out by an actual doctor. We could flush the drugs out of your system.''

''Yes,'' Felicity nods eagerly. ''That's a great idea. They can get you something for your headache and nausea. Something that is not a narcotic,'' she adds hastily. ''You should go. You've had a long night.''

''You guys, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine. Honest,'' Laurel assures them. She smiles, split lip and all, for their benefit. ''This looks worse than it is,'' she gestures to her face. ''It's nothing a cup of coffee and a shower can't solve. Trust me, I've had worse.''

They still do not look convinced. Which is strange because as much as she loves them both, they've never been this concerned for her before. It's not like this is her first time taking a few hits. In the beginning, when she first put that mask on, she took hit after hit after hit. Nobody was this worried about her then. They were mostly annoyed. Now they're concerned. Better late than never, I guess, but she is not in the greatest mood right now and all she can think is that she wishes it hadn't taken her death to get them to give a crap.

She looks around the both of them to call out to Dean, ''Is he secured yet?''

''Almost, I think,'' Dean says. ''He shouldn't be able to Jedi mind trick anyone else with all this,'' he says, gesturing to the chains. ''But when he wakes up, I don't want anyone looking him in the eye. You don't fuck with mind control.'' He's addressing everyone when he says it, but his eyes are only on Thea. ''Got it?''

She nods, rubbing her throat.

''Thanks for warning us about that, by the way,'' Oliver throws out, shooting a quick glower over his shoulder at Dinah.

She looks up from picking her nails to glare. ''His powers weren't this advanced the last time I saw him. He was still learning.''

''Awesome,'' Dean says, voice laden with sarcasm. ''He's evolving. How comforting.'' He steps away from his doppelganger for a second to grab a bucket of water off to the side. ''Cas, help me with these.'' He pulls a bundle of soaking wet ropes out of the water.

''What's the plan here?'' John asks. ''We can't keep him here indefinitely.''

Oliver rubs at his wounded shoulder. ''What about ARGUS?''

''Not sure they're up to date on their demon holding cells,'' John quips.

''Oh my god!'' Felicity's startled yelp puts a stop to the conversation. ''Is he...'' She inches closer to John and Oliver, still eyeing Earth-2 Dean incredulously. ''Is he burning?''

Sure enough, he is.

''Ropes are soaked in holy water,'' Dean says, without even looking up from what he's doing.

''You just took them out of that bucket!''

''Yes, that bucket of holy water.''

''Can any water be holy water?''

''As long as it's properly blessed,'' Cas says. He pulls the rosary from the bucket of water, holding it up with one finger. He looks at the faces of Team Arrow, then drops the rosary back in the water, and turns to Dean. ''Do they not even know the basics of demonology?''

Dean shrugs. ''Guess nobody ever got around to it.'' He tests the tightness of the ropes one last time and then steps back to grab the can of red spray paint. ''I thought Laurel filled them in last year.''

''I...'' Laurel squirms. Okay, yes, she should have done that. ''I was a little distracted at the time. I thought someone else would've handled that. My interactions with the supernatural world have been surprisingly limited until now.''

All three of them exchange looks for a minute and then Dean suggests, ''You wanna get Sam to do it?''

Right away, Cas starts nodding. ''Good idea,'' he says, stealing the spray paint to fix the smudges on the Devil's Trap. ''He's much better at exposition.''

''And he'll love playing professor,'' Laurel agrees.

''He does love to be smarter than people,'' Dean mutters.

''Demons are corrupted human souls that went to Hell,'' Thea speaks up. She doesn't falter when all eyes go to her. ''When they make it out of the pit, they initially appear as black smoke clouds before possessing unwilling human hosts. It's markedly different from angelic possession, which requires the human host's consent. Demons don't care about that. They just violate.'' She looks unnerved and disapproving. ''It's all very rapey and alarming. You can tell if a human is possessed by a demon because their eyes will turn black if you splash them with holy water or say Christo - which is, like, Latin for God or something? They're strong, much stronger than the average human, and nearly indestructible. By the way, he's waking up.'' She pauses to point to Earth-2 Dean, who has tightened up in the chair, fists clenching, breathing speeding up.

There is a brief, tense scramble to hit him with another few doses of sedative before he can lift his head.

Thea gives it a second and then she just continues on as if she was never interrupted. ''Holy water hurts them. A Devil's Trap,'' she points to the one on the floor, ''can trap them. Once they're trapped, they can be forced out of the host body with an exorcism. Killing them is more complicated. I've heard an angel blade works, the colt - which is gone anyway so it doesn't matter - and Ruby's knife. I'm assuming Sam has that now as the only Winchester left actively hunting.'' She stops, folding her arms, cocking her head to the side, and looking at Dean. ''How'd I do?''

He stares at her for a second, bewildered. ''...Suspiciously well.'' He turns to Laurel. ''Did you - ''

''Don't look at me.'' She holds her hands up. ''I didn't tell her any of that.''

''I did my own homework when you first told me about the Winchester family business,'' Thea says with a grin.

Dean still looks wary. ''What kind of homework are we talking here?''

''Oh, you know,'' she shrugs her shoulders. ''I just kinda inserted myself into the hunting grapevine and started asking questions. I'm a good researcher.''

''Putting aside how incredibly dangerous it is to insert yourself into the hunting world and start interrogating random hunters,'' Dean begins slowly, ''that still doesn't explain how you know about the colt. Or Ruby's knife. How do you even know who Ruby is?''

''Um, well...'' Thea smiles sheepishly. ''Does the name Carver Edlund ring any bells?''

''Oh, fucking - '' Dean groans loudly, dropping his gaze so he can mutter angrily at the ground. ''Thea, please tell me you didn't - ''

''Relax,'' she waves her hand dismissively. ''I skipped past most of the personal stuff, definitely skipped the sex scenes, and I avoided a lot of the apocalyptic stuff because it was...disturbing. I was just there for the relevant information.''

''Relevant - Couldn't you have just asked?''

She doesn't look at all concerned about that. ''Probably. I digest things better in solitude.''

''Okay, time out,'' Oliver makes a T shape with his hands. ''Who the hell is Carver Edlund and what are you talking about?''

''No one,'' Thea and Dean both say at the same time.

''It's nothing,'' Dean says. ''It doesn't matter. Look,'' he sighs. ''If we're gonna do this, let's add on some things. Iron and salt - ''

''Oh yeah, salt,'' Thea nods. ''That's a big one. I should have said that.''

'' - Can also repel demons. If you line your doors and windows with salt, you'll keep demons out. It's a deterrent against a lot of supernatural entities. A ring of salt is always a good go to if you need to protect yourself.''

''A ring of salt,'' John repeats, very slowly, visibly having some trouble taking that one in. That's understandable. When you think about fighting evil, seasoning isn't necessarily what pops into your head as the best defense.

''Is that...real?'' Felicity looks over at Laurel somewhat pleadingly. ''Is he serious?''

Laurel nods and tries for an encouraging smile.

''Demonic powers are more of a mixed bag,'' Cas says. ''There are many kinds of demons, different ranks, and varying degrees of powers. Hell is a hierarchy.''

''That's why we're treating this one,'' Dean points at the other him, ''with an abundance of caution. We don't know how things are where he's from or how high up on the food chain he is. Not all demons have black eyes either. Some of them have red eyes, some of them have white eyes, a few have yellow eyes. But I'm telling you right now, if you ever see one of those, there's only one thing for you to do and that's haul ass.'' He looks at Cas. ''Anything else to add?''

Cas puts his hands on his hips, humming thoughtfully. ''Demons are repulsive, wretched creatures,'' he informs them plainly. ''Ugly, ugly, ugly things.''

Dean stares at him for a moment like he's waiting for some follow up there. ''...All right...''

''No, I'm serious. They are truly hideous,'' Cas says. ''You can't imagine.''

''Cas - ''

''If humans could see their true faces, you would all pass out. Possibly vomit. Probably both.''

''Okay,'' Dean claps him on the shoulder. ''We got it. Thank you.''

''You're welcome.''

''Oh, that is so not comforting,'' Felicity mumbles to herself. She looks especially horrified. John and Oliver both look quietly resigned, like they're thinking well, this might as well happen, but Felicity looks terrified.

Laurel gets that. She didn't take it very well at first either. She feels like she should reach out and touch her or something. Give her a hug or soothe her in some way, but she doesn't.

''How did you even...'' John trails off, looking at Dean. ''We're talking demons and angels.'' He looks incredulous. ''This is biblical shit.''

Dean actually chuckles at that. ''You have no idea.''

''How did you get into this life?''

''Same way everyone else does,'' Dean says, and pointedly does not elaborate.

''And,'' Oliver looks unsure. ''What way is that?''

Dean tenses visibly, Thea cuts her eyes to Laurel urgently, and that's when Laurel decides she'd better jump back into the conversation. ''Respectfully, Ollie,'' she says, as lightly as she can. ''I'm not sure that's any of your business. It's ancient history anyway.'' She moves further into the conversation, a little closer to Dean, straightening her posture. ''I'd also like to add that none of you should ever attempt to fight off or even trap a demon. They're telling you this information because there is a demon in front of you and you should have the facts, but this is not your job. Any of you. You are uneducated, untrained, and utterly ignorant. I don't say that to be harsh,'' she rushes to add. ''It's just a fact of the situation. You're not hunters. Even I wouldn't attempt it and I'm literally married to a living legend in that world.''

Oliver looks over at Dean with what can almost be described as an accusatory gaze, as if he's trying to size him up, figure out what makes him so special. Dean does not look terribly enthused about the living legend comment, but he looks even more irked by the disbelieving glances ''OTA'' is throwing his way.

''If you, for whatever reason,'' Laurel continues, drawing their attention back to her, ''find yourself face to face with a demon, you run. You run fast and you run far. Preferably to somewhere with consecrated ground. A church, some cemeteries, whatever hallowed ground you can find. I realize you're all highly capable individuals, but none of your training is going to help you here. This requires a specific skillset.'' She looks over at Thea. ''That goes for you too, Speedy. Pulpy novels aren't going to help you in a real life situation.''

''She's right,'' Dean says. ''Demons are way above your paygrade.''

''If you'd like,'' Cas pipes up, very calm and reasonable sounding. ''We can provide you with some phone numbers - ''

''This is ridiculous,'' Oliver decides. ''Why can't you just teach us? You say we're untrained. Okay, well, train us.''

Laurel is so taken aback by the hypocrisy that she just stands there in shocked silence for about three seconds before she bursts into laughter. It's bitter and harsh, enough to pull his attention away from Dean. ''Train you,'' she repeats. ''You mean like you trained me when I asked you for help?''

Oliver falters, but not for long. ''This is not the same thing.''

''Oh, it's not?''

''This is a safety issue.''

''Of course it is. Because now it's your life on the line, right? So now it matters.'' She laughs again, exhausted and hurt, but unsurprised. ''Well, thanks for finally confirming how little my life meant to this team.''

That one really gets under his skin because he snaps back, without even bothering to deny it, ''I didn't train you because you shouldn't have been out there in the first place!''

There is a multitude of annoyed groans after that outburst. John and Felicity both fully abandon Oliver, with John grumbling, under his breath, ''Here we go again.'' Even Thea scoffs, rolls her eyes, and actively turns her back on her brother. Not that any of them are necessarily rushing to Laurel's aid. Guess they're sick of hearing this argument play out all the time.

''Right,'' she says. ''Better to have your hissy fit, dig your heels in, and take me out on the streets with what you perceived to be minimal training. That seems safe.''

''I let you come out with us because I thought I could protect you.''

''You let me - ''

''And how did that go, Oliver?'' It's Thea who says it, the accusation ripping out of her in such a biting, savage tone that it doesn't even sound like her. She has whirled back around to face him, staring right at him with this venomous look on her face. It is enough to completely level him. Nearly lays him out flat. ''Did you protect her? Did you protect any of us? What about Mom? Did you protect her?''

Oliver tries to respond to that, opens and closes his mouth like a useless fish, but he can't get any words out. What can he say? It's not like Thea's wrong. Harsh, yeah. But not wrong. Regardless, he steps back, recoils as if hit, and she looks like she regrets it immediately. There is no way that just slipped out of her without much thought behind it. She's clearly been harboring that inside of her for a long, long time, but she still looks like she regrets saying it aloud.

Automatically, while everyone else is standing there looking awkward and unsure of what to say, Laurel reaches out to grasp onto Thea's arm, gently drawing her over to her so she can place herself in between the two siblings.

''I don't want to interrupt your guys' private war,'' Felicity speaks up, ''but can we press pause on this and pop back over to the part about demonic possession?''

Actually, yes, that sounds like a far less damaging subject to talk about.

She looks at everywhere, seemingly baffled that none of them are as horrified as she is. ''Is that something we should be worried about?''

''Depends,'' Dean says, reluctantly taking his eyes off Thea. ''You mean in general or specific to this situation?''

''If you're concerned about that, there are several counter measures you can take to protect yourself,'' Cas says.

''And that's great,'' she bobs her head up and down, but does not look particularly comforted. ''But I'd imagine all of those take some time and there's a demon right here.''

''He can't possess you with all the protections we've put in place,'' Dean tells her.

''And if he gets out?''

Dean and Cas look at each other. Cas bends down to look at Earth-2 Dean, still limp and unconscious, chained and roped to the chair, sizzling from the holy water. ''If this demon really is Dean Winchester and he's still in his own body,'' he muses. ''I'm not entirely sure what the danger level is in terms of possession. Demons don't usually retain their own bodies. It's unprecedented. Perhaps he's unable to possess people?''

''He can possess people,'' Dinah's voice says, echoing through the warehouse. She has been suspiciously quiet, sitting on the rickety staircase a safe distance away. She's not looking at anyone, attention seemingly focused on the unlit cigarette she's rolling between her fingers. ''But he won't. It's not his style.'' She looks up at them. ''He's not like other demons. He wasn't created the same way. He's not as strong when he's separated from his body. His body is one of the most powerful tools in his arsenal. It's what holds the strongest connection to the First Blade.'' She looks back down at the cigarette. ''Check his right arm.''

Dean does not seem to want to do that, but he heaves a sigh and does it anyway, pulling up his counterpart's sleeve to expose the red brand on his arm. He doesn't seem surprised to see it, whatever it is, but Cas goes rigid the second he lays eyes on it. ''So that's it, huh?'' Dean leans down to check it out. ''The Mark of Cain.''

Laurel takes one step closer, but that's as close as she's willing to get, peering over at the Mark. ''What's the Mark of Cain?''

''Something that made this idiot a demon,'' Dean says, which, as far as explanations go, is not that great. ''Dinah told me about it earlier. I don't know much, I've never heard of it before, and we didn't exactly have a chance to talk, but it - '' He looks over at Dinah. ''It turned him?''

''Over time.'' She looks...off, sitting all the way over there, all by herself, bruised, willingly answering questions without her usual sneers and jeers. She is not herself. Laurel's interactions with her own Earth-2 doppelganger have been limited, but even she knows Dinah is not normally this subdued.

''Cas,'' Dean looks up. ''You know anything about this?''

Cas looks stony, staring down at the Mark on Other Dean's arm with narrowed, angry eyes. He offers a short, curt nod and a terse, ''I've heard of it.'' He gives nothing else, but he does take a few noticeable steps away from the prisoner.

The reaction does not bode well.

Dean pulls his doppelganger's sleeve back down and looks over at Dinah. ''You're sure he's not going to possess anyone?''

''It's unlikely,'' she says. ''He's only ever used possession once before.'' She tucks the cigarette behind her ear. ''He possessed someone, killed her fiancé, and paralyzed her.''

''Oh god,'' Felicity shivers.

''To be fair,'' Dinah allows. ''I don't think he meant to paralyze her. I think he was just trying to kill her.''

''Like, two random people?'' Thea chews on her lip. ''Why would he even - I mean, that just sounds spiteful.''

''It was spiteful,'' Dinah says. ''They were my friends.''

''Oh.'' Thea looks over at the demon chained to the chair, then back to Dinah. ''Oh.'' She winces. ''That's harsh.''

Dinah isn't looking at them, eyes focused on the cigarette. ''Yep.''

''What could you have possibly done to this guy?'' John questions. ''His level of obsession with you is... I don't even know. What happened between you two?''

Dinah doesn't answer the question, but she does turn her head to look at them, eyes completely blank. She's not doing her normal smirking or entertaining herself by trolling them with her snarky hot takes. She's not anything. ''Does it matter?''

Oliver says, ''Yes.''

Laurel says, ''No.''

She sends him a sharp look when he tries to argue, and he rolls his eyes, undoubtedly still smarting from earlier. And people think she's fragile and over emotional. ''It doesn't matter,'' she insists.

''What matters,'' Dean picks up, ''is that this demon is a threat and we have no idea what to do with him. We can't keep him here. We can't arrest him. An exorcism won't do anything if this is his own body. I don't even know if any of the standard demon killing methods would work on him. I have no idea what kind of demon he is.''

''We could take him to the Men of Letters bunker,'' Cas suggests. ''There's a dungeon there. It should have the proper protections.''

''But how would we transport him?''

''You know what I don't get?'' Thea steps over to Earth-2 Dean, careful not to enter the Devil's Trap. ''Why would he even team up with this witch?'' She looks him over, curious but cautious, and then steps back. ''He's powerful. That thing...'' She stops, swallowing, looking uneasy. ''That thing he did to me in the alley...'' She sounds distant, one hand moving up to her throat. ''Why would he need her? I get why she needs him. He's the muscle. The more protection she can get, the better - especially if it's someone who's going to throw you guys off.'' She looks between Dean and Laurel. ''As cruel as it is, it makes sense for her. But why would he bother with her?''

Laurel eyes Dinah, but, frustratingly, cannot read the somber look on her face. ''Edie's manipulative,'' she says. It sounds simple when you put it like that. ''She's good at getting what she wants. Even when we were kids, she knew how to work people.'' She smiles faintly, but the nostalgia, the memory of Edie sweet talking Grandpa at the ice cream parlor or convincing her brothers to trade their Christmas candy is tainted with bitterness now. That bright eyed ballerina with the lazer sharp focus and the uncanny ability to talk people into doing whatever she wanted them to do is going to grow up to do awful things. Laurel looks down at her hands, picking at her nails. ''She could have promised him anything,'' she says. ''It would have been convincing.''

There's a silence after that, so tense and awkward that she doesn't even have to look up to know that they're all silently struggling to decide who is going to be the one to bring it up.

''Sooo.'' In the end, it's Felicity. ''I don't want to, um... But are we ever going to talk about - ''

''About my dead cousin being the woman behind the curtain?'' Laurel lifts her gaze. ''I was kinda hoping we could skip that part,'' she says. ''I told you what she wants. That's the part we need to be focusing on.''

''The part where she essentially wants to make you a human dust cover for some ancient evil witch so that she can maybe, possibly - but who knows really - get her sonic scream back,'' Thea says. ''Which is a curse. Yeah, that's extremely fucked up.''

''I extremely agree with you.''

''Well, that's not going to happen,'' John tells her.

She smiles weakly. ''I appreciate that.'' She's not sure she's in a place where she can believe him, but she appreciates his concern and his sincerity regardless. ''I would also appreciate if everyone here could refrain from telling my dad and Sara about Edie,'' she says. ''They need to know but I'd really rather have them hear it from me.''

''We won't say a word until you do,'' Thea says, and sends a stern warning look in her brother's direction. ''Won't be a problem. I do have one question, though. What about Marlene?''

''What about her?''

''Well, what's her deal? Is she on our side now? For that matter, what about this Lady Shiva person? Whose side is she on?''

''I'm not sure Shiva's on anyone's side.''

''Okay, sure, but Marlene - she doesn't have a soul, right? How is she still...doing the right thing?''

''Not a bad question,'' Dean says. ''We've always believed soullessness means a lack of empathy and no moral compass. Marlene's actions suggest at least some sort of moral compass. I don't know what that means. If it's different for witches or...''

''I suspect existing without a soul - specifically for humans - is far more complicated than we will ever understand,'' Cas speaks up. ''What we knew before were generalizations. Assumptions. We saw what became of Sam and led ourselves to believe that's what would happen to anyone and it had nothing to do with who he is as a person. I now believe we were wrong. It likely varies on a case-by-case basis. We all saw what happened to Sara when she came back. That was not a simple lack of empathy. She was rabid. She didn't even have the ability to form human speech.'' He stops, giving Laurel a soft, apologetic look for bringing it up. ''Take what we know of the soul eater victims. They're rendered comatose. At least until Edie reanimates them. Moreover, she still has to brainwash them to turn them into Dolls, which suggests they still have some form of want even without a soul.''

''Super,'' Dean monotones. ''So basically what you're saying is - ''

''Everything we thought we knew about soullessness is wrong and we likely don't know anything at all,'' Cas says. ''Yes. No two humans are exactly alike. It was arrogant of us to assume it would affect everyone the same way.''

''What about Edie's Dolls?'' Oliver asks. ''They seem the same. Uncomfortably so. It's like they're - ''

''Robots,'' Felicity finishes for him.

''Because she made them that way,'' Cas explains. ''The lack of a soul just made it easier for her to manipulate them. They didn't have the will to fight against the brainwashing. She took their autonomy. In Marlene's case, because the brainwashing never took because of whatever protections she put in place, it seems like she's trying to cling to who she was before.''

''Which is good,'' Felicity says hopefully. ''Right? Do you think anyone else could fight the brainwashing? Maybe start a mutiny?'' She says it lightheartedly. Tries to play it like a joke, but Laurel can see the desperate hope in her eyes.

Cas squashes it immediately. ''Unlikely.''

Laurel tries not to flinch at his bluntness, swallowing hard and turning away. She feels suddenly like she is seconds away from bursting into tears and she's not sure why. It just claws at her, climbing up in her throat, an unbearable pressure in her chest and throat. She knows more now than she has since she was brought back. They have unmasked the witch. They have the supposed motive. They have the endgame. She thought knowing all that would bring her some comfort. She wanted to know who and what she was up against. Knowledge is supposed to be power, right? That's what they say.

She does not feel powerful. She feels weaker than ever.

She looks over at Dean, picking at the cut on his cheek like a child. It's a relief that his most annoying injury is a minor cut. He got lucky this time. He's highly trained and she knows he's fully capable of living through an attack of the Dolls, but Edie was going to kill him. There is no doubt. If Laurel hadn't been able to get out of those cuffs, things would be very different right about now. She would be a widow. And there's no guarantee that Edie won't try again when she recovers. In fact, it's probably safer to assume that she will. She blames him for what happened to her. It is only a matter of time until she comes for him. No one can pass up revenge. Least of all an already unhinged witch. And it will be Dean. Sam had a part in her death as well, but most of Edie's rage will be focused on Dean. Going after him is revenge, but it's also a way to hurt Laurel.

Two birds, one stone.

''How did she know you?'' She turns back around at the sound of Oliver's voice.

Dean takes a second to realize that was directed at him. ''Me? Who?''

''Edie,'' Oliver says. He's got that look of self-righteous suspicion on his face. ''She knew you.''

Dean has no reaction to that.

''Winchester is a well known name in the world she seems to have immersed herself in,'' Cas says.

Not good enough for Ollie. ''That's not it.''

Dean still says nothing, but he looks at Laurel, catching her eye. She sighs. No way out of this one. ''Turns out,'' he starts. ''The Winchesters and Ellards have some history.''

''And what history would that be?''

Dean's response is calm, delivered with dead eyes and clenched fists. ''The kind where my father was the one who supposedly killed her.''

Laurel braves the following silence, the look Cas gives Dean, the way Oliver's eyes darken, the thought of how her father and sister will react to that, how Sam will react, but it's Thea's soft ''what'' that gets her. It's like something splits apart inside of her and the panicked restlessness spills over.

''I need some air,'' she decides, cutting through the thick silence before she all but flees from the warehouse.

She escapes into the chilly morning air, trying to take slow deep breaths to calm the nausea and the growing feeling of doom. She makes her way to the end of the alley on unsteady legs, stepping out into the open air.

She doesn't think she's handling this all that well. An understatement. She holds her hand out in front of her. It's shaking like a leaf. She can't distinguish how much of this is just because of the residual effects of the drugs and how much is because of everything else, but her world is spinning right now. It's not just her, that's what's got her so shaken up. Knowing that Edie is the woman behind the curtain and how she ended up there is going to cause a huge ripple effect.

When she and Dean learned that Edie had the sonic scream, that she was the ''banshee'' his family hunted back in 2000, they both made the mutual decision not to tell anyone else - especially not Sam and Sara. Even her father agreed it was for the best to keep that particular part of what happened under wraps. It was in the past. No good could come from unearthing that. The truth would upend lives. Better just to keep their mouths shut.

That's not an option now.

Edie didn't stay in the past, a sad but protected distant memory, and Sam and Sara are going to have to know the truth.

Laurel hasn't even begun to think about what to do regarding Aunt Valerie and her family. Does she tell her? Let her know that somehow, some way, her long gone daughter is miraculously alive? Is she just supposed to waltz into their lives, give them a miracle, and then warn them that their miracle is actually an unnatural disaster? How is she supposed to do that to Valerie after everything she's been through? She has spent sixteen years grieving her child. Is she supposed to dangle hope in front of her and then snatch it away?

That is, of course, if Valerie truly has spent the last sixteen years grieving. If she didn't already know.

Laurel has been trying not to think about that. About how big Edie's web of lies is, how far it extends, who's tangled up in it, but it's impossible.

Valerie found Edie's body.

That has never been a secret in their family. Valerie went to visit Edie and found her dead body instead and it destroyed her. Changed everything about her in such irreversibly ways. Part of her died with her daughter. She walks around like a frail ghost now.

Except there was no body to find.

Edie never died. Her story was that John left her critically injured and Shiva found her, successfully reviving her with Lazarus Pit water.

One of them is lying.

At this point, it could be either one of them. Laurel would not be surprised to learn that another Drake is a liar. Seems that's what this family is best at.

She opens her eyes and looks around at the cracked cement wasteland of No Man's Land. She hates the overdramatic name people have given this place. It's not like it's haunted land. Just call it what it is: a tragedy. She was born here, in the apartment building right on the other side of the warehouse she was just standing in. She grew up here. The Glades has always been the Glades, not a safe neighborhood to walk around in alone at night, but it was once full of life. Now this part of it is just a hollow shell. Only the bones remain. She can relate.

She runs a hand through her hair, stringy and caked with dried blood. She just wants to go home. She wants to forget about all of this. She wants to forget that she was dead, that she came back, who did it and why, and all of these ridiculous revelations about her ridiculous family. She wants to go back to last November when the only things on her mind were Sara's recovery, the upcoming holidays, and whether or not she wanted a second child. There is no way out of that trap, is there?

She's always going to end up here: wanting to go back.

She took so much for granted back then. She wants a do over. She wants a drink, if she's being brutally honest. Or a benzo. Something to take the edge off. Laurel pulls Dean's jacket closer to her body even though she's not that cold. She feels like she should be, but she's not. She should get back inside. There's no time for a freak out right now.

She starts to turn to go back down the alley, but something makes her stop. Something halts her right in her tracks. It's like someone has reached their icy cold hand inside of her and wrenched her heart out. Despite being only mildly chilly less than a minute ago, she suddenly feels ferociously cold. She shivers and breathes out, watching her breath curl like smoke, hang in the air in front of her. She tugs the sleeves of the jacket over her hands, breathing speeding up nervously as the hair on the back of her neck stands up. Feeling unexpectedly and overwhelmingly fearful, she slowly turns back around.

In the distance, there is a ballerina. She's standing there in her tutu and tights, red hair pulled up into a tight bun, with her back to Laurel.

Laurel knows right away that this young ballerina is not really there and she knows who she is, but she can't find her voice to say anything. She takes a shaky step back, even though the ballerina is nowhere near her, and the ballerina turns around. Her eyes are wide open and terrified, like a deer in headlights, mouth open in a silent, terrified scream. There is blood running from her mouth and her left ear, her pink leotard is splattered with blood, and the right side of her head is bashed in, bloody and grotesque.

Siobhan Sweeney.

There is no doubt about it. This is Edie's best friend, long dead, very loved, never forgotten, and, for some reason, standing in a city she never lived in and in front of someone she never knew.

She says nothing. She offers no warning, no condemnation, no attack, nothing at all, but she stares with her haunted eyes. She starts to raise a hand to point a shaking finger, but then the door to the warehouse clanks open down the alley and Laurel turns, watching Dean step out into the light. When she looks back to where Siobhan was there is nothing there. Not even the smallest trace.

''Laurel?''

She doesn't respond, scanning the empty block for any sign of...whatever that was. A hallucination? An apparition? It had to be another hallucination, right? Why would Siobhan's ghost pop up here? She wasn't from Star City. She lived in Tacoma. She died in Bellingham. She didn't know Laurel at all. Why would she feel the need to haunt her? It had to be a hallucination.

''Honey.'' There is a hand on her lower back. ''You okay?''

She...has absolutely no idea. There are no dead girls in sight. Other than herself. It had to be a hallucination. Maybe it was nothing. She was drugged after all. She doesn't think Ketamine is supposed to stay in your system that long, but it could have been an anomaly. There has to be a reasonable explanation.

''I'm okay,'' she gets out, turning to look at Dean with a half smile that is anything but convincing.

Sure enough, he doesn't look convinced. ''Okay as in okay okay or okay as in what you say to be polite when you order a coke and the waitress asks if Pepsi is okay? Because we all know that's never really okay.''

She look at him for a second, blinking, unsure of how to respond to that. ''The preferred term is server,'' is what she eventually comes up with. ''Also, I like Pepsi.''

He sucks in a breath like he has been hit. ''Oh god, this is it. This is where the road to divorce starts. What's next? Miracle Whip over Mayo?''

It works. She laughs. She shakes her head at him and rolls her eyes, but she laughs. Her shoulders loosen. Her burden feels just the tiniest bit lighter.

He looks relieved. ''How are you really?''

It's a fair question, but impossible to answer. ''Oh, you know,'' she shrugs it off. ''I just thought I'd take a few minutes to myself to plan my next business venture.''

He does not look like he was expecting that. ''Oh yeah?''

''Well, I had a lot of time to myself earlier,'' she says. ''I don't know if you know this, but being kidnapped is mostly just boring. Lots of waiting around. I had some time to think.''

''Sure,'' he nods. ''What'd you come up with?''

''I think we should open a restaurant.''

''A restaurant.''

''But it's only going to serve dips.''

There is a quick moment of silence where he just stares at her silently. She assumes he's thinking she's starting to crack up, but instead he leans in closer to her and says, with the utmost sincerity, ''I know you're joking but that sounds amazing.''

She laughs lightly. She wants so badly to hug him. She hasn't hugged him yet. She should have hugged him earlier. The second it was over and they were safe, she should have leapt into his arms. She doesn't know why she didn't. She doesn't know why she's not hugging him now. There is a lot between them now, taking up all their usual space, all that comfort and ease they've built. She hates how hard it is to look at him and not see Henry.

He is smiling at her now, soft and bright but concerned around the edges, and all she can think about is Henry.

Henry looked a lot like his dad. Especially his smile. He also didn't exist, but it's still hard to process that. Her heart does not seem to care that he was essentially an imaginary friend. She thought she was getting better at accepting what he was and what he wasn't. She thought she was letting go. Then Edie came along with her stupid, vicious mind games and brought him into the mix. Whatever happened to her in the afterlife, whatever it was, whatever little world she collected for herself, it's been getting blurrier as she gets farther away from it.

Then she saw his face.

She saw his eyes, his smile, his sharp white teeth, and all those memories from all those lifetimes they lived together came rushing back. They picked apples. They grew a garden. They went swimming and walked along the trails in the deep green forest surrounding them. Made apple tarts in the kitchen with the warm breeze flowing in, rustling the gauzy curtain. Lived a picturesque, postcard life. The sun always shone. There was a lake and there was a garden and there was a house where they lived. He grew up. Over and over, he grew up. She never did. There was nowhere to go for her. She was as old as she was going to get, forever thirty years old, perpetually days away from her thirty-first birthday, watching a little boy her mind made from pieces of her, pieces of the husband and daughter she left behind, grow into a larger than life man.

She clears her throat. It's foolish to ruminate on that. It's done with. Her mind created Henry because she missed Dean and she missed Mary, but she's home now. She's with Dean and she's with Mary. She doesn't need to make anything up. She should be happy. She shouldn't be holding on to ghosts she created.

She twists her wedding rings. ''Are you sure it was safe to send Mary to school today?''

It's easy to tell that Dean knows damn well that is not the only thing on her mind right now, but he rolls with it anyway. ''If we keep pulling her out without a doctor's note, they're going to give her spot away.''

She can't help the frown that crosses her face. Honestly, this time last year, she was obsessive about school. She wanted Mary in the best schools, the safest schools, and she wanted her in preschool sooner rather than later because the best education starts early. She had even started squirreling away money for future private school tuition because she was so adamant that she wanted her child to attend the same private high school she and Sara had gone to, even though she knew the tuition had nearly bankrupted her poor parents. At one point, Dean had casually brought up homeschool and she reacted like he had scalded her with burning water.

Homeschooling doesn't feel as crazy now. There is no school that is safe enough right now.

Dean seems to be able to read her mind because he reminds her, unprompted, ''You saw Edie. She's been compromised. At least for now.''

That may be true, but how long will that last?

''I know Marlene said Edie will need time to recover, but Edie's a survivor. It's what she does. She won't be down for long.''

''Your dad won't leave Mary's side.''

''Then I'm worried about him too.''

He's quiet for a minute and then sighs, relenting. ''Lyla's watching the school from an unmarked ARGUS vehicle across the street,'' he admits. ''Had John set it up before we left. Mary's safe.''

Laurel blinks. ''...Oh.''

''I don't know how much you trust ARGUS,'' he says. ''I know I don't. But I - ''

''I trust Lyla,'' she says.

He nods. ''Me too.'' He steps into her space and grasps onto her hand gently. ''Okay,'' he says softly. ''Let's start with physically. How are you feeling physically?''

She lets out a small laugh, but isn't sure how much she should share about that. She doesn't want to worry him. ''You know what I miss?''

He doesn't even pause. ''3D Doritos?''

''Getting high.''

He seems surprisingly unfazed by her admission. ''Which, coincidentally, would probably make you miss 3D Doritos.''

''I'm not talking about - ''

''I know what you're talking about,'' he says, very easily. ''I get it. You think I don't miss getting blasted?'' He says it so casually that she almost doesn't believe him. ''I'm serious,'' he insists. ''You know what would be great right now? Vicodin. Love Vicodin,'' he goes on, completely serious. ''Miss it terribly. Especially right now because my back is fucking killing me. I'm really out of shape.''

''But you were great,'' she soothes. ''Very badass. Five out of five Liam Neesons. I'm impressed.''

''I'm definitely an honorary Liam Neeson now,'' he agrees with a nod. ''And it was worth it. I might have some internal bleeding, but it was worth it.'' He reaches out to bring a hand to her cheek, gently running his fingers over the bruise blooming on her skin. It doesn't hurt, but she shivers anyway and he retracts his hand. ''I'm just glad you're okay,'' he says. ''You are okay, aren't you?''

She tries to give him a tight smile, but it slips. ''It was Ketamine,'' she tells him. ''That's what they drugged me with.''

''I know.''

''But it wasn't - Dante - Jim Denton was a vet,'' she stutters. ''He wasn't used to dosing humans. I don't have the same measurements as a yorkie so he didn't... It wasn't enough to knock me out. I was just...''

''High,'' he finishes for her. ''I know, babe.'' He still doesn't look that surprised. He does look concerned.

It makes her feel guilty. She shouldn't, none of this was her fault and she knows that, but this whole thing still feels like a relapse. It is a relapse, whether it was a forced one or not. Tomorrow will be Day One all over again. It's hard to shake that guilt. The feeling that she has, once again, let people down. ''It wasn't like a benzo,'' she says. ''It wasn't even like being drunk. It was different.''

''Good different?''

''It's all good to me,'' she smiles wryly. ''It was still something I knew.''

He looks like he understands. He might be the only one in her circle who does.

''The comedown was awful, though.''

''Special K's a rich kid's party drug,'' he says flippantly. ''They never think these things through.''

''I don't know about that,'' she says. ''I hung out with a lot of rich kids. They never did Ketamine for fun.''

''You hung out with two rich kids and they were pussies. Tommy drank appletinis.''

A smile pushes through. ''Only at Christmas. He said it was - ''

''Festive,'' he finishes. ''I remember.'' He reaches out to rub her arm. ''I'm sorry you're back here.''

She swallows hard. ''Me too.''

''We should get you home,'' he offers. ''You can take a shower. Sleep it off. It'll be better when you wake up.''

She coughs out a laugh and throws him a look. ''You know it won't. I go to sleep, it's Day One when I wake up. You know how much Day One sucks.''

He crosses his arms. She can see that twitch in his jaw. He wants to say something, but he doesn't know how. ''You know what I've been thinking about lately?''

''Hm?''

''Yamakazi 12 year old whiskey,'' he blurts. ''It's Japanese.''

She doesn't know what she had been expecting him to say, but she knows she was not expecting that.

''This old friend of mine - Lee, he, uh - We shared a bottle once after a...thing. He stole it from the house of some dead rich guy. Said it was rotgut - course he had cheap taste - but I swear it was one of the best I've ever had. It was soft. Smooth. Got you real fucked up before you even realized what you were doing - which was really appealing to twenty three year old me. It was great. I don't know why I've been thinking about it the past few weeks. Probably the time of year. It was Christmas when I had it. I'd kill for a bottle.'' He says it all plainly. No shame or embarrassment anywhere.

''Whiskey gives me heartburn,'' she says after a second, lips tipping into a small smile. ''But Russian vodka... I was all about that. The good stuff. Top shelf. Oliver once gave me a bottle of this expensive Russian vodka. It was an apology gift. I rejected it at first, but gave in when I tried it. Without a doubt the best gift he ever gave me - other than Thea. But then after the boat, I was so angry and hurt that I took the bottle and dumped what was left down the drain.''

''Ouch.''

''Instant regret,'' she confirms. ''I thought I was being all dramatic and poetic. You know, like throwing away what was left of him. It was just a waste of good vodka.'' She pauses for a second when a sudden thought occurs to her, looking over at him dubiously. ''We shouldn't be talking about these kinds of things, should we?''

''Probably not,'' he says, but he doesn't sound all that apologetic. ''But it's not like we can ignore who we are. We're addicts. It's always going to be there. It's nice to have someone who understands.''

She can't argue with that. It is nice to have someone who understands. Someone who has been where she is, who gets it, who doesn't bother to sugarcoat it. AA meetings are helpful because it's a community of people who understand rock bottom and need a hand to pick themselves up, but it's hard to talk about missing it there. In her experience, those meetings are a place of healing. Of recovery. Sometimes she just wants to bitch and moan about how great it felt to get fucked up enough to feel nothing and how she misses that, even though she knows she shouldn't. Dean has never had any problems with honesty when it comes to addiction. He has been refreshingly and unflinchingly candid and blunt. It does help. It makes her feel less alone.

She still wishes they didn't have this in common. It's not the best hobby to share.

''It's not on you,'' Dean says, grasping her hand lightly. ''You know that, right? You didn't fail.''

She tries to blink away the increasing pressure building behind her eyes. ''I know,'' she croaks out. She clears her throat. ''It's just been a long night and I'm...'' She sighs and tries to gulp down the rock in her throat. ''I'm exhausted. I've had two panic attacks and got the shit kicked out of me and Edie...'' She can't get the rest out. It's like her throat just closes up and nothing can be done to stop the hot tears from spilling down her cheeks. She feels like she's done a relatively good job of keeping herself together from completely and visibly falling apart until now but grief comes in waves and there's nothing she can do to avoid it.

''Hey,'' his voice sounds soft and understanding. ''Come here.'' He tugs her over to him, wrapping his arms around her, and she finally allows herself to melt into his arms.

She keeps her eyes closed, hugging him back tightly, her cold, shivering body pressed to his warm one. She gives herself a minute or two to just be there with him, breathing in the fresh air, free of restraints and out of danger - for now at least. She tries to figure out if it feels different to be in his arms. If she somehow feels unsafe with him. She doesn't. He's a hunter, she comes from a long line of witches, but she still feels safer with him than she's ever felt with anyone else.

Truth is, even before Edie unleashed her tale of woe, Laurel knew that the Winchester family had been her cousin's executioners and it still hadn't changed her feelings for him. She is not married to John Winchester and she is not married to that twenty two year old good little soldier. Time changes people. He's not the same person he was then. She isn't either. Humans are fluid creatures. Like water. She still loves him just the same and there's nowhere warmer or safer than his arms.

It's just...there's that spark of guilt now. This teeny tiny part of her, the part that still loves and grieves Edie, that keeps thinking about the things his hands have done. All the violent things she doesn't know about. Who he was before her and Mary. Who he would be if John were still here, filling his head up with poison and anger. The scars on Edie's face.

It is irrational and hypocritical - it's not as if she is a saint herself; a branded criminal, a violent vigilante, a woman who unloaded a clip into a police officer while she was high on Percocet she stole from her father - but it's there now. Those dark, unfair thoughts. That hollowness. Edie did exactly what she set out to do. She planted that seed of doubt and Laurel has not yet figured out how to dig it out.

But she will.

''Thank you for coming to get me,'' she whispers in his ear.

His response is easy, ''You knew I would.''

She opens her eyes, hesitating briefly before pulling away from him. ''Dean,'' she says, but then pauses. ''I think I need you to tell me about December, 2000.''

He tenses at the question, but tries to pretend he doesn't. ''I've already told you what happened.''

''I need you to tell me again,'' she begs. ''Please.''

He's quiet, looking at her closely. ''What did she say to you?''

''She said a lot of things. I don't care about that. I care about what you have to say about it.''

He still gives her nothing.

''Please,'' she tries again. ''Walk me through what happened. I don't understand how this... How she turned into this.''

''Telling you what happened back then isn't going to help with that,'' he warns her. ''She made her choices. Only she can tell you why.''

''She didn't slit her own throat,'' she refutes, probably too harshly. ''You don't think that had a hand in turning her?''

He has gone rigid now, avoiding her eyes. ''All right,'' he says, but follows that with a long pause.

She is too run down and sore to be patient right now, but she tries not to rush him, clenching her fists and pressing her lips together.

''We were in Wyoming,'' he says. ''Just coming off a werewolf hunt. Dad was injured, all clawed to hell on his back, and he and Sammy were at each other's throats.'' There is a small, near smirk on his face when he says that, but it looks haunted. ''Pastor Jim called to let him know there was a suspected banshee in Grays Harbor County over in Washington State and we were the closest hunters he trusted. When I told him Dad was injured, he tried to convince him not to take the case. Said he'd call in Caleb or Bobby, but my dad was...my dad. He knew best. He knew his limits.'' There's an odd reluctant nostalgia in his eyes. ''And, when we first got the call, the death toll was nine,'' he says. ''Nine people dead all at once. That's a big number in our line of work - and it kept getting bigger. We took the case. Sam and I were mostly research and reconnaissance. Dad wanted the kill.''

Laurel blinks and has to work very hard not to wince or flinch at that. Dean notices, but the dark look on his face never wavers. She can't blame him for that. She asked him to reopen the old wound. She doesn't get to complain about the blood all over. She knows he doesn't like to talk about his father, knows he reacts like a caged animal when pushed, but she pushed anyway.

''Aberdeen was a mess when we got there,'' he says. ''Complete chaos and panic everywhere. Nine people were dead, they were still pulling out bodies, a lot more were injured, and nobody knew how it happened. The collapse happened in the food court, close to Christmas, on a Saturday so a lot of the victims were young, which made it an even bigger thing than it already was. The media was everywhere, makeshift memorials were already popping up, howling parents were demanding answers, talking to reporters. It was...a lot for us,'' he admits. ''Supernatural creatures prefer to keep to the shadows. Avoid making a big stink to limit exposure and keep hunters off the trail. We stick to the shadows with them. This was unlike anything we'd ever seen. But we did what we could. Which was wasn't easy. The witness statements didn't make any sense, local government was stumped, even first responders and investigators had no idea what they were looking at. We sifted through the wreckage the best we could, but we had no idea what was going on. Pastor Jim called it a banshee attack and that's what Dad was adamant it was, but nothing about what happened seemed to fit with that theory the more we dug. None of it seemed as straightforward as Dad wanted it to be. Sam and I thought we needed to do more digging. That's when we found out about Edie. We identified her through a receipt that placed her right in the epicenter seven minutes before the collapse. Her name wasn't on the list of the dead or the list of survivors, but seven minutes is a wide window of time. We thought it was possible she was someone who just missed it or even a body that hadn't been found yet, but we wanted to track her down anyway. At the very least, we thought she could help us work out what had happened that day.''

Laurel nods slowly, twisting at her wedding rings again. ''Where did you find the receipt?''

''Mixed in with another survivor's belongings,'' he says. ''We tried our best to talk to all the survivors who were willing. Posed as FBI. One girl gave us the receipt. We tried to dig into Edie's life, but she didn't have much of a footprint anywhere and it was 2000 so the internet wasn't what it is now. But Sam did find an article about the crash. Dad was sure it was a banshee so an article that tied Edie to two major incidents that involved loss of life - ''

''She was fifteen when that crash happened,'' Laurel cuts in, flashing back to the image of Siobhan Sweeney and her bloodied face. ''She wasn't even driving the car. And her best friend...'' She has to force herself to stop talking and take a breath. ''Did your father really think - ''

''My father liked to grasp at straws,'' Dean says, calm but...strange sounding, stilted and uneven somehow. ''He was good at excuses. Anything to make sure he got in and got out as quickly as possible. He was a scared man. Every waking moment, he was afraid. I get that now.'' He looks over at the distant skyline of downtown Star City, the skyscrapers, the rolling fog. ''Most soldiers are,'' he says softly. ''It's easy to make mistakes when you're terrified. I doubt your cousin was his only slip up.''

She looks at him closely, trying to get him to look at her, but he keeps his attention on the city skyline. She's not sure what he means when he says Edie was a ''slip up.'' A slip up because his father killed her without knowing what she really was or a slip up because he didn't?

''I thought it was a bomb,'' he admits, finally turning back to her. ''I dug as deep as I could and nothing made sense. Nothing fit into the boxes we had back then. It was all...almost. It almost made sense. It was almost a banshee. We almost knew what we were dealing with. I started thinking what if the screaming sound that the witnesses reported was something mechanical. Something that triggered the detonation of a bomb. And honestly that was much scarier to me than any kind of creature. So when Edie got dropped into the equation - ''

''You latched onto her.''

''I wanted it to be a banshee,'' he says. ''I was twenty-two and I had my dumbass kid brother trailing after me. A banshee was known territory. A banshee I could deal with. Domestic terrorism - not so much.'' He throws her a tight smile. ''I swear to you, we just wanted to talk to her. Dad told me we needed to interview her. Just like all the others. Sam and I went to her parents' place in Tacoma, we talked to your mother, we found her address, and we gave it to Dad. He was supposed to wait for us. He didn't.''

The worst thing is that she can picture it all in her head so easily. A twenty two year old Edie, likely unstable, undoubtedly out of it from being locked up like Rapunzel for years, trying to come to terms with what she had done, all alone, out of control, traumatized, and John Winchester. An older, stronger, scared man who only saw her as a threat that needed to be exterminated. And maybe she was. That's the hardest part.

Maybe she was just as violent and unhinged as she is now. Maybe there was never any saving her. We'll never know now.

That doesn't change the fact that she still had to live through every woman's worst nightmare. A strange man cornered her while she was living alone, savagely attacked her, and twisted her up, scarred her from the inside out. She was so young. She was just a kid. It's not a new story. You think Red Riding Hood was ever the same after that wolf decimated her life? You think Wolf wasn't a metaphor for Man? Laurel can't help but wonder, morbidly, how it happened. Did he knock on her door? Did she let him in? Did she think he was there to somehow help her? Did he tell her he was going to help her and then attack? Or did he just force his way into her home without warning? Which one of those options is less cruel?

Did she deserve it? Was killing her the best option?

Laurel looks at Dean and wonders, not for the first time, what he would have done if he had been with his father that day. What he would do now. Sure, maybe it was never possible to save Edie, but what if it was? What if she could have been saved? What if Laurel could have been saved? It's a futile and unfair thing to put on his shoulders and she knows no good will come of dreaming up what if scenarios and working herself up for no reason, but - fuck. She hates where they are right now. She hates where she is. She hates what happened to Edie, yes, but she fucking hates what happened to her.

Selfish? Yes. She doesn't give a damn right now. Her scar still throbs at night and she can't forget how it felt to choke on her own blood or what Damien Darhk's hands felt like and she is still learning how to live with this constantly evolving trauma that often feels too big for her body and too destructive for her mind. She thinks she has earned the right to be irrational. To wish that someone had just fucking done something.

So, yeah, sue her. She wishes things were different. She wishes Edie had never gone to that mall, she wishes the Winchesters hadn't taken the case in Grays Harbor County, and she wishes she didn't have to pay for other people's sins all the fucking time.

She crosses her arms over her chest. ''You don't know what went down between your dad and Edie?''

Dean shakes his head. ''He never told us,'' he says. ''By the time we got back to Aberdeen, it was over. That's what he said anyway. Banshee was dead, case was closed, so we moved on. He never talked about it like it was a big deal. We called it that 'weird banshee case' but Dad never mentioned anything going wrong. We didn't ask questions,'' he says. ''We should've, but we didn't. We weren't raised to question hunting and we certainly weren't raised to question him. He raised us to be soldiers. He wanted us angry and afraid and violent. Shoot first, ask questions later. Kill the things you don't understand.''

She's surprised by how resentful he sounds. John Winchester has always been a complication, a specter hovering over Dean's shoulder, rattling around in the darkest parts like a ghost in the machine, but he's usually a quieter ghost. He creeps around the dark hallways and occasionally the floorboards creak and Dean flinches, but he's generally been insidious rather than frenzied. A fog that's been consuming his boy slowly rather than all at once. Things seem different now.

Dean doesn't take cheap shots at his father. In fact, he's more likely to defend his old ghost. Say things weren't that bad or that his father ''did his best.'' Shrug it off like he's not scarred by his childhood. Talk fondly of what others would typically equate to literal child abuse via severe neglect. He adored the man, whether he understands that what happened to him was wrong or not. But now he's openly scornful. She has noticed that since she got back. He makes searing little comments, jabs he wouldn't have made before, and resentment practically drips from his tone when he talks about his dad now. It's like all of a sudden he has realized that the monster he grew up hunting was right next to him the whole time.

And, yeah, let's be honest here: it's not hard to figure out why.

April 6th, 2016.

When he was dropped into the same situation his father had been in, Dean chose his child. He's talked with Laurel about his overwhelming fear of being his father, opened up about his regrets and dark thoughts, the things he did while she was underground, but, ultimately, at the end of the day, he chose Mary. He was always going to choose Mary. It wasn't even a choice. There was only ever her. Nothing else. She's the world. Laurel knows that in her bones. She thinks, deep down, he knows it too.

And now, perhaps for the first time ever, he is being forced to face the vicious fact that when faced with the same kind of impossible grief, the same choice, his father didn't choose his children, and that maybe, just maybe, John Winchester did not do ''the best he could under the circumstances.''

It hits different when you're a parent.

That's the dangerous thing about rug sweeping. You can ignore what's under that rug all you want, but it's still going to be there, ready and waiting to trip you. Laurel knows what that's like. She loves her parents dearly, her father used to be her favourite person in the entire world, she would have done anything to gain her mother's approval, and she clung to the scraps of love they threw her way like a starving child. Then she had Mary.

She had Mary and, one day, she looked at her little girl and realized that she couldn't fathom the selfishness it would take to abandon her, couldn't possibly understand the kind of cruelty one had to possess, drunk or not, to be able to look their daughter in the eye and call her a whore.

Parenting is a learning curve for everyone, but their curve is a bit steeper. She still loves her parents, even after everything, and Dean will still love his father when the dust settles, and they will still cling to the scraps because in the end, abused children will always know how to starve better than anything else, but, for now, the shift in his tone when talking about his father and his childhood is noticeable. It's a palpable sort of hurt and betrayal, a quiet but powerful rage.

''Bobby once told me that 90% of supernatural creatures are dangerous,'' Dean says. ''I kept that in my head for years as a justification. It didn't occur to me that the leftover 10% meant a lot of them weren't. It didn't even occur to me that dangerous didn't equal something that needed to be put down. It took me a long time to unlearn my father's fear. His rage was...'' He pauses briefly, eyes darkening. ''Intense. Contagious. All my life, it was the only constant. But I did unlearn it.'' He finally locks eyes with her. ''What happened back then wouldn't happen today,'' he says seriously. ''I'm not that kid anymore.''

''I know,'' she nods. ''I know you're not.''

''Truth is, none of that matters,'' he says. ''We were the bad guys in Edie's story. Who I am now will never erase who I was then and what happened to her. She's never going to see me as anything but the monster. I can't blame her for that,'' he shrugs. ''But that's her. I don't care how she sees me. I care how you see me.''

''I see you the same way I've always seen you,'' she says instantly, without even stopping to think about it.

''Except you don't,'' he counters. ''I can see it in your eyes.'' He tries to smile but it's thin and brittle. ''I'm the bad guy, aren't I?''

''No,'' she says firmly. ''I'm just feeling - I don't know how to...'' She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. ''Let me ask you a question.'' She steps over to him, taking his hands. ''If we had never met and you were still a hunter and you came across Black Canary, a woman with witchcraft in her blood, cursed with something powerful and destructive and potentially out of her control, a potential threat who goes out and beats up criminals every night... Would you hunt me?''

''No,'' he says it vehemently, forcefully.

She says nothing in response.

His jaw ticks and he tugs his hands out of her grasp. ''You don't believe me.''

''I - No.'' She shakes her head tiredly. ''No, that's not it. I - I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling. That's not your fault. I can't feel anything right now. There's too much to go through. There's just - There's too much. I don't know what to do with any of this. She had me killed. I loved her and she had me killed,'' her voice cracks. ''And none of that had to happen. None of it was – This isn't fucking destiny, Dean. These were choices. Everyone had a choice here. Everyone but me.'' She sniffles, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop seeing it. I know what she did then and I know what she's doing now, but I saw her scars, Dean. I saw what - ''

''What we did to her,'' he finishes for her. He sounds resigned. Defeated. He doesn't offer her any words of comfort. She doesn't offer him any either. She wants to, it's her first instinct, but what is there to say? There is no real comfort here. Everything is too fresh. ''What's next?'' He looks back at her. ''Where do we go from here?''

''I don't know,'' she says, regretfully.

He nods, like he understands, but he doesn't. He's starting to get frustrated with her, she can tell, and she can't blame him. He battled his way to her to bring her home, nearly got killed, and this is how she repays him? She just needs time. To understand. Figure out how she feels. She needs time to separate herself from Edie.

She suspects no one will ever know the whole truth about what happened in Aberdeen in December, 2000. Did Edie really lose control in that mall or was it a purposeful attack? Was she dangerous enough to warrant extermination or was there another way it could have been handled? Was she part of the 90% or the 10%? Was John Winchester's attack the sole reason Edie went down the dark path that brought her here or had she already started walking the line? Does any of it even matter?

Laurel does not know the answers to any of these questions. What she does know is that last April she was murdered. Killed in cold blood and it wasn't a fluke. It wasn't a random act of violence. It was a calculated act. Something that took years to plan, to put in motion. It was a choice, and it wasn't one she made. She was the only one who didn't get to have a say.

And now she's stuck here.

Her murderous, deranged cousin is gunning for her because she wants to piece herself back together and start fresh, her daughter's probably traumatized, and she is looking at her husband differently now.

She knows that's not fair, especially since she already knew Dean and his family had a hand in Edie's death, but… What part of this isn't unfair?

It's not even about him. It's about her. She feels guilty for marrying him. She has never once felt that before. They got married at the courthouse with none of their family or friends in attendance. They did it without telling anyone and after it was all said and done, when they broke the news, people were angry and hurt. Especially her father. He was pissed off and devastated. She took something away from him. He wasn't exactly thrilled when she told him she was engaged, but he wanted that walk down the aisle. Most fathers do. And he didn't get it. Sometimes she wonders if there is still a part of him that hasn't forgiven her for that. She apologized, felt bad that he felt bad, but she never felt guilty. But now...

It's Edie.

This is her fault.

She's in her head now, telling her the story of Mary Webster, the half hanged witch, voice bitter and full of rage and hurt. I am that witch, she said. I am the half hanged. Laurel can't get her voice out of her head. Edie put herself right in between Laurel and Dean. Chained herself in that space like a wall. She turned herself into a barbed wire fence.

''Look, Laurel,'' Dean stops there, struggling. ''If you're pissed at me, you can be pissed. You have that right. Whatever she did back then, whatever she was, it doesn't matter. You loved her and my father killed her. And I...'' He trails off. ''I helped make that possible. I told him where to find her. I had a hand in this. Which means I am partially responsible for what's happening to you now.''

She crumples at that, lips trembling, and, uncharacteristically, he does not reach for her.

''We made that,'' he says, pained. ''We made her.''

They were my origin story, Edie said.

Laurel looks at the ground.

''So yell at me,'' he pleads. ''Curse me out, tell me I'm dead to you, whatever you need, I'll take it. I deserve it. But I will never hurt you.''

She looks up, allowing him to catch her eye.

''I need you to know that,'' he says. ''I need you to know that you're safe with me. Not just because I'm your husband but because you are not a threat.'' Unusually reluctant, he edges closer to her, placing both hands on her shoulder. ''You are not Edie. You're not ever going to be Edie. You will find a way to control your Cry. Not just control it, but use it. I know that because I know you. I know you like I know the back of my hand. You're strong. The strongest. And look at Dinah. If she can find a way to control it, you sure as hell can.'' He smiles at her, and it's soft but there is an edge to it, a sadness ''You're going to thrive, pretty bird. You're the Black Canary. You're not something to be hunted, okay? You're a hero. You and I are on the same side. We're always going to be on the same side.''

She can't speak around the lump in her throat so when he moves his hands away from her shoulders, she steps into his space and kisses him. It's more of a quick, soft kiss than something passionate and steamy, but it's tinged with this fragile kind of desperation and need. It reminds her of their first kiss in that Seattle motel room. She was scared then too.

She pulls away from him, bringing a hand up to brush her fingers against his cheek tenderly, carefully avoiding the cut. ''You should head back in,'' she says, letting her hand fall away. ''Best not to leave Cas alone in there for too long. I'm not sure he has the patience.''

''More patient than I am.'' It's a clear attempt at a joke, but he can't even muster up a smile. He just keeps looking at her, worry clear as day on his face.

''What about you?''

''I'm okay,'' she says. ''I'm just going to take a minute.''

''You sure?'' ''Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,'' she smiles. ''It's - The fresh air is...helping.'' That is a lie and they both know it.

''Okay.'' He leans in to kiss the side of her head. ''I'll see if I can scrounge you up some ibuprofen.''

''Coffee would better,'' she tries to joke. ''But thank you.''

He steps away from her, but hesitates before he slips away. ''I'm sorry, Laurel,'' he tells her. ''About all of it.''

''I know,'' she says. ''Me too.''

There's nothing else he can give her so he leaves, turning to head back into the warehouse, and she is left alone with the overcast skies and the cold wind.

Well, and Dinah.

''Are you two nitwits always this dramatic? It's like goddamn fuckin' Melrose Place here.''

Laurel heaves a sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. She closes her eyes, cursing her luck. Of course Dinah's there. Because why wouldn't she be? Obviously what Laurel needs to do right now is have a standoff with her prickly doppelganger like they're a couple feuding alley cats. That seems like a good and productive thing to do at this current moment in time.

''You guys must be exhausting to be around,'' Dinah goes on. ''No wonder no one likes you.'' A lighter flicks somewhere down the alley, but Laurel doesn't bother to search her out. ''That was a real nice speech, wasn't it?''

Laurel opens her eyes. She turns to give the alley a quick look, spotting Dinah sitting up on the closest fire escape, smoking a cigarette. ''Go away, Dinah.''

Dinah only grins at her. She rises her feet, tucks the cigarette between her lips, and climbs down the fire escape. Laurel doesn't say anything when Dinah puts herself right next to her, continuously flicking a lighter that looks suspiciously like the one Dean carries around with him. But she looks at her out of the corner of her eye, bruised and trying too hard not to be absolutely petrified of the man chained to the chair in there.

For her entire life, people have been telling Laurel that she wears her heart on her sleeve. Dinah wears her grief on hers. She tries to cover it up with her ridicule and her sarcasm, shrouds herself in cigarette smoke and sour glares, but it's all right there. Easy to see if you know what you're looking for. Grief etches itself onto your body. It's something permanent. Like a tattoo. Like a scar. There is not an inch of Dinah that isn't full of bloodied, broken, profound grief.

She's a lot like Edie; too wounded to go back now, too far from home to ever find her way back. Still, somehow, Laurel isn't as scared of Dinah as she is of Edie. She isn't scared of her at all. Black Siren has done terrible, awful things and whether or not she can be redeemed or forgiven remains to be seen, but she does them because she doesn't want to die.

Laurel hasn't yet been able to completely grasp Edie's motives. It can't just be about the scream. It can't just be about power. And it's not about survival. There has to be more to it. Something Laurel can't see yet.

Beside her, Dinah holds the cigarette out for her to take.

Laurel eyes it apprehensively, biting down on her lip. That is not going to help with the nausea or the headache. However, it might at least help with the cravings. She accepts the cigarette hesitantly, holding it like it's a bomb, and then takes a puff. The first one is the worst, ends with her coughing and sputtering, about one gag away from throwing up while Dinah laughs at her. The next is tolerable. Then it's like this unexpected muscle memory takes over from when she was twenty-two and self-destructing.

''Easy to slip back into bad habits, huh?'' Dinah's voice is smooth, despite the incessant smoking. ''Once a vice, always a vice.''

Laurel tries not to scoff. Wonder what would happen if she tried to do a line of coke. Not that she should be attempting that anytime soon. Or ever. Or even thinking about it. Shouldn't be smoking either, but here we are. It does take the edge off the shakiness and the cravings. Gotta give credit where credit's due. She takes a few more leisurely puffs of the cigarette and then hands it back to Dinah. It might not have been the best idea to share a secret cigarette while wearing Dean's jacket. He'll easily be able to smell it on her.

''He's very charming, isn't he?'' Dinah exhales smoke into Laurel's face. ''Your Dean. Knows just what to say to calm you down.''

Laurel side eyes her wearily. She doesn't know where Dinah's going with this, but she's already too exhausted for whatever game this is. ''We've been together a long time.''

Dinah hums distractedly.

''What about you?'' Laurel tilts her head to the side, watching Dinah's face. ''How long were you with your Dean?''

There is only the slightest hint of tension in the way Dinah reacts, only the tiniest freeze, a tightening of the fingers. She doesn't answer the question, but she drags her gaze back to Laurel with one of those little smirks of hers. ''You know what's funny? My Dean said the same thing once. Promised me he would never ever hurt me. He was my best friend. And look at us now.''

Laurel does her best to not even roll her eyes at that. Dinah is an antagonist. She antagonizes. It's what she does. It's her thing. And she did sorta egg her on. She tries not to give her a reaction. But she's so tired. She's so tired and her head hurts and people keep telling her that her husband - her best friend, the father of her child, her main support system, her rock - is a danger to her and she just wants to go back.

She wants to go back to April 6th and tell her stupid, selfish past self to just stay home. Don't go out. Don't go chasing one last fight. How hard would that have been? She wants to hit the redo button. Do it right this time. Quit her job, put Canary on maternity leave, get out of this godforsaken city, maybe move to Seattle or across the state to some isolated house in the woods in, like, Spokane Valley or something. She wants to go back to before she knew any of this, before she knew about the Ellard curse or what became of Edie and what the Winchesters had to do with it. She wants to go back to before, when it was just her and Dean and Mary, and they were happy.

She'll do better this time. They'll do better. They'll go live on one of those little remote islands off the coast where nothing ever happens and nothing can get to them, they'll have another baby, she'll go be a florist or go back to being a server and he'll stay at home with the kids because she knows he found peace in that, she knows he was happy with that. They'll be a family. They'll be happy. It would be enough. It would be different, but it would be enough.

And nobody would be hinting that her husband might fucking kill her one day.

''That was you,'' she says tightly. ''That's not us.''

Dinah's smile is cold and sharp. ''Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess,'' she says. ''Just thought I'd offer you a friendly warning. Take it or leave it.''

''I'll leave it,'' Laurel bites out defensively. ''But thanks.''

''Your prerogative,'' Dinah shrugs carelessly, but she doesn't leave. ''This world isn't all that different from mine. Everyone has a dark side.'' She leans in closer, lowering her voice. ''If I were you, I'd watch out for his.'' She crushes the cigarette under her boot. Which is actually Laurel's boot. Her entire outfit is made up of Laurel's clothes upon closer inspection. It does nothing to make the situation less distressingly uncomfortable. She starts to step away, turning to duck back down the alley.

Laurel throws a look over her shoulder at Dinah's retreating form. She thinks of Edie and her cold, cruel fury. Thinks of her saying, You and I are the same. ''His dark side isn't the one you should be worried about,'' she calls after her, watching her doppelganger pause just for a second. ''Trust me on that.''

.

.

.

September, 2010

In the middle of the night, Laurel jerks awake to a crushing weight on her chest and a racing heartbeat.

The realization is like a thunderclap. She wakes up groggy and disoriented, feeling, rather disconcertingly, like a stranger in her own skin. Her head feels jumbled. Her stomach churns. Then it just hits her. Suddenly and viciously, like a car slamming into her.

Oh, fuck, she's about to have a panic attack.

Her first in months. It has been close to a year since the last time she laid on the bathroom floor, unable to catch her breath. She's been doing so much better. She had a few minor relapses back in the summer when she first met Dean and learned that there are things that go bump in the night, but she managed to successfully mitigate the damage with her rescue meds. And maybe a little vodka. Maybe a lot of vodka. Just once.

She does understand that it's unreasonable to expect them to disappear forever. That's not logical. It's not possible for her. Panic is her one constant. It always comes back. But damn if she didn't hope, just a little, that it was all over.

Laurel tries denial first. It's never helpful, but it's a reflex. She gingerly sits up in bed, one hand over her racing heart and thinks, Maybe it was just a nightmare. She tries to take a few deep breaths and attempts to conjure up a nightmare that she can blame this on. She doesn't remember any nightmares. She remembers she was feeling stressed before she went to sleep. She has a lot to do work wise, not enough time to do it, and the pressure has been increasing over the past couple of weeks.

She looks over at the other side of the bed, but doesn't expect Dean to be there. He's still weird about moving into the bedroom full time. She normally rolls her eyes at his quirky form of chivalry (that's really just something he uses to cover up the fact that she makes him nervous) but now she's grateful he's not here. This is not a panic attack, it can't be, she would very much like it to not be a panic attack, but if it is...

She doesn't want him to see her like this. It's too much. He'll run. She hasn't even told him about this - about any of it. She's kept these particular cards close to her chest. She should tell him because - because that feels like the right thing to do. They're living together, this is pertinent medical information, on the same level as her red meat intolerance. He should know in case of emergency. But she just keeps putting it off and putting it off and she would hate for him to have to find out like this. He'll be angry with her. He'll be scared. He will leave, just like the rest of them, and she will be alone for the rest of her life.

She buries her face in her hands, grinding her teeth in frustration. That's catastrophic thinking. She's already catastrophizing. She reaches out a trembling hand to turn her alarm clock so she can check the time, but her muscles are so tight and she's so stiff and shaky that she feels like she has no control of her limbs and she just winds up knocking the alarm clock off the table. It clatters to the ground and she gives up, groaning and drawing her knees up to her chest. She ducks her head down, hiding her face in her knees and tries not to notice the way her chest is constricting.

Maybe she's just coming down with something. She and Joanna had lunch at Danny's place the other day and Nate was just getting over the flu. Maybe she picked it up there. Or perhaps it's something she ate. She does feel lightheaded and nauseated. Maybe it was the...

Wait, what did she have for dinner? She doesn't remember. What day is today? When was the lunch with Joanna and Danny? Was that today or yesterday? Or Wednesday? When was Wednesday? Maybe she didn't eat at all tonight? This could be low blood sugar. Maybe she should eat something right now.

Alternatively, perhaps she is having a heart attack. Healthy young people have heart attacks all the time. Pre-existing heart conditions they never knew about, unhealthy lifestyles, freak anomalies. She could be an anomaly. Anything but a panic attack. If she has a panic attack, it could set her progress back. If she messes up her progress, it'll wake up the sleeping giant in her chest, she'll decompensate rapidly, and end up either in the hospital or jumping off the roof.

It can't be a panic attack.

Except -

Well, she has been stressed lately. There's a lot on her shoulders right now. She and Joanna are working 24/7 to get their legal aid clinic up and running and they seem to be hitting roadblock after roadblock. And there is no time off from this. It's just overwhelming stress eating away at her every minute of every day. She hasn't been keeping up with exercise either, or meditation, she stopped taking her maintenance medication six months ago, even going so far as to flush them like a moron, and has been relying solely on her rescue meds as needed - and she certainly hasn't been sleeping or eating properly.

She's been working late into the night, sometimes forgoing sleep entirely, even waking up out of a dead sleep to jot down a note about something else that needs to be done. Her diet mostly consists of coffee, cereal, energy bars, and whatever Dean can get her to shove in her mouth quickly when she gets home. She's busy right now, way too busy to take care of herself, with a new relationship to nurture and a burgeoning career to get off the ground. She has been working so hard to secure her future that she hasn't been taking care of the present. It's not exactly healthy.

Yes, she can admit that is the perfect recipe for a panic attack.

But she doesn't want to be having a panic attack.

Childishly stubborn tears sting at her eyes. There is a slow growing ache in her throat, her chest feels painfully tight, and her breathing, which she has been trying to focus on, is quickly becoming labored. When she lifts her eyes, her safe and warm bedroom feels too small and too dark. She doesn't know how long she's been sitting like this, how much time she has lost. She tries to find something to focus on, something to anchor herself to while she does a breathing exercise and attempts to practice mindfulness and makes a futile attempt to repeat the calming mantra her therapist gave her, but it's too late. Her ability to focus is shot. She's too far gone now, lost in the wilderness of complete and utter hysteria.

The only thing she can think about is how tight her chest is and how small the room feels. She blinks back tears and works only on breathing, trying to keep away the encroaching wheezing and shortness of breath. She needs water. With lots of ice. Something to shock her system and jolt her out of this.

Laurel struggles to fling the comforter off her with numb fingers, practically falling out of bed. She staggers out of the bedroom and stumble down the hall on her unsteady legs, using the wall as support, but she stops when she gets to the kitchen. Halts in her tracks, staring into her apartment's small kitchen, utterly dumbfounded.

Holy shit.

She forgot she had a boyfriend.

She remembers now, recalls sitting in bed only moments ago worrying about him seeing her like this, but somewhere in between knocking the alarm clock off the table and lurching down the hall like a drunk, she forgot he existed and that he lives here and he is going to have to see her like this, whether she wants him to or not.

Dean hasn't noticed her yet. He hasn't noticed her because he's under the sink, fiddling around with the pipes. She doesn't remember what's wrong with the sink. She remembers he was annoyed with her landlord. She said something like ''it's been like that for a long time'' and he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and probably said something like ''son of a bitch, I'll just fix it myself'' and she maybe said ''you don't have to do that'' and he insisted, but she can't be sure. She feels fairly certain that's what happened, can even hear the conversation in her head, but she doesn't remember what's wrong with the sink and she has been...severely compromised.

It doesn't matter. She doesn't care about the sink. She's not sure she ever did. He probably doesn't care that much either. He just needs something to do with his hands sometimes. Her place has never been cleaner. She does remember that.

She stands in the doorway, wringing her hands without even realizing she's doing it. Her eyes dart around wildly and she considers her options. He's going to see her. He's going to see her like this. She doesn't know if that's bad. She cannot reason with her paranoia right now. She just knows that her chest hurts.

She drags herself into the kitchen and over to the counter, reaching up to open the cupboard. It's getting harder and harder to move. Her muscles feel like they have all seized up, atrophied right there in her body in a matter of minutes, and everything feels so heavy. She fumbles around for a glass, struggling to use fingers that don't even feel like hers. There is a noise behind her and then a voice. She turns to look at Dean, on his feet, staring at her with a strange look on his face. He says something to her and she can't understand it. It sounds like gibberish. It takes her way too long to realize that all he's said is her name.

It does not take her that long to work out what he exclaims next.

''Jesus.'' His voice sounds urgent and worried. ''Are you okay?'' He puts the wrench down on the counter by the sink and it slips and falls into the sink, clattering noisily. He ignores it, but she can't. The clang is too loud and it feels like it's happening directly inside of her skull. She flinches, recoiling and squeezing her eyes shut, hand over her aching chest, so tight it feels like it's about to burst. He asks her, ''What's wrong? Are you sick?''

She would laugh if she could.

She doesn't answer his questions, mostly because she physically can't but partly because she doesn't want him to know. She doesn't want him to see what's happening to her. It's humiliating. She jerks, turning away from him to snatch a mug from the cupboard. She moves unsteadily over to the fridge, pulls open the freezer, and that is about as far as she gets.

The cold air hits her flushed, sweaty face and at first, it feels nice, but then she starts wheezing. She does realize her breathing has been getting progressively worse, that her attempts at belly breathing have become shaky, shallow pants, but everything feels like it has been happening far away. Then she opens the freezer and it is like all the air in the room is just gone.

There's nothing left for her.

Her main objective, which was to halt the panic attack before it got bad, eliminating the need for her rescue meds, has failed spectacularly. She can't remember what's supposed to happen next. She can't breathe. Does she die? It's hard to remember your emergency panic attack routine when you're gasping for breath.

The mug is removed from her hand seconds before she loses control of her useless fingers and she is tugged, gently, away from the freezer. She knows that Dean has turned her to face him; she knows that he is touching her, moving his hands to her hands and then up to her face, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead to check for a fever, but she cannot actually feel his hands on her skin. She can't feel anything. It's like her entire body has just switched off.

''Laurel.'' He cups her cheeks and he's struggling to meet her eyes, but she's too out of it. ''Hey, what's going on? Are you allergic to anything? Did you eat something?'' He asks. ''Take any meds?''

She shakes her head.

''Are you sure? What about any new creams or lotions? Laundry detergent? Shampoo or soap? Candles?''

She shakes her head again and she tries, so desperately, to tell him that this isn't what he thinks it is, but the only thing that comes out is a pathetic whimper.

''All right.'' Dean carefully leads her over to the small kitchen table and sits her down on a chair. He checks her forehead again and then lightly grasps her wrist, checking her pulse. ''Do you have any family history of asthma? Anything like that?'' He doesn't wait for an answer. ''Know what? It doesn't matter. I'm calling 911.''

That does not at all help with the panic.

She nearly dives off the chair to grab onto him before he can go for his phone. ''Don't,'' she gasps out, clawing at his hand. ''Please.''

''Babe, you can't breathe. We need to get you help.''

She shakes her head again. She cannot go to the ER again for a panic attack. Been there, done that. Numerous times. It's horrible and she does not want to go through that again. She tightens her grip on his hand and draws in a rattling, incomplete breath. There is air getting to her lungs, but it's not good enough. She's starting to feel clammy and dizzy. It'll pass. It always does. Somewhere in the back of her head where all her logic and reason has been buried, she does know that, but right now she feels like she's dying. All she can feel is the overwhelming feeling of dread and panic. It just takes over. ''I'm...'' She holds onto his hand tightly. She's trying as hard as she can to push past it to let him know what's going on, but everything feels like it's caving in. ''It's...not...'' She licks her lips. ''...P-Panic...'' ''Panic...''

He seems to relax, crouching down in front of her. ''You're having a panic attack?''

She nods.

He looks relieved.

She does not share that sentiment.

''Okay.'' He touches her cheek. ''We can deal with that.'' He stands up and tries to tug his hand out of her grasp, but she can't seem to let go of him. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' he assures her. ''I'm just getting you a paper bag.'' He gently pries her hand off and gets moving, rummaging around in the cupboards until he successfully produces a brown paper bag. He seems calmer now that he knows what's happening, still concerned but focused. Not all that freaked out. That's...different. It makes sense that he's learned how to be good in a crisis, but it's new for her.

She's grateful.

She accepts the bag from him with her shaking hands, but can't make her hands work enough to bring it up to her face. He does it for her, helping her keep a grip on it, keeping his hands around hers and not on the bottom of the bag. The paper bag trick is hit and miss and might be nothing more than a placebo so she doesn't normally bother with it, but her gasping breaths have been going on long enough for her to know that she needs to try any available method to get her breathing under control. She really, really does not want to end up in the hospital for a panic attack.

Her breathing is still shallow, fast, and shaky, but there is a bit more air getting through now. She doesn't know if the paper bag has helped her to regain a somewhat steady rhythm or if she's just moving into the next phase of her panic attack, but she doesn't think she's in danger of passing out. But she can't stop thinking about the hospital. It's like this emotional sledgehammer. The panic needs a focus, something to feed the dread, and now it's the hospital. She's going to end up in the ER. She's going to end up in the ER, wasting resources, wasting the time of the healthcare workers, and Dean's going to realize that she is too unstable to be with, too out of control, too much work, just too much.

Dean slowly removes his hands from over hers, making sure she has a hold of the paper bag before he rises to his feet. ''Do you have meds?'' He keeps his voice low, as if trying not to spook her.

She nods.

''Where? Bathroom?''

She shakes her head no, pointing, in a rather unclear way, in the direction of the bedroom.

He seems to get it at least. ''The bedroom?''

Very cautiously, she pulls the paper bag away from her face. Her breathing is not where it should be, but it's better than it was. She'd love for that to be a positive sign, but she can tell from the feeling in her chest and throat that it just means the attack is progressing to the next humiliating stage. ''Bedside table,'' she croaks out, sucking in some much needed oxygen, still panting a little. ''In the drawer.''

It burns to breathe in. Like someone's started a fire in her chest. She brings the paper bag up to her face, gets in a few breaths, and then she coughs out a sob and the waterworks begin. It's like a flood. Her fingers involuntarily tighten, crumpling the bag, and she starts sobbing. There's nothing she can do to stop it. It may technically be a good sign, but it doesn't help how miserable she feels right now. Her chest burns and her throat aches and her skin crawls with shame.

It's been months. Months since she had to go through this. Why did it have to come back now? When she's trying to focus on her career, when she has a new boyfriend who doesn't even know what a mess she is? Why did it have to come back at all? She's been sick since she was a kid, a human tornado of swirling panic and misery and depression. Isn't that enough? Can't it just leave her alone? Why does this have to be her burden to bear in life? Hasn't she been through enough?

''Okay.'' Dean rests a hand on her shoulder. ''I'll be right back. Sit tight, Laur.''

She doesn't listen to him. He ducks out of the kitchen to go grab her meds and, reflexively, she moves from the chair to the floor. Her grandmother used to make her sit on the kitchen floor when she had a panic attack. Said she needed to feel the cold, hard floor to keep her grounded in reality. Said it would bring her back. It's never done much, but she does it anyway.

Laurel sits with her back against the cabinet, pulling her knees up and sobbing miserably - and nonsensically - into her hands. The thing about hitting the peak is that it's a lot like climbing a tree and falling off. Yeah, you'll be on the ground sooner rather than later, but you're going to hit every branch you climbed on the way down.

She is going to wake up tomorrow feeling like she was hit by a truck. If she takes a Xanax now, it will hopefully stop any ''aftershock'' attacks before they happen, but she's going to feel like garbage tomorrow. Good thing tomorrow is Sunday. The panic attack is working its way out of her system. It's a good thing. She can breathe easier and she no longer feels like she is going to die, but she's still horrifically embarrassed and angry with herself for handling it like an amateur. She should have taken the Xanax as soon as she woke up feeling the storm clouds in her chest. She shouldn't have tried to fight it off. That was foolish.

What is she supposed to tell Dean now?

He thinks of her as the stable one in this - whatever it is they're doing here. How is she supposed to tell him she's not? She lifts her head, choking on her cries, trying to wipe away the mess of tears and sweat on her face.

Dean isn't gone for long. He comes striding back into the kitchen with that little orange bottle of prescription Xanax, movements purposeful and quick, getting her a glass of water before getting down on the ground with her. Doesn't even question why she's sitting on the floor. He takes a quick look at the instructions on the bottle before he pops it open, shakes one out, and hands it to her.

She is too busy trying to stifle her sobs to thank him properly. It's a struggle to get the pill down with her throat full of cries and tremors beginning to take over her body, but she does it. The medication will take a few to kick in, but just knowing that she's going to be okay is enough of a relief to quell the hysteria.

''You good?'' He takes the glass of water from her when he notices she's starting to shake.

''Better,'' she rasps.

''I take it this has happened before?''

She licks her lips. She notices the way she's trying to instinctively hide her body from him, practically curling into a ball, pulling her sleeves over her shaking hands, pressing herself back against the counter. She doesn't mean to, not really, it's just a reflex. She nods.

All he asks is, ''What else do you need?''

''Nothing,'' she gets out. Her entire body is shivering now and there are still tears leaking out, running down her cheeks. ''The worst part's over. I'm okay.''

''Sure.'' There is the barest hint of a smile on his face. ''But you know it's okay if you're not okay, right?''

She leans her head back against the counter, eyes shut tight, sniffling quietly. She can't answer.

Dean stays with her, sitting on the floor, a silent but steady presence.

It's...nice. It has been a long time since she had someone to just sit with her. She keeps her eyes closed for a few minutes, listening to the sound of him breathing, waiting for the tremors to stop. A minute or two pass and then she feels him move and her eyes snap open. She reaches blindly for his hand, grabbing onto him to stop him from getting to his feet. ''Wait - ''

''I'm just going to get you a cool cloth for your forehead,'' he says. ''You're sweaty and flushed, honey. I promise I'll be right back.''

She forces herself to let go of his hand, watching him rise to his feet. She really needs this Xanax to kick in. This has gone on way too long.

True to his word, he is only gone the length of time it takes to wet a cloth and come back. He sits back down with her, moving to dab at her cheeks and forehead with the cool cloth. His movements are slow and gentle and his hands are so tender and careful with her that it makes her want to cry, although that may be residual panic. No one has ever done this for her. She is not so far down the well of self-pity and martyrdom that she can say no one has ever helped her before, during, or after a panic attack because that would be untrue. Of course she's had help. She wouldn't be here if she didn't. But this isn't the same thing. It's hard to explain.

It's the genuine benevolence. He touches her like she's the most important thing he's ever touched. Maybe this is normal in a relationship, but she wouldn't know. ''I'm sorry,'' she blurts out.

He looks startled by the sound of her voice. ''For...what?''

''I scared you.''

''You didn't - '' He stops. Draws his hand - and the wet cloth - back. ''All right, you had me a little worried there, yeah.'' He grins at her, white teeth and eye crinkles and all. ''That's not your fault. You don't have anything to be sorry for.'' He hands her the glass of water again and she accepts it with her still trembling but calming hands. ''Does this kind of thing happen often?''

She takes a few sips of the cold water to avoid answering. ''Not often,'' she responds. ''Not anymore. It's been nearly a year since I had an attack that bad.'' She puts the glass on the floor beside her. ''I kind of have this thing,'' she says slowly. She's going for casual, even tries to smirk, but it doesn't work. ''I'm...sick.''

''If this is about to go all A Walk to Remember, I'm gonna be so fucking pissed,'' he says dryly. ''I'm just forewarning you. I can't do Nicholas Sparks. Nora Roberts? Sure. Danielle Steel? Maybe. But I refuse to go full Nicholas Sparks. Can't do it.''

It gets a laugh out of her. ''You sure know your romance novelists.''

''I've spent a lot of time reading gas station harlequins to kill time and what I've learned is that Nicholas Sparks can suck my dick.''

She chokes out a few shaky giggles. ''Wow, okay, that's a vivid image.''

''Except he wouldn't,'' he adds, ''because I am positive that douchebag is homophobic.''

''He does have a real unpleasant vibe going on,'' she agrees. ''The good news is that I can assure you this is nothing like a Nicholas Sparks novel. We don't live in a small coastal North Carolina town, for one, and I am not dying. It's not that kind of sick.''

''That's a relief.''

Laurel picks up the glass of water again, mostly to test her shakiness. There is still a residual tremor running throughout her body, but it's minimal now. ''I have panic disorder,'' she tells him. It's the first time she's said that out loud in a long, long time. ''It's a mental illness. I thought I had it under control, but I've been so busy lately and I haven't been taking care of myself.'' She takes another gulp of water before placing it back on the floor. ''It snuck up on me tonight. I'm sorry.''

''You keep saying that.''

''I should have told you.''

''Hey, look, that's - I'm new.'' He holds his hands up. ''We're still fumbling around in the dark here. We're still learning. You've never pushed me. Why would I push you? You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to tell me.''

''Still, we're living together,'' she reasons. ''It seems like you should know. In case of an emergency or something.'' She picks at her cuticles absently. ''It's not the only thing I live with. I also have - ''

''Depression,'' he cuts in. ''I know.''

She stutters briefly, mouth open in shock, soundless. ''How did you - ''

''Your dad,'' he admits, grimacing slightly.

''...My dad?''

Dean sucks in a breath and then moves the glass of water, putting it up on the counter top before scooting to sit beside her, back against the cabinet. ''He worries about you,'' he says. ''He doesn't want me taking advantage of you.''

She clenches her jaw, expression souring. ''Depression doesn't make me a child.''

''I'm just telling you what he told me.''

''He had no right to disclose my private medical history without my consent,'' she scowls.

''No,'' he agrees. ''He didn't.'' He pauses, placing his hand on her knee. ''But he loves you,'' he says softly. ''And I think I...concern him.'' A dry chuckle. ''Can you blame him?''

Well, yes.

And no.

She will admit this may not look like the greatest - or healthiest - relationship to people on the outside looking in. Hell, she is right here on the inside and it's still sometimes bizarre and outlandish even to her. If she had a mentally ill daughter and that daughter ended up inviting a homeless drifter with an arsenal in the trunk of his car to come live with her, she would be terrified. What she wouldn't do, however, is divulge her child's private medical information to said drifter. Kind of stands to reason that might not be the safest thing to do. Now the armed drifter has just added your kid's biggest weakness to his arsenal.

She is not, let's be clear, worried about Dean using her mental health conditions as tools to abuse her. She just doesn't think her father thought his actions through, not that he ever does, and now she's annoyed. It's a nice break from the panic and humiliation, but she's going to have to have words with her father at some point. She looks down at Dean's hand on her knee. ''Why didn't you say anything?''

He just shrugs. ''Like you said, it's your private medical history. I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me.''

She is still looking at his hand. She has this urge to thread her fingers through his, just to feel something else, but she's not sure they're there yet. He can be a little skittish. It might be too soon for that. Or not. She is not that experienced in the relationship department. There was really only ever Oliver. A few flings after him during law school - a casual relationship that didn't work out romantically but evolved into a close friendship, a weekend of what can only be described as general debauchery with some guy who had a crush on her, and then there was Tommy - but nothing serious. Oliver was the only serious relationship she had, he was, for so long, it for her, the love of her life, and they were sixteen when they first started dating. She didn't think she'd need to know anyone else. As naïve as that sounds now. She doesn't know what she's doing.

She clears her throat and moves her hand away from Dean's, bringing it up to brush her hair out of her face. ''And this doesn't - ''

''What?'' He turns his head, meeting her eyes. ''Scare me off?'' He seems to laugh that off. ''It's going to take a lot more than that to scare me away.'' He's the one who makes the first move. He doesn't take her hand, but he does wrap his arm around her and pull her to him easily, comfortably, like he's been doing it his entire life.

It's more likely to be the Xanax kicking in - at long last - rather than anything else, but when she lets herself relax into him, her body just melts. ''These things won't go away,'' she warns. ''They're part of me forever.''

''Well, I like all the parts of you,'' he says casually. ''So I guess we'll deal. I think we can handle this.''

''We?''

He sighs into her hair. ''I don't know if you know this,'' he says softly, ''but I'm pretty good in a fight. If you need me, I've got your back.''

She closes her eyes. She knows that the warm floaty feeling is merely the Xanax and she knows that there's still a possibility that this could be a rough night and tomorrow is going to suck, but right now, in this moment, she feels better. She feels safe. ''Thank you,'' she says quietly. ''I've got yours too.''

''That's good to know,'' he murmurs. ''How do you feel?''

''I'm all right,'' she mumbles. She makes the mistake of sitting up, pulling away from him, and it's like all the blood rushes to her head. It's not dizziness. It's more like a wave of weakness. It's not altogether unpleasant. Her body feels slowed down and relaxed. That would be the Xanax. She has not missed the panic attacks, but she can't say she hasn't missed the promises of quiet, relaxed, dreamless sleep that Xanax brings.

''Whoa.'' Dean grabs onto her to steady her when he notices her swaying. ''That Xanax kicking in?''

''Yeah.'' She braces her hand against the kitchen floor. ''I should get some sleep.''

''Oh, right. No problem.'' He doesn't give her much choice in what happens next. ''Let's get you to bed then.'' He pops up to his feet and, without warning, scoops her up in his arms.

She shrieks, instinctively throwing an arm around his neck. ''Dean! What are you doing? I can walk.''

''You were slurring your words a second ago,'' he says. ''Besides, I'm being romantic. I'm sweeping you off your feet.'' He looks at her seriously. ''This is what women want, Laurel.''

''To be unnecessarily carried to bed after having a panic attack on the kitchen floor?''

''Exactly that.''

''That's very specific.''

''Cosmo says it's good to be specific with men because we're doorknobs.''

''99% of what's written in Cosmo is offensive and outdated horseshit.''

''Are you saying men are not doorknobs?''

''I'm – '' She stops. ''Well, I don't know ALL the men, Dean.''

''I can be kind of a doorknob. I'm man enough to admit that. Plus,'' he stresses, and then winks at her. ''Check out my arms right now.'' He waggles his eyebrows at her. ''I know you like my arms.''

''I do like your arms,'' she laughs, breaking off in a yawn.

''You gonna let me do my chivalrous thing now?''

''I guess you may proceed.''

''Appreciate it.''

It's not out of bounds for him to suggest that she might need some help getting back to bed, if she's being honest. She still thinks carrying her is dramatic and unnecessary, but she is feeling a bit...fuzzy. She's having a hard time staying awake. It's nice to have someone to help her.

''Here's what I'm thinking,'' Dean says, gently placing her down on the bed. ''Breakfast burritos.'' He tugs the blanket over her. ''As big as your head. With lots of hot sauce.''

''And avocado?''

''Woman, what is it with you and avocado?''

''Lots of people like avocado!'' She yelps, rolling on her side to face him. ''It has healthy fats! And don't call me woman.''

''Sorry. Noted. But that's a yes to the breakfast burritos?''

''I'd never pass up a breakfast burrito,'' she says, offering him a tired smile. ''It goes against my entire personal philosophy.''

''We have so much in common,'' he says. ''Carbs and grease.''

''That's what we have in common?''

''No, that's what you'll need tomorrow.''

''Oh. And coffee, right?''

''Obviously coffee.''

''And maybe some doughnuts?''

''It's never a bad time for doughnuts.''

''I like Krispy Kreme's powdered cake doughnuts.''

''Okay,'' he nods. ''That's an astonishingly boring doughnut order, but okay.''

''It's not boring. It's just simple. Sometimes simple is better.''

''Breakfast burritos with avocado, coffee, and Krispy Kreme tomorrow morning. I'm gonna make you drink some water and Gatorade too. It's a date. It's a Gatordate.''

''Oh my god, you actually thought that was funny, didn't you? You thought it and you thought it was funny and you said it out loud.''

''I'm a funny guy,'' he deadpans. ''Ask anyone. Get some sleep. You'll be good as new in no time.'' He smiles at her, something very soft, and it's not like she's never seen him smile before and maybe it's just the awesome Xanax floatiness, but something about the sight of it just knocks her right out tonight. ''You need anything else?'' He asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed, brushing hair out of her face. ''Water? Advil?''

She blinks groggily, looking up at him. She's feeling relatively okay now, the panic has subsided, the waves have pulled back, but she's still a little overwhelmed. She's grateful for his kindness and the fact that he's good in a crisis, a calm and steady island in an angry ocean, but there's this thing that has all at once become startlingly clear to her and she doesn't think it's something she can blame on the panic attack or her meds and she definitely doesn't know what to do with it.

This guy squeezes the toothpaste tube from the middle and throws his clothes beside the hamper instead of in the hamper, which is some seriously chaotic shit, and he's a terrible backseat driver, and he moves things around in her fridge, and he's so fucking scared of her that he won't even sleep next to her half the time because he's terrified of getting in too deep with her. And she is still not convinced he's here to stay. After the life he's lived, she's just not sure he has it in him.

And, also, one time she watched him walk into a door and blame it on the door.

She should have done a better job of guarding her heart. She should not have let him in so easily and so fast. But she did. She jumped. Dove in head first, the way she always does, lead the way with her heart instead of her head, and now he's seen her at her most vulnerable, her lowest point, and he didn't leave, and -

Goddamn it.

She's in love with him.

He unironically thinks puns like ''Gatordate'' are funny and he is very irresponsible when it comes to seatbelts and it's only been like two and a half months and she's in love with him; this weird drifter with an arsenal in his trunk, the ghost of his dead brother on his shoulder, a mouth full of glass, and PTSD.

It's such a stupid thing to do; falling this hard this fast for some troubled monster hunter with daddy issues and old man taste in music just because he was nice to her while she was having a panic attack, acting like she's in one of those shitty romance novels he skimmed in some gas station in the middle of Midwest America at four in the morning. But it's not just because of that. That's the thing. It's not just the kindness he's offered up to her.

The hungry recognize hunger.

It always comes back to that with them.

There is a terrible, visceral, fragile sort of understanding between the two of them. That is not going to happen with anyone else.

''Laur,'' he whispers, pulling her attention back to him. ''Are you good?''

''I'm good,'' she says. ''I was just... Do you...'' She swallows, feeling curiously nervous. ''Do you think you could stay with me? Just for tonight? I'm still a little... I'm worried about being alone.''

''Oh.'' His eyes drift to the empty spot in the bed beside her. He doesn't even question it. ''Yeah.'' He gives her a lopsided smile. ''I can stay.''

''You sure? I know you were working on the sink - ''

''The sink can wait,'' he says, squeezing her hand. ''It'll still be there tomorrow.'' He leans in to kiss her temple. ''For tonight, I'll stay here with you.''

.

.

.

end part fourteen

---

AN: #Team Pepsi

Chapter title from the poem ''Waiting on a Bright Moon'' by JY Neon Yang.

(Real life side note: I hope everyone is staying healthy, staying at home, and reaching out to friends and family - via technology - during this uncertain time. It's a scary time, but please remember that there is still joy in the world, it's still okay to laugh, and we will get through this.)