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.

15. We Have Always Lived Like This

AN: This chapter - the Sam and Sara chapter - is the first chapter to take place entirely in the present with no flashbacks. Flashbacks were written for this chapter but were cut for length when this chapter grew into a beast. One of those flashbacks, from Sara's POV, has already been posted as a separate fic titled Live Through This. The other flashback, from Sam's POV, will be coming soon.

Additional warnings for this chapter: Brief mentions of underage drug use. There is a scene where a character vaguely mentions being groomed as a child by an older adult. Mentions of previous child death. Other additional warnings (some of them very dark) are too spoilery to put up here so in depth spoilers will be written at the bottom but to be vague: this chapter contains in depth talk of mental illness, specifically suicide/suicide attempts, and also involves casual ableism, both intentional and unintentional.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Fifteen

We Have Always Lived Like This

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November, 2016

Well.

This is some bullshit.

Sara has been gone less than 48 hours and somehow everything has gone to hell.

Laurel was kidnapped - and subsequently rescued - and Edie, who has been dead for sixteen years, is the faceless witch who lives in her head and Dean and Sam's father killed her and also there are evil doppelgangers running around now.

I mean, really.

What the fuck?

Sara will accept the kidnapping thing because thankfully Laurel is safe now, although she is going to choose to remain bitter that she was not informed her of the situation.

She will accept that Dean and Laurel have asshole doppelgangers because - sure, yeah, that sounds like something that would happen to them.

She will even grudgingly accept - after having a mild tantrum - that the Winchesters are responsible for Edie's ''death'' sixteen years ago because it sounds like their father was the driving force behind that one and he sounds like a dick.

It just can't be Edie.

The witch responsible for this mess has caused irreparable harm to Laurel and so many other people. That can't be Edie. That, Sara will not accept. It doesn't make any sense.

When they were kids, all the cousins were friends, but there's no doubt that they all had their place. Sara mostly hung out with Jackson because he was the same age as her and he was just as high energy, always willing to go play outside in the mud and get his knees all scraped up roughhousing with her. Their siblings called them Dumb & Dumber. Probably because of that one time they accidentally ran into each other and knocked each other out with their hard heads.

Bo had a hard time finding his place in the family for the first few years, not just because he was at an awkward age - older than the other kids, younger than Edie, with no playmates his own age and little interest in the neighborhood kids - but because he was a little Black boy dropped into an all white family when his father died and Natasha took him in. Eventually, as Seth grew older, he was the one Bo formed the closest bond with. Seth was timid and shy, Bo was quiet and thoughtful, and they brought each other out of their shells.

Laurel, however. She liked to stick like glue to Sara, liked to be the older sister, the supervisor, all bossy and worried like a child sized mother hen, fretting and wringing her hands whenever Sara and Jackson played too rough. She liked Seth because he frequently asked her to read to him and she liked the quiet he gave her. And she, too, found Bo to be a calming presence, but that was more when they got older, during the turbulent teenage years. (Also, she'll never admit it, but she totally had a crush on him for a summer when she was thirteen and he was fifteen.) But it was always Edie she ran to. It was like gravity. She just kept falling back to her.

Sara has a hard time with memories of Edie. She used to be tight with Edie's mother because Auntie Val was like a stereotypical TV Mom, warm and soft as opposed to Mom's often unintentional coldness, but Sara was a young, chaotic child when Edie was around. She didn't pay a lot of attention to the world around her. Her memories of her are mostly pieces and flashes, hazy with time. Edie was sly and had a grin like she always had a secret. She moved quickly, with the grace of a dancer and the impatience of a demanding teenage girl, and she was clever.

She liked to be the leader. Liked to round up all the kids and say ''here's what we're going to do'' and Laurel was the only one who never questioned it. Always did whatever Edie told her to do. That's what Sara remembers the most about Edie. Not Edie herself, but her shadow. How Laurel was around her. She followed her around all the time, wide-eyed and desperate for attention. She idolized her.

Edie was older and therefore cooler, she was pretty, she was bright, she wore expensive clothes and shoes, had all the new toys and electronics that the Lance family could never afford, and she was noticed. Sara didn't think anything of it at the time, she was just a kid, but when she looks back now, she can see the common thread, the thing that made Laurel jump when Edie said jump.

Edie was the firstborn. She was Valerie's first child; she was the first grandchild, the first niece. She was the OG. All the adults coddled her. Spoiled her. Loved her. She was extremely close with her family. She and Valerie were practically in each other's pockets, her father doted on her, and her brothers thought the world of her. Sara can see now why that would appeal to Laurel.

Laurel has always lived in wait, wanting.

Now Sara understands why.

But, still, Edie was also kind. Sure, she could be devious, the way most children can be, and she was a spoiled brat sometimes, but she was sweet too. She was close to her parents, to her grandparents, she was the first of the kids to welcome Bo into the family with open arms, tucking her arm into his and declaring him her new bestie, she adored her brothers, and she loved Laurel. There is no question about it. She loved her little shadow. She was patient with her. Even protective.

She was not a monster.

Not then and not now.

Sara has no idea what happened in 2000. She has no idea who Edie was at the end of her life, what she did, what she meant to do, but she died. That's what happened. However it went down, she died. That's that. She's at peace now, whatever that means. She's not here. She is not some ridiculous, cartoonishly evil witch, clawing around for pointless power and relevancy, terrorizing Laurel, and pulling on every destructive thread she can grasp at. It's a mistake. It has to be a mistake.

That's where Sara stands.

Someone has made a terrible mistake.

She is not saying she's doubting what her sister says she saw, but there has to be some other explanation. From what Laurel has said, this witch has the ability to change her appearance. To look like other people. And she does it to hurt. To dig the deepest wound. She has pulled things out of Laurel's head, stowed away inside of her mind like a parasite, burrowed deep and sifted through all the wreckage. Wouldn't it make sense that this is just more of the same? That using Edie is just another way to hurt Laurel?

Sara is aware that she is not an expert on witchcraft, but it feels like could be an avenue worth exploring.

No one else seems to think so.

When she and Sam first get home from Maine, Dean and Laurel sit them down, along with Dad, and they break the news. Sara's concern, at first, is mostly for Laurel. She tries to let Sam take over the whole reacting thing. Which he does. Loudly. He is not overly pleased to learn that his father killed his sister-in-law's cousin. Sara understands that. She'd like to say she handles things better, but that would be a lie. She maybe yells a little. She maybe calls the Winchesters ''redneck psychopaths.'' (In her defense, they do look like redneck psychopaths.) And, yes, there is a teeny tiny argument that erupts between her and Dean. Nothing new there.

Oddly enough, it's her father who breaks it up. It's her father who defends Dean and Sam. Which is weird. She accuses everyone of wanting to ignore what the Winchesters did and her father jumps in with that same stern look that used to make her slouch in her seat at dinner, reluctantly eating her green beans, backing off whatever she was arguing about. ''Nobody's ignoring anything, Sara,'' he tells her, tone of voice bordering on warning. ''We're just saying this isn't as simple as you want it to be. They're not responsible for their father's actions.''

She drops the issue. She stews, grumbles, and glares, but she drops the issue.

Laurel doesn't defend Dean and Sam. That's even weirder. She just sits there and lets her husband and sister bicker. She doesn't say much at all beyond the initial explanation. Just sits there, waits for it to be over, and as soon as everything is all said and done, she goes to bed.

Sara's fine with admitting that she might still be grappling with the information about her sister's family, but she's decided she's not going to think about it. Because this witch is not Edie. It's not. She's made up her mind. There has to be some other explanation.

She would love to share her theory with someone but, as per usual, everyone else moves on around her. They slip flawlessly into their known roles, operate as a well-oiled machine, assemble their teams and families to digest all this new information together, to formulate plans, and she...

Well, she doesn't have a team.

Not here anyway.

She's known this for a long time, ever since she came back, but it's hard. She's not a part of Team Winchester or Team Arrow. The only place she truly belongs is with Laurel and, well, Laurel is tired today. She's too raw and wounded to talk conspiracy theories, and Sara doesn't want to bother her with it. Her dad has his own grief and shock to deal with so he's out. Oliver and his team have no idea what they're dealing with, have not been trained or even well informed of anything to do with witchcraft. And she would rather not talk to the Winchester brothers today. She needs some distance from them to digest this new crap heap.

She feels like she's not quite as upset or shocked by the revelation that they were the ones who hunted Edie as she should be. Yes, she gave them hell, but what's one more blow? Her father was right. They can't be held responsible for their father's actions. It's not fair. It's just going to take a few days to settle.

You know who she wishes she could talk to?

Nyssa.

She would know what to do. Witchcraft is far from a mystery to her. There is little that is a mystery to Nyssa. She knows ancient dead languages and fighting techniques from all around the world and could totally take a car apart and put it back together with ease. She is a licensed pilot, a licensed big rig driver, she is a certified midwife, and technically, she is probably still an RN in France. She knows poetry and art and psychology and technology and fashion. Americans irritate her and their way of life and the society they've created sometimes disgusts her, but she can blend in well enough. Certain social situations might be beyond her level of experience, but she's a quick learner so who knows. She might have that down now too. She is a brilliant woman. A force to be reckoned with. Can heal as much as she can hurt, give life as easily as she can take it. She would undoubtedly know witchcraft. It was common practice in the League. Sara never could break through that barrier while she was there, but she heard all the whispers. Nyssa knows more than whispers.

Nyssa is not here.

Even if she were, it probably wouldn't be a good idea to open that door again. Her feelings and their relationship are complicated. She's trying to move on. She's sure Nyssa is trying to do the same.

Therefore, Sara says nothing to no one.

She spends the whole day with a tornado inside of her, pretending it's a normal day.

Laurel goes to bed and sleeps until close to dinnertime. Dean and Sam are out of the house until Thea picks up Mary from school and then Dean is on Dad Duty. She tries to poke around down in No Man's Land to assist with the doppelganger conundrum, which Sam and Cas have basically taken over, with an unexpected assist from ARGUS, but she nopes out of there fast after one single awkward and unpleasant for both of them interaction with Laurel's counterpart.

Overall, it is a seriously unsettling day in which she is nothing but useless. She fucking hates that it has been such a common thing lately. She should be of more help. She should be able to do something. She is expertly trained. She knows a dozen language, knows how to pop someone's shoulder back into place, knows basic combat casualty care, and has excellent marksmanship. She is one of the strongest fighters this group of weirdos has. If she ran into this witch on the street, she could rip the psycho's still beating heart out of her chest in roughly fifteen seconds. She should have something to do. It's her sister in danger here. If she can't protect Laurel, she should at least be able to help her.

She's been trying to dig into the Ellard family more because she, especially now, wants to know more about Hazel Aelard, but to do that, she needs help from Aunt Nat and Nat's currently in Bali at some artist's retreat thing with her girlfriend Leilani. She could duck down to Portland and snoop around Nat's house for all the research she's done, it'd be easy enough and it's not like she would be missed here, but she can't leave Laurel.

Not again.

After what happened, she just cannot do it. Every time she leaves her, something terrible happens. She will not do it again.

She spends most of the day stewing and stewing and it boils and builds until -

Dinner is Thai food, and a lot of it, that Thea brings home. Nobody sits down to eat, just grabs what they need either on the way out or while they're busy doing other things.

Laurel doesn't eat much, which everyone notices. She and Dean are stiff and curiously formal in their interactions, which everyone also notices.

Mary is in a mood, pouting at everything and everyone. She doesn't want any of the pad thai or chicken satay that her dad plates up for her, but she doesn't want anything else she's offered either, shrieking incessantly at the mere suggestion that she try the papaya salad her mother offers her, and she does not want her plate taken away from her.

Dean and Sam leave after dinner because the other earth's Dean is still chained to a chair in a warehouse in an unstable area of the Glades and something needs to be done about that. An understandable reason to duck out, but not to Mary. She literally throws herself on the floor and wails hysterically as if her dad is going off to war. She has to be pried off his leg so he can leave. It's a lot. Very unnerving. To no one but Sara.

Dean and Laurel seem exasperated, but otherwise unsurprised, Sam and Thea don't even flinch, and Dad's just like, ''yep, that's a four year old.''

Sara adores her niece, but she is certainly cementing her decision not to have...this whole situation here. Like, with the wailing kid and the marital tension and the suburbs and stuff. She doesn't even like Thai food that much.

She likes horses, though.

They seem chill.

Maybe she'll get a horse one day instead. And a ranch. And a pug because they're ugly cute and she's always wanted one.

And some of that killer weed Bo grows on the Amnesty Bay property.

Probably - definitely - gonna pass on the small screaming human that rips its way out of your vagina and then spends the next 18 years attached to you like an octopus that lives on your face.

No offense to her sister and certainly no offense to her normally sweet and giggly niece, but she is not about that life.

After Dean and Sam leave and Mary is carted off to the kitchen with Laurel, Sara wastes about forty-five minutes doing dumb shit like tidying the living room for no reason at all while she thinks of nothing but Edie. And also maybe a bit about Bo's weed. Mostly Edie.

Then she hits her limit.

She has never been good at being idle. Or keeping her mouth shut.

Sara stomps her way through the house and into the kitchen, determined, willful, and ready for this conversation. She starts strong. ''Laurel, I need to talk to you about something. It's important.''

Laurel does not look like she is in the mood to talk right now nor does she look like she has the time. She's busy loading the dishwasher and washing whatever can't be put in the dishwasher and Mary's sitting at the table, still whimpering softly. She's wearing adorable little jammies with rainbows all over and she's got her head down on the table, one hand clutching at the handle of a mug, nearly dozing off, making soft whiny noises to keep herself awake. She looks like a tiny drunk coming off a bad binge.

''Sara,'' Laurel says. ''I really don't have time right now.''

Yeah, Sara takes one look at them and can see that. She shoves everything else down, again, and nudges her out of the way at the sink. ''I've got this.''

Laurel gives her a grateful smile, drying her hands on a dishtowel before she turns to Mary. ''Little bird, did you finish your tea?''

Mary doesn't answer.

Sara plunges a coffee mug into the water and reaches for the dish soap. ''She can have tea?''

''It's just warm water with honey and lemon,'' Laurel says, pulling open the cupboard to rummage around for something. ''Mary?''

Mary lifts her head, but ignores her mom's question. ''Where did Daddy go?''

''I told you, honey,'' Laurel pauses what she's doing for a second to sign along with her words. She does that a lot, Sara's noticed. Even when she's not talking to Mary. Half the time, she doesn't even seem to realize she's doing it. ''He's working.''

''But I don't want him to be working.''

''I know, Mary, but he has to.'' Laurel pulls both a sippy cup and a mug down, holding them both out to her daughter. ''Do you want a sippy cup tonight or a big girl cup?''

Mary stays quiet for a minute, looking grouchy and tired, and then she scowls. ''Why can't you go to work and Daddy stays here with me?''

...Wow.

Fucking ouch.

Sara feels like she should interject here on behalf of her sister, but she doesn't want to get roasted by the surprisingly savage four year old. She likes being the favorite aunt, thank you very much.

Laurel just sighs tiredly. ''That's just...not how it is right now.'' She makes the unilateral decision to go with a sippy cup, putting the mug away.

Mary slouches down in her seat, arms crossed, pouting angrily while Laurel gets her some water.

Sara would help out, but this is not in her wheelhouse. Not one of those things she is an expert at. She's just going to stick to the dishes. It's easier. At least it would be if she could find those soap pod things for the dishwasher. She has never done the dishes in this house. She hasn't done much at all in the way of household chores. She does her own laundry, makes her own coffee, but everything else is mostly Dean. It's not that anyone makes him do everything. He just does it and everyone lets him.

Huh.

She should work on that.

She is basically mooching off them after all. She could probably stand to help out more. Especially considering she has no idea how long she's going to be in town and, at this point, it's looking long term. Usually she would have run by now.

''Are you finished with your tea?'' Laurel asks again, popping the lid back onto the sippy cup.

Mary groans in response, a real teenage sounding groan, and flops down face first on the bench seat of the breakfast nook. Mostly to avoid looking at her mother. Laurel rolls her eyes, but otherwise remains calm. She inches, reluctantly by the looks of it, over to the table, putting the sippy cup down.

''Mary.'' She reaches out to put a hand on Mary's back and instantly the girl whines, swats her away from her, and scoots farther into the nook. Laurel visibly has to take a few deep breaths. ''Okay,'' she says, remarkably calm. ''I'm going to assume that means you're done.'' She takes the mug off the table and hands it over to Sara without a word. ''Did it help with your cough?''

Mary appears to think about that question for a minute before she groans again, annoyed, and slithers off the seat like a boneless slug to hide under the table.

Kids, man.

You can't live with 'em.

And that's it. That's the whole thing.

Sara turns her back on the show to busy herself with rinsing out the mug and getting it in the dishwasher.

''All right,'' Laurel tries to perk up her voice. ''Come on, sweetie. Bathroom time. Pee, wash your face, brush your teeth, then let's get to bed. You're going to sleep with me tonight, okay? You can pick out whatever book you want and I'll - ''

''I don't want to sleep with you! I want to sleep with Daddy!''

Oh my god, that is so freaking annoying.

Laurel takes a second and then says, still calm, ''Daddy will come to bed with us when he gets home from work. Now, let's go. It's getting late.''

There's mumbling from under the table.

Laurel sighs for like the millionth time and leans down to peer under the table. ''Don't play that game with me, Mary. I know you heard me.''

''Nu-uh! Got bad ears!''

''Mary Beatrice.''

Mary does not emerge from her newly acquired cave, but she does declare, firmly, ''I don't want to wash my face!''

''Okay,'' Laurel agrees. ''Just pee and brush your teeth then.''

''I don't want to brush my teeth!''

''Sorry, but that one's not up for debate.'' Laurel stands straight, looking over at Sara just as she's turning the dishwasher on and in one swift and confident move, she reaches over, cancels the wash, presses a few extra buttons, and then starts it up.

Sara stares blankly at the dishwasher and its many buttons. ''Fancy.''

Laurel gives her a faintly amused look and then turns back to her daughter, bending down to look under the table. ''Come on,'' she coaxes, holding out her hand. ''Let's move. It's way past your bedtime and you have school in the morning.''

''No!'' Mary shrieks and hugs the leg of the table. ''I hate school!'' As soon as her impassioned screech leaves her lips, she starts coughing. And coughing and coughing and coughing. Then she starts crying.

''Mary...'' Laurel seats herself on the floor and opens her arms. ''Come here, baby.''

Mary immediately forgets all about her irrational irritation and crawls out from under the table to fling herself into her mother's arms, curling up like a baby.

Sara grabs the sippy cup and crouches down in front of them, offering it to Mary.

The little girl accepts it, guzzling down the water, ignoring both Laurel and Sara's advice to sip slowly.

''That's a miserable sounding cough,'' Sara says softly. ''Isn't it?''

Mary nods. She pulls the cup away from her face to cough a couple more times - without covering her mouth - and then she goes back to chugging her water. She's cute like this, just sitting there drinking her water, looking innocent and miraculously quiet.

''You okay?'' Laurel murmurs in her good ear.

Mary pulls the empty cup away, eyes filling with tears, and then - ''I WANT DADDY!''

Scratch that cute and innocent thing.

Laurel recoils, grimacing. Sara cringes. She takes the empty cup that Mary tosses away and then just backs away slowly.

''I don't know what to tell you,'' Laurel says, beginning to crack and lose her patience. ''He's not here.''

''Make him be here,'' Mary demands, and then bursts into tears. It's not screechy, grating tantrum wails. It's these big, sad, miserable sobs that just gut you. She clings tightly to Laurel, despite the fact that her mom is apparently a second class citizen to her compared to her dad, and weeps into her shoulder. It's actually really sad.

Also a little co-dependent, but nobody's perfect.

The kitchen door squeaks open behind her and she turns, watching her father stroll into the room, stop, spot Mary, visibly consider aborting whatever mission he's on, and then continue. ''I set up the humidifier in the bedroom,'' he says. ''It should be good to go.''

Laurel looks up from trying to soothe Mary and smiles tightly. ''Thanks,'' she says. ''You're a lifesaver. I could have sworn we had one, but I can't find it anywhere and Dean's not picking up his phone.''

''I think he mentioned it conked out a few months ago,'' Dad says. ''Guess he never got around to replacing it.'' He looks at Mary, still crying into her mom's shoulder. ''She okay?''

''She's having a rough night,'' Laurel says, rubbing Mary's back.

''Been there,'' says Sara.

Dad looks at her with one of those looks of his. ''You used to be there a lot when you were her age.''

''I may have been a pest, but she was bossy,'' she says, pointing at Laurel.

Laurel snorts out a laugh, but keeps her focus on her kid. Mary pulls away from her, whimpering and sniffling, rubbing at her eyes. ''I'll pay you back for it,'' Laurel offers up, distractedly smoothing hair out of Mary's face. ''If you leave the receipt - ''

''You absolutely will not,'' Dad cuts in, firm, leaving no room for argument. ''Save your money, sweetheart. The holidays are coming up. I can afford to help my granddaughter with a cough.''

''Don't like coughs,'' Mary mumbles out from around the fingers she has shoved into her mouth.

''I know, honey,'' Laurel soothes, pressing the back of her hand to Mary's forehead.

''I want it to go away.''

''It will. We just have to be patient. Grandpa brought you a humidifier. That should help.''

''I need my daddy,'' Mary moans.

''Daddy's going to be here when you wake up.''

Mary whines again, wriggling her little body as if she is so mad she doesn't know what to do with it, stomping her foot dramatically. ''Noooo!''

''Maybe you could call him and say goodnight,'' Dad suggests.

''Hey, yeah,'' Laurel makes a concentrated effort to brighten up and smile for Mary, taking her hands. ''We could do that. We might even be able to FaceTime him if we can get him to pick up. What do you think?''

''No!'' Mary yanks her hands away from her mother. ''I don't want to call him!'' She points an accusing finger in Laurel's face. ''I want him to be here with me! You,'' she jabs her finger even closer. ''You go to work! Daddy stays here with me!''

That kid is in danger.

It just does not seem like a good idea to wave things in the Black Canary's face.

Laurel looks at Mary and her shaky finger for a second and then says, in a chilling voice, ''I will give you one chance to put. That. Finger. Down.''

Mary puts the finger down - a wise choice - and then folds like a wet napkin. She wilts, flopping into Laurel's arms and breaking down into noisy sobs again.

Sara whistles lowly, with a shake of her head. ''Someone sounds T-I-R-D-E.''

A beat.

Dad inhales sharply and when she turns to look at him, he's got his eyes closed and he is shaking his head, likely mentally calculating where he went wrong with her.

...Okay.

In her defense, it has been a very exhausting few days. She flew across the country, dug up a cement patio with a jackhammer, and then flew back across the country.

''Someone,'' Dad begins crisply, ''should've stayed in college.''

Sara's cheeks redden. ''Just so everyone is aware, I know several different languages.''

Dad asks, very dryly, ''Is English one of them?''

Sara blows out a breath, looking over at Laurel, who is currently cradling Mary and trying not to laugh into her hair.

''Got it!'' Thea pops into the kitchen with a victorious grin, hoisting something up in the air triumphantly. ''Found the Vicks! I knew I had some. Raisa used to use this stuff for everything. It was - Hey.'' Her smile fades when she spots Mary. ''What's up?''

Mary draws her head back to look over at Thea with her big sad puppy dog eyes.

''Aww,'' Thea lowers the small tub of Vicks Vaporub. ''What's wrong, babe?''

''I miss my daddy,'' Mary croaks out pitifully.

''Oh.'' Thea nods understandingly and doesn't miss a beat. ''I miss mine too,'' she says. ''What should we do about that?''

Mary looks almost startled by the question, like she didn't think anyone would bother to ask her opinion. She sniffles, pushing hair out of her face. ''We hafta - '' She gulps, hiccupping out a tiny cry, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''We hafta go get them.''

''I guess we could do that,'' Thea agrees easily, putting the Vicks on the counter. ''But it's pretty late. And we'd have to go outside. It's really, really dark outside.'' She nods to the kitchen window and Mary follows her gaze, looking unsure. ''And cold,'' Thea continues, totally seamless in her manipulation. ''I don't think our dads would want us to be cold in the dark. They'd worry. I wouldn't want them to worry.''

Mary looks fretful. ''Yeah...''

''How about we just go get ready for bed?'' Thea suggests. ''The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner you wake up and it'll be morning and the sun will be shining and your dad will be waiting for you.''

Mary looks reluctant, but when Thea holds a hand out to her, she seems to make a decision. She looks at Laurel, who gives her a soft, encouraging smile, and then she slowly gets to her tiny Bambi legs. ''Okay,'' she whispers, reaching out to take Thea's hand.

''Okay,'' Thea grins and winks at her. ''Let's go brush our teeth and get all the sugarbugs out and then we'll pick out a book for Mom to read.''

''I don't want Mommy to read to me,'' Mary says as Thea's leading her out of the kitchen. You can just hear her pissy scowl and her wrinkled nose - one last jab at her mother for no reason other than she is not the kid's preferred parent. ''I want you to do it.''

The kitchen door swings shut, cutting off Thea's gentle but probably inevitably wildly effective admonishment. Both Sara and Dad cringe, turning to look at Laurel. It's evident that stung her more than she wanted it to.

''She's just ornery and overtired, Laurel,'' Dad says gently.

Her smile is tight. ''Mmhmm.''

''Yeah, kids are snots,'' Sara says. She throws her father a look. ''Don't expect any grandchildren from me.''

''Haven't since you were thirteen and had to take care of that egg for a week.''

''It's not my fault little Eggo got scrambled,'' she yelps out defensively. ''It was my co-parent.'' She narrows her eyes, shaking her head. ''Fucking Kyle. He was so useless. There's a reason we were divorced.''

Dad looks at her for a minute, just stands there staring and then he oh-so-helpfully reminds her, ''You ate your homework, Sara.''

''Ew,'' Laurel pulls a face. ''You ate it?''

''I - '' Sara throws her arms out. ''Yes, I did,'' she says, sticking her nose up. ''On a bagel. With cream cheese, lox, and a little dill. He was delicious. And, you know what, nobody's a perfect parent.''

''I'm definitely not a perfect parent,'' Laurel says. ''But at least I can say I've never eaten Mary.''

''It was an egg! But, okay, fine,'' Sara relents. ''I was a shitty egg mother. I can admit that. However, now I'm the favorite aunt and I would just like to state, for the record, that as the favorite aunt, I could have easily calmed down Mary,'' Sara says. ''Thea doesn't have a monopoly on being helpful. She's not the Mary Whisperer.''

''I don't know,'' Dad says. ''She is really good with her.''

''And so am I! I just...I had things...'' Sara gestures to the dishwasher. ''I was doing the dishes.''

''Well, thanks for the backup, Switzerland,'' Laurel quips. ''Very helpful.''

''Look, I'm good at other things.''

''You are,'' Dad soothes, patting her back. ''You're extremely talented at spending all the money I give you. Mostly on tacos.''

''Oh my god,'' Laurel stares up at her, nose wrinkled in disapproval. ''Dad gives you money? You're an adult, Sara.''

''Hey! I may have no job and no money and I may not be very good with children, but do you know what I do have?'' Sara gives her sister a pointed look. ''Boobs that don't sag.''

''Sara!''

Despite Dad's shocked admonishment, Laurel just laughs.

Dad doesn't get it. He never had sisters. Just one super eccentric brother. Who is now Canadian and has probably forgotten that he has a brother and a couple of nieces in America.

Sara holds out a hand for Laurel to take and Laurel accepts it, allowing her to help her up off the ground. By the time she's on her feet, she has visibly switched off, retiring all emotions and detaching herself from the situation. ''I'm sorry,'' she says, looking at Sara. ''You said you wanted to talk to me about something.''

''Hmm?''

''When you came in. You said you needed to talk to me.''

''Oh that?'' Sara makes a choked dismissive noise. ''Wasn't important.''

''You said it was important.''

Sara waves it off. ''Nah.''

Laurel gives her the eye, but doesn't prod. ''Okay.''

''How are you feeling, sweetheart?'' Dad asks, watching Laurel's every move as she grabs Mary's cup to refill it with water.

''Fine,'' she says. ''A little sore,'' she relents in that carefully casual way of hers. ''Nothing I haven't dealt with before.''

Dad makes a ''hmm'' noise and crosses his arms. He leans back against the counter. ''I was more talking emotionally.''

She stops what she's doing, hands going still. But only for a moment. She slowly and meticulously puts the lid back on the cup. ''It is what it is.''

''Dean real shaken up about this?'' Dad asks next, which feels like a strange question for him to be asking.

Laurel just says, ''No more than the rest of us.''

Dad looks like he is trying to inch across a field of emotional landmines. ''I was just checking,'' he says. ''You two haven't been yourselves today.''

This time, when Laurel stills, it's not just for a moment. She stops what she's doing and, after a second, she lets her hands fall limply to the side. She doesn't turn around. Neither of them push her, but Sara notices the way Dad tightens his lips, posture stiffening in concern. Finally, Laurel turns. ''We're just tired.'' A weak, fleeting half smile. ''Rough night. And day.'' She grabs the sippy cup. ''I should go get Mary down for the night. Thanks again for the humidifier.'' She brushes a kiss to his cheek on the way past him and touches Sara's elbow lightly before she slips out the door.

Dad watches her leave. Looks at the swinging door for a long time after she's gone.

Sara watches him. She has a lot of questions for him. She does not ask these questions. It doesn't seem like a good idea. It's safer to think more about Edie and that mess.

''What about you?'' Dad directs his attention back to her. ''How are you doing with all this?''

She chuckles at the question. ''I have no idea,'' she admits. ''I'm not good at this part.''

''Which part?''

''Waiting,'' she says. ''Not knowing. I can fight things that are in front of me. I know how to kill a grown man with nothing but a Ziploc baggie and one of those air freshener things shaped like trees - ''

''Don't tell me things like that.''

'' - But I don't know how to help my own sister. I don't know if I can protect her. I don't even understand this.'' Something aches in her throat. ''They want to take her out of her body and stuff something else in.'' She ignores the shiver of disgust and horror that runs down her spine. ''How do we deal with that? How would we even begin to?''

''I don't know either,'' he says. He looks pale just at the thought of it. ''This isn't my world.'' He ponders that for a second and then his eyes flash in frustration. ''This is all so ridiculous,'' he mutters gruffly. ''It's fucking ridiculous.''

Sara can't help but feel her lips curling up into a grin. She has missed her father's gruff softness. She spends so much time running from her family, taking every exit ramp that leads her away from here, that she never stops to appreciate the little things she takes for granted. The touch of Laurel's hand against her cheek. Her father's sense of humor. The tender but somehow larger than life way they both love. ''It is,'' she agrees. ''It's dumb.''

When she laughs, he laughs along with her, but it's mostly just because she's laughing. Then he looks nostalgic. Maybe a little sad. Wistful. ''This isn't what I pictured for you girls,'' he says. ''Don't misunderstand me here. I'm proud of you. I am so incredibly proud of you both and the amazing things you've done.'' He smiles at her. It lights up his eyes. She's missed that too. ''But it's not what I pictured.''

She understands that. It's not what she pictured either. She's not sure what she ever did picture, what she wanted, but she knows it wasn't anything like this. ''It's not all dark and depressing,'' she says. ''Laurel's having a hard time right now, but she still has all this. She has a husband, a baby, a house in the suburbs. She's like some kind of beloved paragon of humanity or some shit, which is so Laurel that it's hilarious. And I'm okay too. I have a team. A job that I care about. We'll be okay. We'll get through this.''

''And you're alive,'' he says. ''Both of you.'' He says that like it's the 8th wonder of the world. Like it's something unheard of for them both to be alive at the same time. ''You're here.''

''We are,'' she smiles.

''I count that as something of a miracle.''

She thinks it's sad that neither of them even bother to mention Mom. She's not sure she should be sad about that, but... She loves her mother and so does Dad. She was the love of his life. She is the love of his life. But Mom made her bed. Some things are unforgivable. Sometimes you can't look back.

''I should probably head out,'' Dad says after a minute. ''It's late - ''

''It's like eight.''

'' - and your sister needs her rest.''

''Oh.'' She does her best not to show her disappointment. ''Yeah.''

He doesn't move for a long time, staring at the door.

''Uh... Dad?''

''It's getting harder and harder to leave her,'' he confesses, throwing her a look. ''You know?''

She doesn't even have to ask. ''I know.''

''I know her condition is stable for right now,'' he says. ''But... Before...'' He pauses. He looks haunted, like he has since April. ''I wasn't there.''

Sara looks down at her hands. The same useless hands that couldn't save her sister then and might not be able to save her now. ''Neither was I.''

''You know, there's this thing we forget,'' he says. ''The greatest gift you can ever get is a goodbye. We forget that. We don't want to think about it. But it's true.'' He smiles, but it looks strained and sad. ''I didn't get that. Not with you, not with her. I like to think you and I are okay now, aren't we? We're good?''

''Yeah,'' she gets out. ''Yes. Of course we are.''

''But Laurel...'' He looks regretful, troubled, strained around his eyes, his downturned mouth. ''There are so many things I wish I had said to her. Even more I wish I hadn't said. I can't miss that goodbye again.''

''You won't,'' she says. She promises. ''You won't need to say goodbye to her because everything will be fine. We'll get her out of this.'' She stops there. She knows there is something else she needs to add, but she's afraid to say it. ''But,'' she finally says. ''If it comes down to it, I'll - I'll make sure you get your goodbye. You both deserve that.''

Her father doesn't say anything, but he looks at her with this soft, tender look that she remembers from when she was a child. He pushes off the counter and steps over to her to kiss her cheek. ''You're a good kid,'' his whispers in her ear, ''you know that?''

''I'm twenty-eight, but thanks.''

He chuckles, pulling away from her. ''You should get some sleep too. You've been traveling all day.''

''I slept on Thea's private jet,'' she says, grinning up at him. ''I know they're bad for the environment, but there were heated blankets. It was super cozy.''

''I bet the pot you bummed off your cousin helped too.''

She gapes at him, jaw dropping, ears turning red.

He just winks at her, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen.

Well. That was embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as the time he caught her hanging out of the bathroom window smoking a joint on a family game night when she was eighteen but more embarrassing than the time he caught her making out with Travis Maynard on the front porch after curfew when she was fifteen.

She looks at the ground, hiding a smile. She could leave it there, on a good note, but she doesn't. She darts over to the door, pushing out into the dining room, catching him just as he's putting his coat on. ''Hey, Dad?''

He stops, looking back at her.

''Do you...'' She hesitates. ''Do you think Edie could have done all this?''

There is a lengthy pause, an expression she, frustratingly, can't read, something dark and unlike him. ''Yeah, baby, I do.''

She was so hoping he would have a different answer for her. ''The Edie I remember never would have done any of this.''

''People change, Sara. Even when we don't want them to.'' He sticks around for a second longer, throwing a look down the hallway, and then looks back to Sara. ''Have a good night, bug,'' he says. ''Take care of your sister for me,'' he adds on, which he has never said to her before, and then he's out the door.

Sara looks at the closed front door for a minute and then retreats back into the kitchen. People change. Not a satisfying explanation, in her opinion. Of all the people in all the world, she should be able to grasp the fact that people change. After all, she went from a dumbass party girl to an assassin to a living dead time traveler. She's changed a lot. However, this is just fucked up.

Yes, sure, people change.

They grow, they mature, they learn, their likes and dislikes change, their wardrobe changes, their career changes. They move and find new partners and have children. They leave things behind. Lose and gain weight. Lose and gain friendships. Pick up new hobbies. Change their fucking skincare routines. They don't typically change into homicidal lunatics.

Then again...

One could say that's what happened to her.

Sara pulls open the fridge for something to do and tries not to think about all the blood she has spilled. She's not that hungry. She closes the fridge and opens the freezer, burrowing around until she finds the pint of Ben and Jerry's she hid at the back. It is suspiciously light. She peels back the lid and her shoulders slump. ''Ugggh.'' He did it again. ''Jerk.''

That motherfucker. He doesn't even like Chunky Monkey. This is why she never wanted a brother.

Sara buries the ice cream back in the freezer and closes the door. Then a lightbulb turns on. She turns around and spots that old coffee tin full of kitchen tools that Dean keeps beside the stove. He is remarkably particular about the items in that tin. A devilish grin creeps across her face. No, seriously, he is really particular about his kitchen. She props her hands up on her hips, drumming her fingers on her waist.

Hey.

An eye for an eye.

She spends a good amount of time putting everything in a different place, hiding his favorite wooden spoon in the drawer at the bottom of the oven and that weird offset spatula thing in the junk drawer. She scatters the rest in various nooks and crannies all over the kitchen. She even puts his much loved and ''well seasoned'' (whatever the hell that means, how do you season an appliance) cast iron skillet on top of the fridge.

To be clear, he does deserve it. There is intent in the eating of the ice cream. It's premeditated. He doesn't like walnuts and he hates bananas. She once saw him try to eat a banana and it was basically that one scene from Parks & Recreation where Ron Swanson had to eat a banana. It was pathetic. Yet he has no problem eating her Chunky Monkey.

All because she dog-eared a few pages in a few of his books. Perhaps if she had known what a spiteful nerd he was...

Nah, she still would've done it.

She slips the last slotted spoon in the pantry and leaves it at that. It's good enough. He's going to have a fit when he sees that wooden spoon is missing. She exits the kitchen, doing her best not to look suspicious.

Thea is back at the dining room table again, sitting in front of her laptop with her eyes on her phone and a bag of pretzel sticks next to her. For a twenty one year old kid, she sure does work a lot. ''Hey,'' she looks up. ''Your dad head home?''

''Yep, I think he's hiding from you.''

Thea snickers. ''No one can hide from me.'' She puts her phone down, leaning back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. It's very professional looking. ''I'm going to get him on the hook eventually,'' she says. ''City Hall is ready and waiting for him.''

Sara laughs at the image of little Thea Queen physically chasing down her father, trying to woo him enough to accept the job she keeps waving in his face. ''Why do you want him to be Deputy Mayor so badly?''

''It's practical,'' Thea says simply. ''He's a good fit for a good position. He knows the ins and outs of this city, the good and the bad. He's been a public servant for over thirty years now. He's formed a lot of connections with local officials. Has a good rapport with them. And the citizens love him. He's an everyman. They connect with him.''

''They feel sorry for him,'' Sara can't help but interject. ''He's the man whose daughters can't seem to stop dying in big public spectacles.''

''They sympathize,'' Thea corrects evenly. ''Sympathy is powerful in politics. He's lost a lot. Just like they have. Plus, he's qualified - more qualified than Oliver is, let's be honest. And I know this is going to sound morbid, but if Ollie dies on the job, which is always going to be a possibility in this place, especially with his after work activities, your dad is a good person to take over. Not just for the city, but for the vigilantes. And let's not forget: he's the Black Canary's father - and Star City loves their girl.''

She is not wrong about that. This city does love their girl. A little too much, if you ask Sara. No human being can compare to the saint they've turned Laurel into since her demise. This frightened wasteland has made her into their martyr. It's just as annoying as it was in June. What's going to happen when she returns - publicly, it will have to be publicly, there's no way out of that - and they realize she's just a person?

Sara has social media accounts, you know. She knows how humanity behaves. They get really fucking pissed off when they realize the false gods they worship are just people. They want a beautiful cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure. That will never be Laurel.

It's not going to matter if Dad's the Deputy Mayor or not. When Laurel Lance publicly comes home, it won't go smoothly.

''Money's pretty good too,'' Thea goes on, drawing Sara's attention back to her. ''The benefits are great. It'll give him a good padding for when he retires. Hopefully it'll keep him busy. Keep him away from...'' She makes a vague sort of gesture with her perfectly manicured hand. ''...Certain other things.''

Right.

Certain other things being alcohol.

''Thank you for that,'' Sara says.

Thea shrugs it off as if it's nothing.

It's unexpectedly not awkward talking to Thea. Sara typically tries to avoid being alone with the younger Queen, to be honest. They weren't close before the boat went down - Sara was a too far removed from the group, Thea was too young - and after...

It's hard to forge a friendship after everything that's happened.

A brainwashed Thea murdering Sara on Merlyn's orders and a soulless and rabid Sara beating the shit out of Thea are steep hills to climb over. They're cordial and friendly-ish, but they'll never be quite as close as they both are with Laurel.

''Though I should note,'' Thea begins. ''Your father wasn't Oliver's preferred candidate for the job.''

''No?''

''No.''

''Who was?''

''Who do you think?''

Sara looks at her for a second and then looks down the hall toward the master bedroom where Laurel is. ''Oh.'' She chortles. ''I get where he's coming from, but that would have been - ''

''A complete and utter disaster,'' Thea nods. ''100%. He's even suggested holding the position for her and getting her to take it whenever she legally resurrects herself, but I vetoed that one. I love Laurel, but it would be a legal and ethical nightmare.''

''And also they'd kill each other.''

''It'd be a veritable bloodbath.''

Sara takes a seat at the table across from her. ''Mary asleep?''

''Passed out basically as soon as she got off the phone with Dean,'' Thea nods. ''Laurel didn't even get through two pages of Harry the Dirty Dog.''

''Is Laurel asleep?''

''No, I think she'll be out in a few,'' Thea says. ''If you get up and leave as soon as Mary falls asleep, she'll sit up like a zombie and grab your hand.''

''They really let her run the show, huh?''

Thea laughs, her pink lips pulling back into a smile. She holds her hands up and says, ''You said it, not me.'' She leans forward in her seat to take a quick look down the hall before she sits back. ''I think they feel guilty,'' she says, smile dimming. ''Things have always been chaotic for them. I mean, Mary was born and straight away, Laurel struggled with postpartum depression and then they got that under control only for Tommy to...'' Her smile fades altogether. She looks down at her shiny red fingernails. ''And it's just been constant ever since. It's not their fault, but guilt isn't rational.''

Sara picks at her cuticles. She'd make another well, there's another reason not to have kids joke, but it's not funny. ''I didn't know Laurel had postpartum depression.''

Thea doesn't look surprised. ''I didn't either until she told me last year,'' she admits. ''I don't think she wanted people to know when it was happening. She keeps things private, but she's had a rough go of it ever since she got pregnant. I think that's why Dean tends to just...takes over with everything else. He doesn't want her getting overwhelmed. And I think that's part of why Black Canary is so important to her. Dean couldn't help her over that mountain all by himself. Black Canary helped. It wasn't just about having somewhere to put her grief for you. It was about all of it.''

Sara thinks, bitterly, irrationally, I should have been the one to help her. ''I wasn't here for that,'' she says. ''I should have been.''

''Yeah, you should have,'' Thea agrees. ''But you weren't.'' She doesn't say it harshly. It's not a condemnation. Just a fact. ''You're here now. She has a long recovery ahead of her and whether she asks for it or not, she's going to need a lot of help. There's no use feeling guilty about what you didn't or couldn't do when you weren't here because you're here now and there's a lot you can do.''

Sara tilts her head to the side slightly, staring at the younger woman in front of her for a moment. She's trying to picture Thea before the boat. She would have been...twelve-ish? She used to have a lot of freckles. Sara remembers that. She was scrawny and gangly and awkward in her body, all skinny legs and arms flailing. She trailed after Oliver and always tried to butt into whatever the older kids were doing because she didn't have many friends her own age. She rode horses and took archery classes, two standard rich white girl things to do.

She adored Laurel. Treated her like the big sister she always wanted. That part is easy to remember. Every time Laurel was at Queen Manor, Thea would bound down the stairs, grab a hold of her, and just start rambling. That's the only reason Sara even knows about the horseback riding and archery. The few times she would go with Laurel, she'd watch this freckly kid latch onto her sister's arm and just talk and talk and talk. And Laurel would listen.

Sara remembers thinking she would have been so annoyed if her boyfriend's lispy little sister was so clingy. Turns out that clingy kid is far more loyal than the boyfriend ever was.

Thea is no longer that freckly kid. She is a grown woman, elegant and beautiful and thoroughly terrifying, just like her mother, clever and bright, with an updated wardrobe, a manicure that probably cost more money than Sara has in her bank account (if she had a bank account), and more poise than most people can even hope to have. Nevertheless, some things never change. She still trails after her older brother and she still adores Laurel, as she always has, as she always will. No matter the ghosts.

Regardless of everything that has happened between them, Sara is grateful that Thea was able to be here, standing in the place where Sara should have stood, but couldn't, maybe still can't.

''I should send them to Malibu,'' Thea says, apropos of nothing, and Sara comes crashing back down to the present, blinking in surprise.

''Malibu?'' She shakes her head. ''Who?''

''Dean and Laurel.''

''Why would you - ''

''They need a break,'' Thea states, with a firm nod.

''No arguments here,'' Sara says, stealing a pretzel stick. ''But why Malibu?''

''I own a beach house there,'' Thea says flippantly. She doesn't seem to notice Sara nearly choking on her pretzel. ''Well, it's the Merlyn beach house technically but I am the sole Merlyn heir. Therefore, I now own it. It is kind of amazing. It's been neglected over the past few years but I had it renovated, cleaned, and furnished over the summer so I could list it. It's on the Pacific Coast Highway. Right on the beach. I think it was built in the twenties. It's an updated California Bungalow, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a pool, space outside for entertaining. There's no yard, but, like, the beach is literally right there. I feel like Laurel would love that. And I think Mary would love the pool. Dean could - I don't know, spy on the neighbors or something. Let himself be the busybody Grandma we all know he is. I went there in July to meet with the realtor and help get it furnished and I swear the next door neighbor looks exactly like Kristen Wiig. She's not, but if I told Dean it was her...''

Sara is still gaping at her. She is just getting over the private jet thing and now there's a Malibu beach house in play? Who is this girl? Barbie? ''You have a beach house in Malibu with a pool and a Kristen Wiig look-a-like - ''

''Well, she doesn't come with the house.''

'' - and you choose to live here, in Star City, with the rain and the fog and all the looney tunes villains and yearly terrorist attacks?''

Thea laughs, but there is something slightly forlorn lurking in her bright eyes. ''It was Rebecca Merlyn's beach house.''

''Oh.'' Sara deflates. That's less fun then.

''Malcolm bought it for her after they were married,'' Thea explains. ''I don't particularly want to live in a dead woman's house. I just haven't had the heart to sell it.''

Sara wisely does not mention that Thea lived in a dead woman's house for seven months.

''Tommy was the one who made sure it was well taken care of after she died,'' Thea says. ''He paid a caretaker and pool guys and whatever was needed to keep it maintained. Made sure his father never sold it. Spent time there in the summer.'' She picks at her thumbnail. ''I spent all that time and all that money getting it ready so I could put it on the market and I pulled it after two weeks because I felt too guilty. It was a part of him.'' She doesn't say anything else, gaze moving down, shrouding her face from Sara's view.

Sara doesn't say anything else either. She has never quite known how to make up for that loss. She mostly just tries not to talk about him. Tommy Merlyn left a hole in the world when he died, just like she always knew he would. It was what brought her back home in the first place. She may not have been as close to him as Oliver or Laurel, but she loved him too. He was the glue of their fucked up little group back in the day. He will always be a raw wound for the people who loved him.

She will bet everything she owns (which, admittedly, is not a whole lot) that Thea will never sell that beach house.

The girl in question cranes her neck to peer down the hall once more, relaxing back into her seat with a determined look on her face. ''You think I could convince them to take a vacation?''

''Mmm,'' Sara frowns. ''Might require some needling.''

''I'm great at needling,'' Thea declares. ''I can be very annoying.'' She grabs her phone off the table and starts typing away, presumably making notes on how to irritate Dean and Laurel into taking a vacation. ''How long do you think I could force them into?'' She asks, although she doesn't seem interested in waiting for an answer. ''They need at least a week. I'm shooting for ten days. That'll be my Christmas present for them. Ten days in Malibu. All expenses paid.''

At that, Sara snorts. ''They'll never agree to that.''

''It's a gift,'' Thea protests. ''They have to take a gift. They can't decline my generosity. That's just rude.'' She doesn't look up from her phone. ''I'm giving them a vacation and that's that. I don't care if I have to kidnap them and throw them in my private jet to do it.'' She still doesn't look up from her phone, but she has a small frown on her face, tinged with worry. ''They need to chill out a bit,'' she says. ''She needs some sun.''

The amused grin on Sara's face fades and she looks down at the table, remembering the tone of his voice and the look on his face last June when Dean had said, standing in his kitchen, listening to his flighty sister-in-law break apart, I hope she's in the sun. She thinks about the pictures of the trip Laurel and Dean took back in 2014 to Big Sur. How content and happy Laurel looked in the California sun, alive and at peace in the light after a year of excruciating darkness. Then she thinks about Laurel now, always sickly looking, exhausted, beaten down and terrified, half-alive at most in the foggy gray skies of another Pacific Northwest winter.

''I agree,'' she decides, with a firm nod. ''She needs the sun.'' She looks back to Thea, the littlest Queen turned into the fiercely loyal, aggressively loving and caring sister Laurel has always deserved. ''You know,'' she comments lightly. ''You're awfully wise for a twenty one year old.''

Thea scoffs, but blushes. ''Thanks,'' she says, finally lifting her gaze from her phone. ''It's all the trauma. Also, I read a lot of self-help books.''

''I look forward to your future TED Talk.''

''Oh, I'd be so great at that.''

''What would you be good at?'' Laurel's voice is soft and her footsteps are virtually silent when she pops up behind Sara. It's impressive. No one sneaks up on Sara.

''Motivational speaking,'' Sara says.

''Ah,'' Laurel smiles. She's popped her glasses on and her pajamas and she's just pulling her hair up into a lazy top knot. ''You are pretty good with giving advice,'' she says.

''You could have your own daytime talk show.''

''Oooh, yeah,'' Sara nods enthusiastically. ''You could be the next Oprah.''

''No, thank you,'' Thea says. ''That's too much pressure.'' She thinks about it for a second. ''Although, I think I'd like giving people cars.''

Laurel chuckles, low in her throat, tired sounding, but real. She steals a pretzel stick from Thea and winks at her before turning and heading into the kitchen.

Sara waits for a second, just so she doesn't seem too eager. ''Well, you're probably doing something important right now,'' she says to Thea.

''I'm monitoring Oliver's twitter feed because he's on painkillers and I don't trust him,'' Thea says, deadpan. ''So far, he's mostly just been live tweeting old movies. He made his way through Heathers and Groundhog Day. Now he's watching The Blair Witch Project. Against my advice.''

''Which sounds like a full time job,'' Sara says, rising to her feet. ''I should let you get back to that.'' She starts to walk away, but stops right before she pushes open the door to the kitchen, turning back around. ''Also, remind me later to follow him on twitter.''

In the kitchen, Laurel is standing in front of the open fridge, holding the rubber spatula Sara hid in the crisper. She looks extremely confused. Right up until Sara walks through the door. Then she just sighs. ''Sara - ''

''He ate my ice cream again!''

Laurel gives her what Sara can only assume is a Mom Look. She's not incredibly sure. Their mother never mastered that skill. It's what she imagines a Mom Look is supposed to look like. ''He's going to kill you,'' Laurel warns, closing the fridge and putting the spatula back in the now empty coffee tin. ''He gets mad at me when I try to organize this kitchen.''

''He shouldn't have eaten my ice cream,'' Sara says. ''He doesn't even like Chunky Monkey.''

Laurel gives her one last look, but doesn't push a lecture on her, moving over to the pantry. She searches around and then peers around the door. ''Did you eat my hot cheetos?''

''No, I did not because they're disgusting and I don't want to burn a hole in my gut.''

Laurel rolls her eyes fondly and goes back to digging around in the pantry, eventually coming up with a bag of goldfish crackers.

Sara hoists herself up onto the counter by the kitchen sink. ''Aren't those Mary's?''

''Mary hates goldfish crackers,'' Laurel says. ''Dean just uses her as an excuse to buy them for himself.'' She looks at the bag and wrinkles her nose up in disgust. ''What does it mean when something is flavor blasted?'' She turns the bag around for Sara to see but when Sara can only shrug, she just rolls with it. ''Cheesy pizza.'' She doesn't sound thrilled about it. ''No way Mary would eat that.'' She opens the bag and cautiously takes a sniff. ''Oh god, that's awful.'' Nevertheless, she tucks the bag under her arm.

''You're still going to eat them?''

''Yeah, the whole bag probably. I'm eating that Kit Kat he keeps in the freezer too.'' She points to the coffee pot beside Sara's elbow. ''Do you know how long that's been sitting there?''

Sara looks over at the coffee, pulling a face. ''Too long.''

Laurel pours herself a cup of it anyway, ignoring the disgust on Sara's face. She doesn't even put anything in it, which is unlike her. Laurel likes sweet coffee. She doesn't say anything else. Just heads out of the kitchen with her repulsive snack haul.

Sara follows after her, a bit like a lost puppy, and hovers by the dining room table, watching Laurel plop herself down on the couch. She looks over at Thea, but she's on the phone. ''Yes, I've seen it,'' she's whispering. There's a pause and then she closes her eyes and turns away, purposefully leaning away from the Lance sisters. ''Yes, I know it's really scary, Ollie.''

Sara snickers, but doesn't have time to dwell on that right now. Later, though. She'll tweet him about it.

Okay, get it together, Lance.

She watches Laurel curl up with that old quilt Grandma made, flipping through the channels on the television. She would feel bad about interrupting Laurel peacefully decompressing. If that was, in any way, what Laurel was doing. She doesn't look relaxed right now, sitting on the couch with her gross snacks, mindlessly flipping through the channels without even seeing what's on them. She looks troubled, going through the motions numbly because there's nothing else to do.

Sara slips into the living room, but hesitates and opts not to sit down. ''This is all you have planned for tonight?''

Laurel lands on the Discovery Channel and leaves it there, staring at the screen with blank eyes while the narrator talks about blue whales. ''I don't know what else to do.''

''I was hoping we could talk,'' Sara says.

''About what?''

''Uh.'' Sara clears her throat awkwardly. She looks over her shoulder at Thea, but the girl's still trying to talk down Oliver. ''Well.'' Sara licks her lips. ''About Edie.''

Laurel mutes the television and sits up, pulling the quilt away from her. ''What about her?''

''What if she's not the witch?''

''Sara...''

''No, wait, just hear me out.'' Sara holds her hands up. ''I'm not doubting what you saw or what she said to you, but you said yourself that this witch can change her appearance at will. Who's to say she didn't just pluck Edie out of your mind, dig around to start trouble, and use her identity to hurt you?''

''Sara,'' Laurel says. ''It's her.''

''But how can you be so sure?''

Laurel pushes her glasses up to rub at her eyes, inhaling sharply. ''Because I was there,'' she states, dead calm. ''I saw her scars. I listened to her stupid villain monologue. I felt her hands. I know her, Sara. I know her. Nobody wants this to be her. We loved her. We love her. We miss her. We wanted better for her. We all did. But this is how it is now. It hurts, but it's the truth.''

''All I'm saying is that we can't say there's no chance,'' Sara fights back, stubborn and wounded. ''We know better than to say that. There's always a chance. Edie wasn't a bad person. She wasn't cruel like this.''

''It's been sixteen years,'' Laurel reminds her. ''People change. You and I certainly have. We didn't used to be killers but here we are. Anyone is capable of cruelty.''

Sara tries not to let on how much that stung. ''So we're supposed to just give up on her? You don't think we owe her the benefit of the doubt?''

''What do I owe her?'' Laurel's voice is still calm, but her eyes are like steel, locked onto Sara's. ''Really,'' she insists. ''Tell me. What do I owe her? What have I done to her? According to her, I did everything she wanted me to do. I had the scraps she allowed me to have and nothing more. I walked her road. She dug the grave and I laid down in it without a fight. She doomed me and I let her. I'm her greatest success. What more could I fucking owe her? Forgiveness? Mercy? No,'' she scoffs shakily. ''I don't owe her a damn thing.''

Sara has no rebuttal to that. ''I'm sorry,'' she tries. ''I know how hard this is.''

No one says anything, but they all know that's bullshit. This is not the same as when she was brought back. This is not the same as when any of them were brought back. It's not even in the same ballpark. Resurrection is a foolish and surreal road that every living dead person has to walk alone. The issue here is that Laurel isn't walking her road. She's being dragged along by her throat.

A painfully uncomfortable silence stretches out between the sisters, pushing them even further apart. With every passing second, Sara feels like she can see the space between them growing bigger and bigger, a chasm that is getting harder and harder to jump over.

Laurel is the one who eventually winds up breaking the silence. ''Thea,'' she says, and Thea jolts upright. ''Do you know if Dean took the Impala or the Jeep downtown?''

''He took his car.''

''Good,'' Laurel nods. ''Are you planning on going out tonight?''

''...No?''

''Would you be okay with keeping an eye on Mary until he gets home?''

''Oh, yeah, sure, that's no problem.''

''Thank you.'' Laurel clicks off the television. ''Mary's out like a light. I doubt she'll wake up but I'm the idiot who plied her with liquids right before bed. I put some clean bedding at the end of the bed just in case. It's my fault so if she wakes up wet, don't make a big deal about it.''

''Got it,'' Thea nods.

Laurel turns back to Sara. ''Give me five minutes to change and then we should hit the road,'' she says. She turns to leave without even realizing that she has forgotten a step. Missed the part where she tells Sara what the hell is going on.

''Wait.'' Sara dives after her to grab her hand. ''Wait a minute. Why? What's going on?''

''You and I have somewhere to be,'' Laurel tells her, rather ominously.

''Where?''

''Tacoma,'' Laurel says simply. She tugs free of Sara's grasp without explanation and turns to walk down the hall. Without even turning around, she calls back, ''And bring a shovel.''

Sara stares at her for a minute, watching her tiptoe back into the master bedroom, and then she turns to Thea. ''Did she just say bring a shovel?''

.

.

.

The Grays Harbor County banshee case had been a shitshow from the start. That's what Sam remembers the most about that December.

He hadn't even wanted to be there. He moped around bitterly, surly and combative, resentful of everything and everyone, the very fact of hunting festering away inside of him, rotting away, souring his mood. He hadn't wanted to be in Wyoming either, or Colorado before that, or Arizona before that. He wanted to be in school. He wanted to be normal and he hated every reminder that he was not.

His memories of December of 2000 in Aberdeen, Washington are not the clearest. Most of his memories of his adolescence are unfocused, tinged with red, twisted up with a feeling of such intense contempt and teenage angst.

He does remember the still chaotic scene of the mall collapse. He remembers how strange it was to arrive on the scene when the bodies were still warm, when the loved ones were still wailing. How serious Dean and Dad were about the case, both of them struck by the sight of hysterical family members and the weight of their grief. They wanted to find the thing that did this and make it pay. They wanted justice.

Sam just wanted to leave.

It's embarrassing now to think about how callous and selfish he had been then. He tries to give himself some grace because he was just a kid and teenagers often lack the emotional maturity needed to fully grasp a situation as dire as that one had been, but as an adult, he is able to recognize that he was a bit of a douche on that case.

People like to think that Sam is the empathetic brother, that he's the soft one, patient and sweet, and that Dean is the oaf, nothing more than muscle and toxic masculinity, but reality is a different picture. Sam likes to think that he's a good person now, he tries his best, he's learned from his mistakes, and he is empathetic and understanding. Now. He has worked hard to be soft. But he was a nasty piece of work as a kid.

He had reasons to be angry, reasons to fight against the life he had been raised in, and he can even say, now, that his father was abusive, but that doesn't mean he wasn't also an overly aggressive, antagonistic little shit. That's just the way it goes sometimes.

If Dean was a cowardly soldier, following the line Dad drew then Sam was a belligerent brat, running alongside the line, making himself a separate entity because he believed himself to be superior.

Most of what he remembers from that cold December is bratty selfishness and teenage superiority. He didn't want to be there. He had better things to do. At least a dozen people were dead, but he hadn't asked for the responsibility of avenging their deaths. He's never thought twice about that case in the years since.

Something killed a bunch of people, he helped Dean locate it, Dad killed it, and they moved on. Headed up to Minnesota to take a short break and spend Christmas with Pastor Jim while the infected claw marks on Dad's back from the hunt in Wyoming healed up. He remembers that Christmas better than he remembers the case in Aberdeen. He doesn't feel as guilty about that as he perhaps should. He regrets a lot of his behavior as a teen, even if it was understandable, but the Grays Harbor County case was never on his radar. It was just a case. There was a long line of them. It wasn't anything special.

He is not entirely sure what he is meant to be feeling about this new information. The witch that brought Laurel back is Edith Hart, her maternal cousin, the same person responsible for the mall collapse in Aberdeen back in 2000, the same thing that he and his family hunted. She is terrorizing his sister-in-law now because his family terrorized her back then.

There is guilt surrounding that, but most of that is reserved for Laurel and what's happening to her now. What happened back then was a tough break and it's yet another reason to resent his father, but...

Okay, look.

Mistakes were made. That's the long and short of it. They fucked up in Aberdeen. Whether that fuck up was killing Edie or not killing her enough may be up for debate, but there was indeed a fuck up. They destroyed that girl. At the very least, they helped her destroy herself. Maybe they'll burn for that, he doesn't know, but what's done is done. It happened. There is no going back.

Right here, right now, Sam's concern lies with his family.

Dean and Laurel have both been rattled by this and neither one of them have been in the greatest headspace lately anyway. They haven't been themselves since April. Something like this could break them. This kind of hurt is insidious, caked in guilt and grief. It plants a seed in your mind and grows until the next thing you know, it's creeping over everything. It's suffocating you.

Laurel loves her cousin, despite the blood on her hands. Dean helped to take her away, whether that was an excusable action or not. Sam worries about what that could mean for them. They're already acting differently around each other, unusually quiet and physically distant. They'll probably be fine. They'll probably work through it, the way they've worked through everything else. It's just. You know.

What if they don't?

It's a concern - a reasonable one in his opinion.

They are both highly emotional individuals and they can be volatile. Sometimes he's surprised they've managed to be such a healthy, functional couple when everything about their individual personalities lends itself to more of a passionate but turbulent on and off again affair. That emotional unpredictability is why he worries that they've already given Edie a way in without even realizing it. She could do a lot of damage. He can't stop thinking about that. All the ways she could divide them if she really wanted to.

Why wouldn't she want to, after all they've done?

And that is just one piece of this increasingly convoluted puzzle.

What about the other pieces? What about that demon tied to a chair in that abandoned warehouse, mysterious brand on his arm? How are they supposed to deal with that? How is Sam supposed to deal with that?

That guy's eyes are just like Dean's. Technically speaking, everything about him is just like Dean. He is Dean. At least one of them. But his eyes...

They are so much like his brother's.

Sam has never met Dinah until today. He knew she existed. He has even seen her on the security cameras at Star Labs back when she was in the pipeline, but he's never met her face to face until today. Sure, it's an uncanny likeness, but...

She really doesn't look that much like Laurel up close.

He used to roll his eyes whenever Dean would say that because - uh, hello, doppelganger. Of course she looks like Laurel. She is Laurel. However, turns out she doesn't look that much like his sister-in-law after all. There is such a stark contrast between the two. The difference is like night and day. Their eyes are so different.

There is something uncomfortably familiar about Dinah, but it's not Laurel he's reminded of when he looks into her strange eyes. It's - well. She...kind of reminds him of Ruby. Like, a lot. A lot. To the point where he doesn't feel all that comfortable being around her. Which is especially unusual considering Laurel has never once reminded him of Ruby. Not even a tiny bit. Yet her E2 doppelganger's out here giving him flashbacks.

He does not like that one bit.

Then there's Earth-2 Dean, his brother's black-eyed counterpart, and he just...looks like Dean. Sam knows he's not, but there is still that tugging in his chest when he sees him, that familiar ache of family. Those hands look like the same hands that have pulled him from the fire for his entire life. There are no words for how alarming it is to look at a monster and only see the other half of you.

One of the first things ARGUS did when they rolled up was evacuate everyone from the warehouse, set up a command post, and start surveillance, putting a camera in the warehouse so Earth-2 Dean could be safely monitored without putting anyone else in danger. Sam has spent most of his time here staring at the monitor, watching the other Dean intently, under the guise of making sure he knows what's going on. It hasn't helped with the intense spooked feeling that's been crawling under his skin for hours now.

Earth-2 Dean has been eerily calm and silent. Even after he woke up and realized he was tied to a chair and stuck in a Devil's Trap. He hasn't moved, hasn't spoken, hasn't lashed out, nothing. Earlier, when ARGUS had taken control of the situation, Lyla, flanked by armed guards, went in to inform him that he was being put into ARGUS' custody, reading him his rights, explaining that transport was on the way, and he was essentially about to be jailed for his crimes for the rest of his existence. No fuss, no trial, just an ARGUS black site.

He hadn't even so much as looked at her. There was no snarky comment, no rage fueled snarling, no threats, no straining against the ropes, trying to escape or attack. He just sat there. Like he's just sitting there now. Still, calm, and unfazed. It doesn't look like a dissociative thing. He doesn't seem out of it in any way. He knows exactly where he is, what's going on, and what he's going to do about it.

Sam's not sure if that kind of mental fortitude has to do with being a demon or a Marine, but he knows he doesn't like it.

He has been wary of involving ARGUS in this ever since Dean and John Diggle made the decision to call them in, but right now he is genuinely hoping that they hurry up and get that cell ready because he's got a bad feeling about this. This guy is a demonic sociopath. Sam knows better than anyone how bloody and violent this is going to get if they cannot properly contain him.

In the dark of the foggy night, Sam steps out of the ARGUS van, looking around at his surroundings. As thrilling (read: creepy) as it is to sit there and stare at the grainy image of a demon with his brother's face, he's realized that, somewhere along the way, he managed to lose track of his actual brother.

He looks around at the not-so-stealthy operation, shaking his head at the multitude of black vehicles surrounding the warehouse, all the agents in SWAT gear milling around uselessly. Wonder what they're planning on telling the general public. Sure, this area of the Glades is cordoned off, but it's not like they're being particularly secretive here. Maybe it'll be a gas leak? Terrorism threat? Probably nothing, if we're being real here.

Sam has little respect for ARGUS. He has no problem admitting that. Government sanctioned black ops groups are breeding grounds for cover ups and police/military brutality. He doesn't trust any of these people. Even his trust in John and Lyla is limited. But even he has to admit that Lyla's plan for securing Demon Dean is preferable to Dean's idea of ''let's just kill him.'' He knows that the man in that warehouse is not Dean. He knows that he is dangerous. He knows that he has killed and he knows that he will likely kill again. But he doesn't want to kill him. He doesn't think he could.

Lyla's plan is to build a cell within an ARGUS holding facility that would indefinitely hold a demon. Use everything available to make it something Demon Dean won't be able to escape from. Sam much prefers that plan. Dean doesn't trust it. He wants the other him gone, not just locked up. Sam gets that. He just can't do it. He doesn't want anyone else to do it either.

He finds Dean in the alley beside the warehouse where the Impala and Team Arrow's white kidnapping van are parked. He's not pouting, which seems like a good thing, and he doesn't seem to be plotting murder, which is also good. He's poking around in the back of Oliver's vigilante van, fishing through various weapons and gadgets like a kid in a candy store. He's also for sure stealing stuff.

Right.

Should have guessed that.

''What are you doing?''

Dean barely even reacts. ''Snooping,'' he answers easily, with zero shame. ''Thievery. General hooligan-like shenanigans.'' He holds something up. ''They got a fuckin' cattle prod just hanging out in here. Who the fuck has a cattle prod just lying around?''

''...Dude, there's a grenade launcher in the back of your car.''

''Well, that's different,'' Dean says. ''I might need that one day. What do they need a cattle prod for?'' He looks over his shoulder. ''And the grenade launcher is in my lock up in Kirkland,'' he adds. ''Laurel made me move it.'' He looks back to the cattle prod, looking it up and down before deeming it unworthy of stealing. ''Besides, they owe me.''

''What do they - ''

''They had to hose my wife's blood off this floor,'' he says. ''They owe me.''

''They owe Laurel,'' Sam says, and pointedly does not look at the floor. ''Not you.''

''What's hers is half mine.'' Dean picks up a smaller taser, inspecting it closely. ''Actually, I think this is hers.''

''You can't just steal - ''

''Sure I can,'' Dean cheerfully cuts him off. ''You see this?'' He waggles the taser. ''I'm taking it.'' He slips it in his pocket and looks at Sam with a big grin. ''See? Easy peasy.''

Sam rolls his eyes. ''Dean - ''

''Hey, I may have no respect for Queen as a person, but the dude has cool gadgets. I want cool gadgets. Ergo thievery.'' He snags a hunting knife and then pops open a drawer and makes this excited gasping noise, eyes lighting up. ''Oooh,'' he breathes out, wiggling his fingers excitedly before he digs in, immediately filling his pockets.

Sam catches sight of the small devices and his eyes widen nervously. ''Ah, ah, ah!'' He leaps up into the back of the van and grabs onto Dean's wrist. ''Are those Sara's creepy little sonic things?''

Dean easily pries Sam's hand away from his wrist. ''Relax,'' he says loftily. ''It's not like anyone's using them anymore.''

''That's not - Dean, we're in No Man's Land. This entire area is unstable. That could bring down a building.''

''Good thing I don't plan on using them,'' Dean tosses back. ''I'm a collector, Sammy. I collect things. Here.'' He picks up a grappling hook and hands it over. ''Have a grappling hook. Merry Christmas.'' He pats Sam on the shoulder and starts to leave only to turn back and grab a tranquilizer gun and a handful of darts, which, to be fair, should not just be left out like that.

Sam looks down at the grappling hook in his hands. ...What would he even do with this? Obviously it's cool but it's impractical. He'll stick with what he knows for now, thank you very much. He shakes his head and puts it back. He hops out of the van and joins Dean over at the Impala, watching him unload his haul into the trunk. He doesn't say anything right away, just watches his brother. He looks tired. And injured. He's bruised and beat up from whatever went down this morning, but he doesn't seem at all bothered by the finger shaped bruises around his neck or the knife wound on his cheek. Sam doesn't know if that's because Dean hasn't slowed down enough to feel the pain or if he's just ignoring it all together, but he does know that as soon as Dean is alone, he's going to be in a world of hurt. ''You're just trying to avoid having to interact with anyone from ARGUS,'' he says eventually.

''You caught me. I don't trust the shady government agency.''

''Hey,'' Sam holds his hands up. ''I don't trust them either. You're the one who called them.''

''Do you think there was a better choice?'' Dean examines one of Sara's sonic devices, turning it over, gears in his head turning at an alarming speed. He's going to take that thing apart and put it back together again. It'll be his weekend project. Sam can see it in his eyes. ''They're the only ones that can feasibly transport him and keep him locked up. We don't have the resources to build a cell like the one they're building and there's no way we could safely get him to the bunker. It's like a sixteen hour drive.'' Carelessly - and arrogantly - he tosses the device in his hand over his shoulder.

Sam lets out a small gasp and scrambles to catch it, playing hot potato with it for a second before he manages to stop it from landing hard in the trunk and possibly going off. He glares at Dean, mouth tightening into a line.

Dean merely looks at him with those stupid eyebrows and says, as if it should have been obvious, ''That one's dead, Sam.''

Sam keeps glaring at him. He gingerly puts the device down. ''I like the containment plan,'' he says. ''But are we sure they can hold him?''

''If they can house metahumans, they can house demons.'' Dean upends an old box of protection charms and puts the sonic devices inside. ''Look, I doubt they put this in their recruitment pamphlets and I'm sure most of the general personnel are kept in the dark, but there's no way ARGUS doesn't know about the monsters under the bed. They were nonchalant about witchcraft - not to mention Laurel's resurrection.'' He slides the lid back on the box and nestles it in the trunk. ''And I've met Amanda Waller,'' he says. ''She knew who I was.''

''Wait,'' Sam scrunches his face up. ''When did you meet Amanda Waller?''

''It doesn't matter. The point is there is no way that terrifying force of nature didn't know about what really goes on.''

''But she's gone now,'' Sam points out. ''And from what I've heard, Lyla seems intent on cleaning up the mess left behind. She wants to legitimize ARGUS. Clean out Waller's dirty secrets and make it a respectable agency. Are we sure we should be muddying those waters by handing them a demon?''

Dean laughs mockingly. ''Water's already dirty.'' He slams the trunk shut. ''ARGUS is a bastard offshoot of Homeland Security. It's a noble goal she's got there, but Lyla can scrub until her hands are raw and it still won't matter. It's a federal agency, and this is America. There is nowhere bloodier than the US government. The land of the free was built on the backs of the disenfranchised. All they've ever done is mistake brutalization for constitution. They've all got blood on their hands. One demon won't make a difference.''

See, now that is the kind of seething monologue Sam had been expecting from Dean regarding the government. Some of that sounded more like Laurel, but the anarchy of it all was Dean Winchester all the way. That's why it was so baffling and, frankly, jarring that he agreed to call ARGUS in the first place.

Sam leans back against the trunk and crosses his arms, growing increasingly disturbed with the thought that just popped into his head. ''Does that mean we're technically working for the government?''

''Ugh.'' Dean looks disgusted at the thought. ''No. Don't make me puke. We're - We're adjacent,'' he says. ''We're...private security consultants,'' he says, sticking his nose up in the air. Which is hilarious because he normally hates that story. It's the story Laurel's always stuck with whenever her friends, colleagues, or clients would ask what her husband did for work before the baby came along. Her friend Joanna probably still thinks that's all there is to Dean. Hell, even Tommy died thinking that was the truth about his...friend.

Personally, Sam is partial to the private security story. It's what makes the most sense. Dad used to tell people he was a traveling salesman, which, if you met John Winchester even once, you would know was complete horseshit. That man could not sell anything to anyone. Unless ''selling'' meant ''taking whatever you're trying to unload, physically shoving it down someone's throat, and then stealing their wallet.'' If that was what it took to be a salesperson, John probably could have hacked it. Private security consultant makes way more sense. It's not even that much of a lie technically. That is basically what hunting is. Suppose you could also label it pest control but that does not sound nearly as interesting.

Still, Dean is the one who balks at the cover story. Mostly because he much prefers to answer the and what do you do question with absurdist bullshit like oh, I was a pet psychic, or I used to be a waterslide tester, or I was the best damn chicken sexer in the business, ma'am.

One time he told someone he was a snake milker.

Mary thinks he used to be a teddy bear doctor.

''It's not like we're signing contracts,'' Dean says. ''All we're doing is handing over one measly demon.''

''One measly demon with your face.''

''That shouldn't matter.''

Sam does his best not to huff or roll his eyes. ''It matters.'' He shouldn't be surprised by the stubborn denial. He saw it coming from a mile away. Dean is a soldier, just like Dad. He powers through whatever is thrown at him with detachment and strategies and wills himself through the pain. Sam can't do that. He looks at the thing chained to that chair and all he sees is the person who raised him. ''Are we not even going to talk to him?''

Dean throws him a brief frown. ''You want to chat with my evil twin?''

''He's not your - '' Sam cuts himself off. ''I don't want to chat with him. I want to interrogate him.''

''He's a Marine.''

''So?''

''So,'' Dean emphasizes. ''He's not going to tell you squat.''

''Aren't you curious?''

''About what?''

''Everything. How he became a demon. What the Mark does, how it works, what it's done to him. Why he's working for Edie. What happened to him. Don't you want to know?'' Sam feels like he has about a million questions for the other Dean. He's practically bursting at the seams. He supposes it doesn't matter all that much anymore, but he wants to know. He feels like a forensic investigator. He wants to know the cause of death. The pathology of this twisted serial killer version of Dean. He wants to know what road he took, look for the tracks in the dirt, find out who led him there, who told him which way to turn and why he listened.

The broken man in that warehouse is not his family. He's a shadow, drained of all the humanity and all the things that make him Dean, but he is also a warning. For that matter, so is Dinah. Sam wants to know how they got where they are so he can stop his Dean and his Laurel from ever wandering down the same path. Everyone else seems to look at Earth-2 Dean and Dinah like they're some sort of anomaly. An experimental horror movie. Interesting to watch, but not real. Surely the Dean Winchester and Dinah Laurel Lance of this earth could never end up like them.

Sam's not so sure about that.

Under the right - or wrong - circumstances, anyone can be a shadow.

''Don't you want to know?'' He asks, even though he already knows what his Dean is going to say.

As expected, Dean just says, plainly, ''Nope.''

''Come on.''

''I don't. What relevance does it have? I'm not him. I can't help him. He can't help me.'' He looks frustrated. ''You want to know what I want? I want to go home and do the laundry.''

Sam is not sure how to proceed there. ''...Okay?''

''I'm serious,'' Dean insists. ''That was my role. That was what I did. I was retired. Laurel was the one who handled the heroics and the vigilantism. She was the Black Canary. I was just...a dad. I was Mary's dad.'' His lips tilt up into a small, bittersweet half smile. ''That was my place,'' he says, sounding sincerely nostalgic. ''All I had to do was the laundry. I cooked dinner and wiped all the snotty noses and did all the grocery runs. I took Mary on walks and to the park, I took her to the doctor and the speech therapist and the physical therapist. I mowed the lawn and made the bed and vacuumed the floors and put up the Christmas lights and - and I didn't have to kill anyone.'' He pinches the bridge of his nose. ''I just had to do the laundry.''

Unexpectedly, Sam is finding he cannot relate to that. Not even to wanting it. It's an unexpected thing he's had to come to terms with over the past few years. Once upon a time, that slice of life was all he wanted. For years, all he wanted was to be ordinary and he resented that he wasn't.

Then Dean - who always talked a big game about loving his nomadic lifestyle, acted like it was what he was meant to be doing, like he couldn't imagine ever not doing it - retired and settled down. Became a househusband and a stay at home dad. The guy who once said he would ''blow his brains out'' if he ever had to walk a mile in normalcy's shoes put down his gun and filled his days with diaper blowouts instead of blood splatter and recipes swiped from mommy bloggers and Pinterest instead of pouring over Dad's old hunting journal.

But, then again, Dean is a liar. Was an even bigger liar as a fucked up teenager and a cocksure twentysomething. He has always wanted this deep down. He always wanted the family and the apple pie and the kids.

Sam isn't the same. It's not that he thinks Dean's life is miserable. He's just come to the realization that he doesn't think it would fit him. He's not entirely sure what it is that he does want, he hasn't thought about it since he was twenty two and ring shopping in Palo Alto, but he knows he doesn't want to do that much laundry. Having a real home base, sure, falling in love and having kids, maybe, but he no longer thinks he could ever just...quit. He'll always have one foot in the door.

He looks at Dean, the guy who once looked the most at home sitting in the driver's seat of the Impala, wearing Dad's leather jacket, blood stained and high on adrenaline. ''You were happy with that?'' He can't help but raise an eyebrow questioningly. ''Just...doing the laundry? Making Laurel the same breakfast every morning, dealing with naptime tantrums and Paw Patrol and the moms at the playground trying to get you to read Fifty Shades of Grey? That's really your idea of a happy ending?''

Dean laughs, eyes crinkling. ''That's the point,'' he says. ''It wasn't an ending. It was the beginning of another story. Mary's only four. We have so much left to do together. We were supposed to grow up together. Now everything's...'' He licks his lips. ''I was content,'' he says. ''I make a fucking great trophy husband, you know.''

''Uh-huh.''

''Seriously, I'm a snack.''

Sam rolls his eyes. ''I'm not qualified to speak on that.''

''Well, I am. I just want to make that clear.''

''I'll make a note of it.''

Dean laughs again, enjoying the discomfort on Sam's face way too much. His phone rings, the tinny sound of classic rock slicing through the air. He's still chuckling to himself as he pulls the phone out of his pocket, but once he checks the caller ID all the humor disappears. He grimaces, inhaling sharply, but doesn't avoid answering like he's been doing since they left the house after dinner. ''Hello?'' He doesn't look like laughing now, though he looks like he's trying really hard to be casual. ''No, it's fine. What do you need?'' That's when his mood sours. He turns away from Sam, lowering his voice. ''She's not in bed yet? Laur, she has school in the morning.'' There's a pause, and then an exhale. ''No, that's not what I - I wasn't trying to pick on you, I was just - '' He stops, cut off again, body visibly tensing up. ''I know you're her mother.''

Sam looks away. Pretends he hasn't been listening. It's an uncharacteristically unpleasant exchange. He's barely on one side of it and even he's uncomfortable.

''Yeah, I'll talk to her,'' Dean says. ''Hang on.'' He pulls the phone away from his ear and turns back to Sam. ''Mary wants to talk to me. I'll be right back.''

Sam nods, waving him away. He watches Dean walk away and as soon as he is far enough away and the coast is clear, he turns back around and opens the trunk. He's willing to humor his klepto brother and let him keep the screechy things because he strongly doubts anyone will notice they're gone and he'll even give him the taser because if it is Laurel's then it's hardly a big deal, but the rest needs to go back. It's not that he's against pulling one over on Oliver Queen. It's just that he doesn't want to get billed. Some of this stuff looks expensive.

He returns the tranquilizer gun and the hunting knife. He may or may not poke around in the van for a few minutes, looking around at Green Arrow's ridiculously comic book-y arsenal, and then he heads back to the Impala. He's just reaching for the loose darts when he stops. He looks at the case of bullets near the back of the trunk for Dean's gun, drawing his hand back. Guns don't work on demons. Generally speaking. There's just no way to make the bullets lethal. The only gun that kills demons is the colt and it's gone.

However...

Sam picks up the case of bullets, plucking a single .45 from the box. He turns it over in his hand, pondering the bullet. What if killing wasn't the goal? He puts the box of bullets down and pulls his pocketknife out. Yeah, that'll work. He takes a bullet, takes a peek at the Devil's Trap on the trunk, and gets carving.

He's barely made any progress when he hears Dean's voice ask, ''What are you doing?''

Sam doesn't look up. ''Do you remember Henry?''

Dean doesn't say anything, but when Sam looks over at him, it's like he's frozen up for some reason, muscles tight with tension. A second goes by and then, ''What?''

Sam raises a brow. ''Henry Winchester.''

The expression on Dean's face is hard to read. ''How...'' He frowns. ''How do you...'' But then he stops, shaking something off, and looks into the depths of the trunk. ''The time traveler in my closet.''

''Our grandfather,'' Sam reminds him. ''Yes. Wait,'' he stops what he's doing, throwing a frown in his direction. ''Who did you think I was talking about?''

''No one,'' is the quiet response. ''Not like there's any other Henry Winchester.''

''But - ''

''Move on, Sam.'' It's the same tone of voice he uses when he tells Mary not to trample her mother's garden when she's out looking for worms in the backyard.

Sam's a little disgruntled. ''All right,'' he agrees, still eyeing Dean suspiciously. ''Anyway, do you remember that trick? With the bullet?''

''Devil's Trap carved into the bullet,'' Dean nods. ''Yeah, I remember. Why?''

Sam gestures to the warehouse holding the demon. ''I think that's our best bet with this guy,'' he explains. ''We have no idea how powerful he is. We don't know what his plans are. We just know he's strong. Just like Abbadon was. If this worked on her, it should work on him. Even if it just slows him down, it's worth it. We gotta cover our bases here, Dean. He's been sitting here for hours. For all we know, he knows how to circumvent the trap and he's just waiting for us to move him to strike.''

Dean looks over his shoulder at the warehouse. ''All right. Get carving then.'' Without another word, he gets to work. He steps into Sam's space to check what gun he's packing, gets him the right bullets, and steals the bullets back for his gun, taking out his own knife. He says nothing else. It's an unusual silence.

It's not that Sam needs or expects praise. It's more that he had been expecting a smart ass comment. He waits a few minutes to ask. ''Everything good at home?''

''Fine. Mary's just overtired and cranky. She should've been in bed by now.''

Sam nods, but then can't help himself. ''You know what she needs?''

''I'm not getting a dog,'' Dean grumbles.

''Oh, come on.''

''Sam, do you realize how much shit I've had to clean up over the past four years? So much. So much shit. And I'm not being metaphorical. Parenthood is mostly just mopping up someone else's bodily fluids.''

''Sounds glamorous.''

''And now that we're finally, for the most part, past that stage, you want me to get a dog so I can go back to spending my days cleaning up someone else's shit? No thanks.''

''You realize your kid's a dog person, though, right? Girl needs a dog.''

Dean holds his bullet up, examining the carving and blowing off the shavings. ''She can wait a year or two to give her dad a break.'' He looks over at Sam. ''Why don't you get a dog?''

''I don't have a house.''

''Neither does Nyssa. She has a dog.''

''Do we even know for sure that she doesn't have a house?''

Dean pauses, lifting his head. He looks perplexed. ''I guess not. Who the hell knows with her.''

''Plus,'' Sam adds on. ''The only reason she even has a dog is because you wouldn't let her give it to Mary.''

Dean doesn't laugh, but his lips do twitch. ''Well, she should have checked with me before she got Mary a dog. You can't just show up on someone's doorstep with a random puppy for their kid out of the blue. Besides, she loves that dog.''

''She does love that dog,'' Sam agrees. He keeps carving away at the bullets, hoping to get at least a full chamber of Devil's Trap bullets. Hopefully, if it comes down to it, he'll only need one, but you never know. ''That phone call you got,'' he finally says, after a few. ''You talk to Laurel?''

Dean is silent for a minute, seemingly concentrating on his task, carving the bullets for his gun delicately. ''Not much,'' he says, unconvincingly casual, hiding the sting. ''She wasn't in the mood to talk to me.''

Sam thinks of Laurel's continuous silence today. The space between her and Dean that was louder than words. He takes another bullet. ''She hasn't really been in the mood to talk to you much at all today.'' It's not a question of why. ''Edie got in her head, didn't she?''

Dean says nothing. He moves on from the carving, turning away to load his gun with the carved bullets. He works meticulously, avoiding the conversation. ''She's starting to fuck with my marriage now,'' he confirms, eyes on the gun. ''I do not care for that shit at all.''

Understandable.

''It was easier when she didn't have a face,'' he goes on. He's finished loading his colt now, spinning things back into place. ''A faceless hag can't turn your wife against you. But a member of her family...''

''Members of her family have been trying to turn her against you for years,'' Sam reminds him. He's going for lighthearted and joking in tone, but it's not all that funny to begin with. ''Remember when she was in the hospital and didn't want her parents to know so you had to keep running interference? Sara thought you'd killed her, chopped her up, and dissolved her body in acid in the bathtub.''

''That was so...oddly specific,'' Dean muses. ''Not to mention insane. I get that, statistically, it's always the husband, and I know she was an assassin and that probably sounded like a perfectly reasonable explanation to her, but fuck me. What a jump.'' He wrinkles his nose slightly in confusion. ''Where do you even get enough acid to dissolve a human body in the bathtub?''

''I think you can make it.''

''Why would I do it in my own bathtub? Wouldn't that smell?''

''Probably.''

''But I had a baby in the house.''

''Dean - ''

''Where would I find the time? Dismembering a human body properly can take up to twelve hours and a lot of patience. I didn't have that kind of time on my hands.''

''That's not - wait.'' Sam gives Dean a look. ''How do you know how long it takes to dismember a body?''

''CSI.''

''You don't watch CSI.''

''The reruns used to air in the middle of the night. Mary and I would watch it during her late night feedings.''

''You watched a show about brutal murders with your infant?''

''Yes, and nine times out of ten we figured out who the murderer was before the reveal. It was educational,'' Dean says. ''Sam, do you think my sister-in-law has dismembered a corpse and dissolved it in acid?''

''Your sister-in-law was, at one time, a prolific assassin,'' Sam says. ''Stands to reason body disposal was part of her job at one point.''

''Huh.'' Dean props his hands up on his hips. ''Maybe I should stop antagonizing her then.'' He thinks about this for a minute, putting his hands out in front of him, moving them like a scale. Then he just shrugs and says, ''Nah, I'm still gonna.''

Sam does not roll his eyes, although he comes close. ''Can we veer back on track here? I had a point. Can you stay with me for five minutes and not float away?''

Dean motions for him to continue.

''Laurel is not going to turn on you,'' Sam says. ''She's in shock right now and she's probably hurt and angry, but you guys have been through way too much for her to throw it all away. You're married. You have a kid. A whole life together. She's not going to give that up because of one sociopathic long lost cousin.''

''A sociopathic long lost cousin we murdered.''

''Dad murdered her,'' Sam refutes ''We aided and abetted at most. And also she didn't actually die.''

''You're right. She didn't die. She lived. That's almost worse.''

Sam has known about the identity of the witch for less than a day, has never met her face to face or interacted with her at all - not even back in 2000 - and she is already getting on his nerves. ''No, she didn't die,'' he says. ''The fourteen people she killed in that mall collapse, however, did. Fourteen people then. Who knows how many others in the years since. Those were her choices. We didn't have anything to do with that.''

''I know that,'' Dean says roughly. ''But she sees things differently. I'm starting to worry Laurel might see it the same way.''

''You just need to give her some time. It's still a fresh wound.''

Dean takes that in, hushed, and then mutters out a dismissive gruff sounding, ''Yeah. Right.''

''Where have you two been?''

Immediately, whatever gruffness Dean has conjured up to disguise his increasing worry shrivels up and he lets out what can only be described as a yelp, launching himself away from the sudden and unexpected presence behind him. ''God!''

Cas squints at him, bewildered. ''No,'' he says, drawing out the word. ''Just me.''

Dean relaxes slightly when he sees Cas, letting out a breath. ''Damn it, Cas!''

Cas' confusion is quickly morphing into amusement. He looks proud that, even without his wings, he can still throw Dean off course.

''Make noise when you walk,'' Dean gets out. ''Announce your presence! Wear a collar with a bell!''

Cas, hands in the pockets of his much loved hoodie that Laurel bought him when he first ripped out his grace, looking particularly human tonight, looks completely undeterred by the dramatics.

Sam's just trying to figure out if this is going to be one of those Dean/Cas interactions he needs to tune out of or if it's going to be pertinent to current events.

''You seem tense,'' Cas informs Dean.

Dean huffs, rather bitchily it's worth noting. ''Demonic version of me,'' he says, gesturing to the warehouse. ''There is a demonic version of me shackled to a chair in an abandoned warehouse that's one Lays Potato Chip truck away from collapsing and some super secret government agency is about to take custody of said demonic version of me! No fucking shit I'm tense!''

Cas nods understandingly, but all he says is, ''Hmm.''

''Again,'' Sam can't help but point out. ''You're the one that called ARGUS.''

''I know I've mentioned this before,'' Cas says, ''and I know you'll never take this advice, but - '' he reaches out to put a hand on Dean's shoulder '' - you should really consider downloading a meditation app. I've found them to be very helpful with stress management.''

Dean groans and buries his head in his hands.

''He's just having a bad night,'' Sam says. ''It's marriage stuff.''

''Uh, hey guys.''

Sam whips around as Dean jerks his head up at the sound of the familiar voice.

Charlie greets the three of them with a wave. ''Hey there, boys.'' She cocks her head to the side, inquisitive. ''Did I hear something about a...potato chip truck?''

''Charlie!'' Sam gets to her first, pulling her in for a hug.

She laughs and throws her arms around him, returning the hug. ''Hi, Sam.''

''You got here fast,'' Dean remarks, stealing her from Sam, leaning in to kiss her cheek before he gets his hug.

''I booked it when you called,'' she admits, handing Aida's leash over to Sam before she gives Cas a hug. ''We took a red eye from Topeka and it was terrible. I'm so not flying back.'' She pulls away from Cas, but keeps an arm wound around his neck, pressed into his side. ''Right, Aida?''

The puppy, standing there wagging her tail and panting in excitement, just looks happy to be there.

Charlie starts talking about her flight and Sam knows he should be listening sympathetically, but... There's a dog. Who needs to be petted. She looks so happy to be around new people and they're all ignoring her. Nobody's even said hello. He crouches down, keeping a grip on the leash, and pats his knee, beckoning her over to him. ''Hey there, Aida.'' He scratches her head. ''It's good to see you again.''

Oh, man.

Maybe he should get a dog. Dogs are great. They never let you down. Somehow, they manage to love you without leaving. They never burn on the ceiling or run off and get married and settle down without you. And rarely do they turn out to be evil, manipulative demons who only want you to suck their blood and start an apocalypse. He should get a dog. If he did, he would easily swipe the favorite uncle title from Cas.

''But anyway,'' he hears Charlie say, and he reluctantly looks back up at her and away from Aida. ''None of that matters. How's Laurel? Is she okay?''

''A little beat up,'' Dean admits. ''But she'll heal. She's just...processing.''

''Hm.'' Charlie looks worried, reaching out to touch his face, skimming the injuries, the cuts and bruises. ''And you? How are you?''

Dean smiles tightly. ''Peachy.''

She doesn't look like she believes him. Nobody looks like they believe him. Fairly reasonable considering he's lying out of his ass. ''So...'' Charlie looks at each one of them. ''The witch is her cousin? We're sure about this?''

''Looks that way,'' Dean says.

''Man, blood really doesn't make a family, huh?''

''While we're on the subject of Edie,'' Cas says. ''Did you happen to - ''

''I checked her out,'' Charlie says. ''Or at least I tried to. All official records of Edith Nadine Hart stop after December 2000. The most recent thing I could find on her was her obituary. I also couldn't find any official record of her death. There's no death certificate or anything. I tried to poke around and check the records of hospitals near Aberdeen, but I couldn't find anything about a young woman being brought in with a slit throat. I mean, it was a long time ago and they probably wouldn't have kept her records, but I could dig deeper if - ''

''She wouldn't have gone to the hospital,'' Dean says, with a shake of his head. ''At least not anywhere near Aberdeen. She was given Lazarus Pit water. Even if she still needed medical attention, Shiva would have taken her somewhere underground.''

''I can still find her,'' Charlie says. She sounds confident. ''If you want to know what she's been up to over the past sixteen years, I can find her.''

''She's likely had several different aliases over the years,'' Cas warns. ''Not counting the Siobhan identity she used with the Moretti family.''

''Doesn't matter,'' Charlie waves that off. ''People always think they can hide from the world just by changing their name, but it's not that simple. It's the digital age. Our entire lives are on camera. I can find her anywhere in the world if you want me to. She might have a hat full of names, but she only has one face.''

''Actually,'' Sam says, standing straight, much to Aida's dismay. The puppy nudges at his leg with her nose and paws at his shoe, begging for more attention. ''Laurel says she can change her face. It's some sort of spell.''

''...Okay,'' Charlie says. ''That might complicate things.'' She considers that complication for a moment and then blithely brushes it off. ''I can still find her. She may be able to change her face, but do you know what she can't change?''

Dean suggests, ''Global warming?''

Cas says, ''Bees?'' Then he adds on another guess of, ''The increasing popularity of social media all over the globe and the inherent risks it poses to humanity - especially in regards to today's teenagers - in terms of vanity, mental health, general human kindness, and the disturbing uptick in narcissism?'' There's a pause and then, ''Also, the dark politics of the local Farmer's Market.''

Dean follows that up with, ''The Kardashians?''

Sam thinks he needs to start spending time around other people.

Charlie blinks at them for a second and then gives them a nod. ''All valid suggestions,'' she says cheerfully, ''but I was more thinking something along the lines of her gait. Can't change the way you walk. If you want me to find her, I'll find her, different face or not.''

''Does it even matter?'' Sam asks, picking Aida up, absently scratching behind her ears while she snuggles closer to him. ''We know who she is.''

''I want to know who she's been,'' Dean says. ''She has expensive taste. I want to know where she's getting her funding. I want to know how far her reach is.''

''How far do you think her reach goes?''

''I think this is Star City and everyone is corrupt.''

''I'll look into it as soon as I can,'' Charlie promises. ''Who knows. Might even help us secure her location. If she has property under one of those names, I'll find it.''

''Good.'' He looks over at Sam, then at the puppy, and he's definitely got a look on his face, but he doesn't say anything, going back to Charlie. ''Were you able to get in touch with - ''

''She'll be here as soon as she can,'' she says. ''She was in Peru trying to track down her sister.''

''Nyssa has a sister?''

''Yes, but,'' she points her finger at him and gives all three of them a stern look. ''Do not mention her sister to her face. It's a sore subject. Like, gaping wound sore. Think an arm amputated in a non-medical setting. Imagine there's spurting.''

Sam makes a face.

''That's vivid,'' Dean grimaces. ''Thanks for that.''

''We won't mention her sister,'' Cas swears solemnly. ''We'll keep her secret or our lips will be on fire.''

There is a long pause after that in which everyone looks at him, baffled. Dean, naturally, is the one who turns to Charlie and Sam and their bewilderment and says, ''I got this.'' Then he turns to Cas and asks, utterly mystified, ''...What?''

Cas looks at him curiously. ''It's called an idiom, Dean. It's an expression. Humans have many of these. Too many, if you ask me.''

Dean hums in acknowledgment, still looking perplexed. ''I know what an idiom is. I'm fairly certain that was not one of them.''

''Our lips are sealed,'' Sam supplies helpfully. ''You might've been thinking of our lips are sealed.''

''Oh.'' Cas frowns, brows furrowing. He looks mildly upset that he's bungled the phrase, but mostly confused. ''What's the one that ends with something on fire?''

''Liar, liar, pants on fire?''

''No, that's not it...''

''...Then I...I don't know?''

''Maybe I'm thinking of something Biblical.''

''I'm so glad I'm back,'' Charlie says. ''I missed you screwballs.'' She gives them all a bright, beaming smile. For about five seconds. Then it drops right off and she goes back to what she was talking about. ''Anyway,'' she starts, sending them all a pointed warning look. ''As I was saying, Nyssa was in Peru following a lead about another Lazarus Pit - ''

''Oh, does her sister have Lazarus Pit connections?'' Dean asks, butting right in, immediately mentioning the sister they literally just agreed not to mention.

Charlie gives him an incredulous look.

He at least has the decency to look contrite. ''Sorry.''

''As I was saying,'' Charlie says again, and then pauses to give Dean a sharp look. He does not interrupt this time. ''Nyssa was in Peru doing absolutely nothing of import and when I called and told her what happened, she dropped everything. Just like you said she would,'' she inclines her head to Dean slightly, but still does not invite him to speak.

''Last we spoke, she was at the airport.''

''It's Laurel,'' he says simply. ''She'll get here as soon as she can.'' He does not seem too bothered by the fact that Nyssa might be in love with his wife.

Charlie does.

So that's interesting.

''On the phone,'' she says, quickly moving on. ''You mentioned a Lady Shiva.''

''An associate of Edie's,'' Cas tells her.

''Right, well, Nyssa wouldn't tell me much, but she freaked when she heard the name. I'm guessing they have a...history. All she would tell me is that Lady Shiva is a mercenary of sorts, whatever that means, and she is - and I'm quoting here - not to be trifled with.''

Dean bobs his head up and down and then says, dryly, ''Super.''

''That, and...''

''What?''

''Nyssa said she ran into Shiva about a year ago in Singapore.'' She hesitates, teeth sinking into her lower lip briefly. ''Apparently Shiva had...heard of the Black Canary and she was, you know, fascinated.''

''Okay,'' Sam says, glancing over at his twitchy brother. ''That's troubling.''

''How do you suppose Lady Shiva defines fascination?'' Cas asks.

''I don't know,'' says Charlie. ''For all we know, she was already doing Edie's bidding and was just poking around but - Look, all I'm saying is that I've seen Swimfan and that just seems like the kind of thing that would happen to Laurel. I love her to bits, but that girl has the second worst luck of anyone I've ever known.''

''Second worst,'' Sam echoes. ''Who has that - '' He stops. ''Oh.''

She reaches out to pat his shoulder. ''No offense.''

''No, it's fair.''

''Hey!'' Dinah, in all her tornado wonder, comes barreling into the group with all the subtlety of a hammer. ''Are you guys done with your team huddle or...'' She trails off, eyes traveling to Aida, happily wagging her little pink tongue in Sam's arms. She looks strangely offended by the presence of a dog. That does not speak well to her character. She points an unnecessarily accusing finger at Aida. ''Whose fucking dog is that?''

''That would be mine,'' Charlie says from behind her. ''Well, she's not mine mine. She's - A friend and I are...co-parenting. She was supposed to be a gift for a friend's kid, but that friend - '' she eyeballs Dean '' - is a professional party pooper.''

''Ask,'' Dean stresses. ''Ask before you decide to get a kid - who is not your kid - a dog.''

Dinah doesn't look like she's heard any of that beyond the first bit. In the span of about a second, less than, she loses every bit of her intimidating mask. Her face goes slack, all the color draining out of her cheeks. She looks beyond stunned just at the sound of the voice behind her.

Sam's wary of her entire existence, so he chooses to step away from her, but Dean reaches for her.

All she does is turn around, mouthing opening and closing like a fish when she sees Charlie.

Charlie, for her part, looks incredibly creeped out when she sees Dinah. ''Wow,'' she blurts, leaning in closer but then immediately drawing back. ''We have now entered the Twilight Zone.''

''Charlie,'' Cas is the one who speaks up. ''This is Dinah Lance, Laurel's Earth-2 doppelganger. Dinah, this is Charlie Bradbury, a friend of ours.''

Dinah cuts her eyes to him sharply, mouth tightening. Her voice sounds oddly squeaky when she's able to get a word out. ''Charlie? Your name is Charlie?''

''Yep, that's me.'' Charlie - bless her - still smiles and says, ''It's nice to meet you.''

Dinah says nothing. She doesn't take the hand Charlie extends to her either. She just keeps staring. Shell shocked. The kind of expression that commonly evokes the phrase you look like you've seen a ghost. Except something about the look on her face seems to say she would prefer a ghost.

Sam looks over at Dean, shooting him a questioning look, but he looks just as lost.

Charlie leans over to Cas and whispers, ''I think I broke her.''

Dinah doesn't even react to that.

''Uh.'' Dean clears his throat, stepping closer to her and bringing his hands to her shoulders. What's bizarre is that she lets him. Without attacking him - either physically or verbally. ''Dee,'' he leans down to talk to her. ''You're scaring the locals.''

She finally snaps out of it, briskly looking away from Charlie, flinching as if burned before she glowers and slaps his hands away from her. ''Mr. and Mrs. Smith over there,'' she jerks a thumb in the direction of John and Lyla Diggle, ''are getting ready to move him.'' She looks at Dean. ''She wants you to check out their makeshift dungeon and their plans for long term confinement.''

''Sure, I can do that.'' He moves to step away from her but backtracks immediately. ''Why don't you come with me?'' It's not really a suggestion. He puts his hands back on her shoulders and leads her away from the group and she just lets him. She glares, but makes no attempt to pummel him or anything. It's unsettling. He looks back at them over his shoulder, catching Sam's eye and mouthing, What the fuck?

All Sam can do is shrug.

''Well,'' Charlie watches them walk away. ''...She seems nice.''

''I think...'' Sam tilts his head to the side and then frowns, looking over at Dinah's retreating form and her noticeable clenched fists. ''I think she might know you.''

''Uh-huh. Kinda got that one, Sam.''

''It would make sense,'' Cas says. ''From what we know of Earth-2, a lot of us seem to have found each other.''

''Wow,'' Sam says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. ''You mean we can't even expand our social circles on another earth?''

''Our souls must recognize each other in some way,'' Cas corrects.

''He says as if that's not the coolest thing ever,'' Charlie enthuses. ''You guys, it's like we imprinted on each other.''

''It must be difficult for her,'' Cas muses, still looking over at Dinah. ''To be surrounded by loved ones and familiar faces and still be so utterly alone.''

''Geez,'' Charlie mumbles. ''That's less cool.''

''It's never easy to be a stranger in a strange world,'' Cas says.

A stranger in a strange world, Sam thinks. He looks over at the shadowy structure of the warehouse, absently rubbing Aida's soft fur, and then it's like it just hits him. ''Holy crap. Loved ones.'' He straightens up, eyes widening. ''Loved ones,'' he says again, earning himself two concerned sets of raised eyebrows. ''I - I have to go. Over there,'' he nods over to where Dean and Dinah went. ''Right now.'' He starts to move but only gets a step or two before he has to step back over to Charlie and hand over Aida.

He leaves them without another word, jogging over to the base tent that ARGUS set up, mostly to get out of the drizzle earlier. He pauses to look at the laptop one agent is sitting in front of, monitoring Demon Dean - who still hasn't moved, the inanimate freak - and then he beelines over to where Dean and Dinah are standing with the Diggles. The four of them are huddled around a tablet, getting what looks like a walkthrough of the demon holding cell ARGUS is currently creating out of thin air. They're busy, talking quietly, very neat and professional, but Sam gives no fucks as he sidles up to them and butts into the conversation. ''I want to talk to him before you take him in.''

Predictably, it's Dean who has the biggest reaction to that. ''No.'' He's already shaking his head. ''No, absolutely not.''

''Dean - ''

''No, he's right,'' John cuts in. ''It's a no go. This is now an official ARGUS operation and you're a civilian. You don't have the clearance.''

''That's a bullshit excuse and you know it,'' Sam responds bluntly. ''I'm a hunter. He's a demon. I can handle him. All due respect but you're the ones who have no idea what you're doing.''

Neither John nor Lyla have much of a reaction to that. Not that he thought they would. One of them runs a secret government agency, the other willingly deals with Oliver Queen on a daily basis, and they have a toddler. Their patience for things like this is probably unparalleled.

''Respectfully, Sam,'' Lyla starts, calm and steady, ''but you have no idea what our capabilities are in regards to the supernatural.''

Sam hastily slides his gaze to Dean, who looks tense but not too tense to stop himself from sending his little brother one of those I told you so looks of his that he loves so much. ''We need to talk to him,'' Sam insists. ''He has information - ''

''That we will get out of him,'' Lyla assures him, ''Once we get him to Belle Reve - ''

''Hold on.'' Dean steps in between them. ''You're taking him to Belle Reve?'' He does not look pleased with that information. Sam has no idea what the fuck Belle Reve is. ''Lyla, that's in Louisiana.''

She straightens her spine, constructing a mask of blank indifference despite the momentary spark of...something that flickers in her eyes. ''How do you know that?''

He doesn't answer the question. ''I thought you were taking him somewhere close by. How exactly are you planning on getting him to another state?''

''As soon as we have him secured in the transport vehicle, we will be going to a private airstrip in Seattle. We have equipped a cargo plane with plenty of iron, salt, Devil's Traps and other deterrents, and he'll be given a sedative laced with holy water.'' The way she says it so easily and confidently sure makes it sound like this is not the first time she's done something like this. She leaves no room for questions, though, because as soon as the talk of the cargo plane is over, she frowns and asks again, voice harder this time, ''How do you know about Belle Reve?'' She looks suspicious. ''Civilians don't know about Belle Reve.''

Dean snickers at that, a recognizable, arrogant snicker that Sam hasn't seen in at least eight years. He looks away for a minute and when he looks back at her, there is a look in his eyes that is foreign even to Sam. ''Nothing stays hidden forever, Director.''

Lyla looks spooked, though she tries to hide it. ''You know,'' she says. ''Amanda Waller used to say that.''

''I know,'' he responds smoothly.

''I told him about Belle Reve,'' Charlie says, popping up behind Sam and scurrying over to Dean. It's obvious she's lying. ''I've got friends in low places.''

''And you are?''

''That depends.''

''On?''

''Do arrest warrants expire?''

Lyla raises one eyebrow.

''I'm Charlie. No last name.''

''Like Cher,'' Cas adds helpfully from his spot over to the side with Aida. ''Or Beyoncé.''

''I was Cher once for Halloween,'' Charlie nods. ''Must be where I got the idea.''

''She's a friend,'' Sam offers.

Lyla looks at Charlie, and then over at her husband. He gives her the tiniest of nods and she opts not to pull on the thread in front of her. She looks back to Sam. ''Once we have him secured - ''

''He'll tell you nothing,'' Sam says, folding his arms. ''Why would he? Once you lock him up in Belle Reve and throw away the key, he will have nothing to lose and nothing to gain. No incentive to talk. As long as he's out here, Devil's Trap or not, he sees himself as free. Demons are arrogant, even when cornered. He thinks he's in control. Take that away and he will clam up. If I can get him talking while he's out here, he might say something worth hearing.''

Lyla, at least for a second, looks like she might be considering it.

John still looks dubious ''What makes you think he'd even talk to you?''

''I'm his brother.''

''You are not his brother,'' Dean fires back.

Sam looks to Cas, but he doubts he'll help him out there. Then he looks at Dinah.

She seems to be fully ignoring the conversation, choosing to warily inch over to Aida. She's crouched down in front of the puppy, hesitantly offering a hand for her to sniff. Aida looks happy and excited to be around so many new people and so many new potential cuddlers. She's peering up at Dinah expectantly, wagging her tail, patiently and happily waiting for Dinah to pet her, but Dinah just looks...like she has no idea what to do with a dog.

''Dinah,'' he says, and she looks over at him.

Aida takes that chance to nudge at Dinah's outstretched hand with her nose and Dinah full on leaps away, letting out a shriek.

Oh my god. The big bad Black Siren - casually cruel, flagrantly unpleasant, uncomfortably Ruby-like, technically a domestic terrorist - is afraid of dogs. Dogs. That's amazing.

Sam clenches his jaw to keep a straight face and decides to file that information away for a later date.

Dinah flushes red, avoiding everyone's eyes. She hastily flicks her hair over her shoulder and scowls at John when she sees the huge seconds-away-from-losing-it grin on his face. ''Shut up, John,'' she snarls, and he wheezes out a laugh. She fixes her jacket and looks at Sam. ''What?'' Her voice is shrill, but the red creeping up her neck is far from intimidating. ''What do you want?''

He has to pause for a second. ''You know him,'' he finally gets out, flattening his voice into a serious tone. He doesn't want to plead with her because she would enjoy that too much. ''You're the only one who does. Do you think he would talk to me?''

She crosses her arms, standing there with this pinched look on her face. She's trying to regain control of the situation, eyeing him from top to bottom with critical eyes, wasting time. She smirks at him. She laughs too, a sharp chuckle, a sad attempt at viciousness that doesn't land. This whole bad girl persona she keeps trying to wear like a cheap suit that doesn't fit hits different now that he knows she is afraid of puppies.

Sam feels bad for this emotionally stunted wreck of a Laurel. Evidently, she's never matured past the edgy teenage phase of life and that's sad, really, it is. There is trauma written all over her. However, he does not have the time for her crap right now. ''Yeah, okay.'' He pinches the bridge of his nose. ''Listen, I don't know if your dramatic pauses are for your own entertainment or if you're too stupid to know where a sentence is going to end when you start it, but we're on the clock here,'' he leans in closer to her, invading her space, ''and I don't have the patience to deal with another Ruby.''

Dinah has zero reaction to that. Even when he physically gets into her space, she doesn't flinch. Merely looks up at him, unmoved. Maybe a little curious. ''Who's Ruby?''

''All right.'' Dean starts laughing, somewhere between frustrated and nervous. He inserts himself in between Sam and Dinah easily. ''This is fun. Super. It's eight years ago. Awesome. Good times.'' He pushes Sam back easily, giving him a dark look. ''How about we fuckin' don't?''

Sam backs off - mostly because Dean has that look in his eyes that even Mary, a headstrong four year old, knows not to mess with.

''Dinah.'' Dean turns to her but doesn't follow that up with anything. He just clamps his jaw shut and throws one last look over his shoulder at Sam before he leans in close to Dinah, scrutinizing her closely with narrowed eyes.

She looks apprehensive, leaning away from him.

''Son of a bitch,'' he mutters. ''Now I can't unsee it.''

Sam nods behind him.

Dean turns, gripping Sam's arm and dragging him away, leaning in to whisper, ''Okay, but Laurel has never reminded me of Ruby. Not even once.''

''I know,'' Sam whispers back. ''Which is what's weird.''

''Oh, for God's sake,'' John bursts out. ''Dinah.'' He turns to her, shooting her a glare. ''You were pulled out of the pipeline to help. If you have no interest in being helpful, that's fine, but you'll be on that flight to Belle Reve with your old friend.''

''And you can forget about your pay check,'' Lyla adds.

Dinah's eyes flare. ''I was brought in to babysit.''

''Circumstances change, Ms. Lance,'' Lyla says tersely.

''Okay, wait.'' Charlie steps into the standoff. ''Wait. Just - '' She hesitates, throwing a look in Dean and Sam's direction before she looks at Dinah. ''He can't hurt you,'' she says softly. ''If you're worried about telling us anything he can trace back to you - ''

''That's not - '' Dinah tenses up. She still doesn't seem to want to look at Charlie's face. She looks at Sam, releasing a strained sigh. ''Yes,'' she tells him. ''He'll talk to you.''

John and Lyla still look unsure about the whole thing. He looks at Dinah, squinting suspiciously. ''Are you sure?''

''Sam Winchester is dead on my earth,'' she finally spits out, blunt as ever.

For some reason, this is not a surprise. Not to Sam anyway. Dean flinches and Cas frowns, but Sam thinks that sounds about right. He figured out his own absence as soon as the other Dean's presence was revealed. He is not arrogant enough to say that he knows for sure things would have gone differently on Earth-2 if only Dean had a Sam, but what he does know...

If there had been a Sam, he would have followed Dean here. That's not even a question. You could say maybe they just weren't close on that earth, but - no, that's not it. Any Sam would have chased any Dean. There is only one thing that would have stopped him. ''I'm dead,'' he repeats, just to try it out.

Dinah nods. ''Yes.''

''How long?''

''You were four.''

''He was four?'' Dean bursts out. ''Four?''

''He drowned,'' Dinah says. ''In Florida, I think. It was a family vacation.''

Now that...

That, Sam had not figured out.

''Was Dean there?'' Cas asks, but doesn't move from his spot in the corner.

''He was there,'' Dinah confirms. ''He was in the water.'' She stops and there's a second where she softens and Sam, for the first time, gets a glimpse of someone who does remind him of Laurel. It's gone too quickly to ruminate on. ''He never talked about that day. I only heard the story once from someone else. His father could only get to one of them. He blamed himself. I think that's why he became a doctor. And why he's so militant about water safety.''

''So that's why he's a demon?'' Charlie asks. She looks doubtful. ''His brother died when he was a kid and decades later he decides to become a demon? How does that track? He wants revenge against the ocean? We don't even have the right ocean here.''

''No, that's not - '' Dinah groans, finally throwing Charlie a roll of her eyes. It looks more fond than exasperated. ''I'm just saying he misses his brother. He's spent nearly his entire life missing him. If he gets a glimpse of his little Sammy all grown up, it might throw him off his game enough to let something slip.''

Sam can tell, just from one look, that both John and Lyla are on the hook.

Dean, not so much.

Lyla gazes at Sam for a moment, wordlessly sizing him up. ''Five minutes.''

Dean grunts in frustration, but Cas pulls him away before he can start ranting. Sam only feels mildly triumphant.

John asks, bravely stepping in the middle of the Winchesters, ''Is there anything else you can tell us about him?''

''Yes, actually.'' A smirk twists onto her face. ''He has owned the same pair of sunglasses for the past decade and refuses to buy a new pair because if it ain't broke, don't fix it. He hates both the color and the word turquoise. He doesn't like soup. He says it's not a full meal.'' She stops there and there's this tiny fleeting smile on her lips that just looks sad. ''He is hilariously bad at card games. And he always made sure there were fresh flowers in my apartment. Even in the dead of winter.'' She is softer when she says this. She starts off trying to be snarky, but loses steam halfway through. By the time she's done, all Sam can think is -

Oh.

She was in love with him.

Well, that makes much more sense, doesn't it?

John asks, after a pause, ''How was that helpful?''

Dinah looks at him sharply, snapping out of it. ''You asked me if there was anything else I could tell you about him,'' she says. ''You didn't say it had to be helpful. This is what I know. I know everything. He was my best friend.'' She looks at the others. ''You all keep looking at me like I'm the key to solving this mystery, but I'm not. I know what happened, I know the problems between us, but even I don't know why he made the choices he made. I wish I did. If you want to know his life story, I can tell it, but it won't help you.'' She straightens up. ''He was born in Lawrence, Kansas in 1979. He and his family moved to Nashville in 1983 - ''

Sam raises an eyebrow and cuts his eyes to Dean at that, briefly, unfairly, wondering what would have happened on this earth if they had just moved to Nashville in 1983 instead of having their entire life blown apart.

''Sam died in 1988, which screwed him up and screwed up his parents even worse, which in turn screwed him up even more. A vicious circle. His parents divorced when he was eleven and his father left because his father - a drunk, by the way - ''

Dean snorts and Sam lets it go for now but will probably poke at that later.

'' - is a runner. John moved around a lot and wasn't part of Dean's life until he settled in Texas when Dean was fifteen and they started communicating again. He spent his childhood in Nashville with his mother. She was, in his own words, cold and distant, and, in mine, severely mentally ill, so he mostly raised himself. He was a troublemaker as a kid. He had a bad attitude, failing grades, mouthed off to teachers, got picked up by the cops for petty shit like vandalism, shoplifting, knocking over mail boxes, stupid things like that. Then he got his girlfriend pregnant when they were both sixteen.''

Sam shifts at that, moving from foot to foot. He looks at Dean, but Dean does not look even remotely surprised by that.

''His girlfriend, Lydia - her parents kicked her out as soon as they found out,'' Dinah continues. ''Mary didn't take it very well either. She didn't kick him out and she let Lydia move in, but she wasn't kind and...'' She looks like she's trying to decide how much she should say. ''Like I said, the woman's batshit. That house was no place to raise a child.''

Sam notices, out of the corner of his eye, the way Dean clenches his fists. Even when it's not really her, he is so staunchly protective of Mom's memory.

Dinah must see it too, must be able to read his body language because she moves on fast, leaving Mary Winchester behind. ''Dean and Lydia moved to Austin to live with John, which was...better, but not by much. They both tried to do the right thing, they got jobs, they took responsibility, but that wasn't enough. John was strict and archaic. Lydia said he was constantly hounding Dean about being a man, whatever that means to someone like him. He discouraged him from going to college, complained about every job Dean got. So, shortly after he and Lydia got married, Dean went and enlisted. It was the only thing that got John off his back. He hated it. He was a good Marine, it made his father proud, and he was providing for his wife and daughter, but he hated it. He wasn't a lifer. Eventually, he got injured and earned himself a medical discharge.''

There is a noticeable shift in Dean's body language at that. ''Injured,'' he says. ''Injured how?''

''There was an explosion,'' Dinah says. ''An IED. He landed on his knee. Or...something hit his knee? I don't know. Something about his knee. I'm not - He didn't talk about that. And if you knew him, you learned not to ask.'' She sends a sidelong glance over at the monitor, looking at the grainy image of the demon that, judging from the look in her eyes, used to be the man she loved. ''After he got out, he and Lydia moved to California for her job, he went to medical school, and they ended up in Central City.''

Charlie asks, ''Are they still together?''

''Divorced back in '08,'' Dinah says. ''They were still close, but she's not waiting for him if that's what you're asking. Lydia's dead.'' She says it bluntly and coldly, but the wounded look in her eyes betrays her.

Charlie looks thrown. ''She's dead?''

''What about his kid?'' Dean asks, completely barreling past everything else.

''She's not - '' Dinah grits her teeth. ''If you're looking for leverage, you'll be disappointed,'' she says stiffly. ''There's just me. I'm all he has. And he doesn't exactly want me anymore. At least not breathing.''

''Dinah,'' Dean says seriously. ''What happened to his daughter?''

''Her name was Emma,'' she offers up quietly, sliding her eyes to him. ''She died in 2013. In the particle accelerator explosion. She wasn't supposed to be there that night, but she was babysitting.'' There's something strange about the interaction between Dean and Dinah. It's like they're saying more than they're saying out loud.

Dean seems to understand something, a quiet look passing through his eyes as he takes a step back from her. ''Oh,'' he says. It's all he says.

Sam has way more questions than that. ''Do the deaths of his wife - ''

''Ex-wife.''

'' - And daughter have anything to do with - ''

''Yes.''

''Of course,'' Charlie says, almost disdainfully. ''There's always a dead girl, isn't there? What a cliché.''

Dinah half smirks, looking adorably fond, but it lasts all of about three seconds before she shakes it away.

''You care about him,'' Cas pipes up, softly accusing. ''Even after everything he's done to you, you still remember every detail of his life story.''

She looks at him evenly. ''The explosion that got him his medical discharge,'' she says. ''It also killed his best friend. Do you know who his best friend was?''

Cas is silent for a long time. ''Given the way you're looking at me, I think I have an idea.''

''His name was James Novak,'' she says. That should not be all that shocking at this point. ''He died saving Dean's life.'' She takes advantage of the heavy silence that follows, looking at everyone with judgmental eyes. ''I don't know what your end goal is here - if you want to kill him, if you want to save him, if you just want to talk - but I know I can't help you. I've spent a long time trying to do all three and I've failed. There is nothing left in that thing,'' she points to the monitor, ''of my friend. But if you insist on trying yourself then I'm not the help you want. There are two people on this earth that have a chance, and that's these two.'' She points to Sam and Cas. ''No one else can help him.''

Dean is the first one to respond to that, breaking the silence with a low chuckle, turning away from everyone and rubbing a hand over his face.

Charlie's next. ''Yep,'' she states calmly. ''That makes sense.''

Sam exchanges a look with Cas and, even without words, understands the acceptance and determination in the other man's eyes. He looks to Lyla. ''Make it fifteen minutes.''

She raises an eyebrow at the boldness. ''Ten.''

''Done.''

.

.

.

Tacoma, Washington

In the dark of the night, Sara points the beam of her flashlight at the fancy marble - likely overly expensive - headstone.

EDITH NADINE HART

FEBRUARY 25TH, 1979 - DECEMBER 16TH, 2000

BELOVED DAUGHTER

She leans in, squinting to read the smaller words in the dark.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

All right, well, that is...

A bit on the nose, really.

Sara whistles, shaking her head. ''Fuck's sake.'' It probably wasn't that creepy all those years ago back when Edie was just a tragedy, the family's first lost girl, and she knows this is commonly used mourning poem, but given the current situation, it's spooky. And a little obnoxious.

''What?''

She whirls around, pointing her flashlight at her sister. ''What what?''

''You whistled.''

''Oh, that's - I just - I...'' Sara waves a hand at the grave. ''...Forgot Edie's headstone had a picture.''

Laurel swings her own flashlight over to the grave, hovering over the inscription before she moves up. She lingers for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the picture of Edie's bright eyes and clever smile, and then she moves on briskly. ''Waste of money for an empty grave.''

Sara cringes at the brusque comment. She looks back to the grave, eyeing her cousin's young, lively face. She doesn't recognize the picture. It was most likely taken sometime after the car accident during the lost years where Edie was not recovering at some rehab in the UK and not traveling the world but holed up with Faye in Maine or locked away in Aberdeen like Rapunzel. There are no shadows in Edie's eyes in the picture. No sign of what she was going through or what was to come. She doesn't look like some unstable, unhinged cursed woman. She certainly doesn't look capable of murder.

Sara looks away from the slab of marble.

Then again, she doesn't look like the worst things that have happened to her either and she doesn't think she looks like she knows eleven different ways to kill a man with a paperclip.

She looks back over to Laurel. Tacoma is about two hours and forty minutes away from Star City, longer with the route they took. Laurel barely said a word in the car. She drove. Kept her hands wrapped around the steering wheel tightly, with determination. There was no small talk. It was the most uncomfortable road trip they've ever taken together. ''How come I didn't get a picture?'' Sara asks, even though she couldn't care less. She just wants to get something out of her.

Laurel doesn't even look up from what she's doing, weighing both shovels in her hands like she's trying to pick the best one. ''Mom thinks they're tacky.''

...Oh, so that's where she got that from.

''She does? But yours - ''

''That was Dean,'' Laurel cuts in, handing Sara a shovel. ''I think that's one of the reasons he added a picture. He said he didn't want people to forget that there was a real person behind the mask, but let's be real, he also wanted to piss off Mom because he was mad she and Dad shut him out of the funeral planning and everything.''

''Hmm.'' Sara pierces the ground with her shovel, but doesn't do any digging, leaning on it thoughtfully. A few months ago, she likely would have been very upset by that on her mother's behalf. In the past, she's taken her mother's side in the perpetual saga of Mom vs Laurel's husband. Even when she knew Mom was biased and even when she came across as some hoity toity classist snob, she generally took her side over Dean's. Sara has always taken her mother's side. Ever since she was a kid. That's just the way it was. Laurel got Dad, Sara got Mom.

Now she can't even look at her mother. It's not even about Dean - although leaving him out of planning his wife's funeral was a monumental fuck up on both her and Dad's part, grief or no grief. It's about the kind of person Mom apparently is. She has always known that Mom can be cold, but it's not like she means to be. That's just her personality. She can't help it. Everyone knows that Dinah Drake takes after her father, rough around the edges but ultimately well meaning, and Valerie and Nat are more like their mother. It's not a big deal. She comes across worse than she intends to, but it's just a quirk. She's a career oriented and busy woman, her mind eternally on her work and her endless reading list, and she's not a naturally warm and nurturing person. That's perfectly fine. Not every woman has that in them, not every woman needs or wants or is good at motherhood and, despite what society says, that's okay. Normal, even.

That's always been Sara's thought process.

Unfortunately, recent events have forced her to reevaluate things and see Mom in a totally different light.

Truth is Mom sucks.

Not being naturally maternal is one thing. Being a lying liar who lies about even her own laundry list of fucking lies, is another. Pushing Dean out of the funeral planning and going ahead with a half assed headstone that she knew he hated and didn't even get to see before it was officially ordered and placed, forcing him to spend big bucks he didn't have on fixing her mistakes is low on her list of crimes.

''She deserved it,'' Sara says.

Laurel looks up from rummaging around in the bag she brought. ''You think?''

''I wasn't there, but I've heard about the funeral debacle,'' Sara admits. ''I don't think Mom and Dad meant to be hurtful - Dad, especially, was... Dean said he was out of it. But they probably could have handled things better.''

''And that's what their headstones will say,'' Laurel grouses. ''Here lies the Lances: They probably could have handled things better.''

Sara lets that one go and, without another word, starts digging. She gets a few scoops in and then just stops, eyes slipping back to Edie's face. ''Are you sure you want to do this?''

''I don't want to do this,'' Laurel says. ''But you need proof. Frankly, so do I. This is how we get that.'' She looks around at the rest of the cemetery, scanning the shadowed monuments for any sign of anyone else. She doesn't say anything else and shows no reluctance when she starts shoveling.

Sara does not necessarily share her determination. ''It just feels so grotesque.''

''I did it for you.''

Boy does that ever not help.

Sara hates thinking about that. About how Laurel had to dig her body up, wrap her up, and carry her rotting corpse. It's gross. It makes her feel wretched. Sad for Laurel, for how horrifying it must have been, and, truthfully, it's humiliating in a bizarre and decidedly not normal way. She doesn't like the thought of anyone having to have that image of her in the heads, least of all Laurel.

''Be honest with me, Sara.'' Laurel stops for a minute to look up from shoveling. ''Is this your first time digging up a grave?''

Sara shifts from foot to foot. Uh, well, truthfully... No. Not so much. The League was a dark place to be. It stole a lot of firsts from her. Most of them firsts she never wanted to have. One of the things she learned during her time with them is that the best place to bury a body is in a pre-existing grave. So. That's...a thing she knows.

''I didn't think so,'' Laurel says. ''Now hurry up and get digging. We have to be quick about this before someone catches us.''

Sara groans, but does as she's told, peeling off her jacket.

''Besides,'' Laurel adds on, pausing to pull her hair up into a ponytail. ''Dean and Sam do this all the time and they're fine.''

Sara gives her a look, but doesn't say anything.

''Maybe they're not,'' Laurel amends. ''But I don't think that's because of all the grave desecration.''

Sara laughs under her breath and keeps digging. She wonders, absently, if Laurel is aware of how long this is going to take. She wants to do this as fast as possible, which is understandable, sure, but this is not a quick thing. The average grave is six feet deep and densely packed. This isn't going to be a quick job.

''How are you and Dean, by the way?'' She questions after a few minutes.

''What do you mean?''

''I mean how are you two doing with all this? It's like a whole mountain of crap just rained down on us.''

''We're fine.''

''Oh,'' Sara nods, biting down on her lip. ''It's just...you two seemed a little off today.''

Laurel pauses for a minute, like maybe she's trying to figure out what to say or if she should say anything at all. In the end, all she offers is a curt, ''Can we not talk about that right now?''

''Sure.'' Sara gives it a solid eight seconds. She figures that's long enough. ''It's about her, right?''

''Sara.'' Laurel stops digging just long enough to throw her an exasperated look. ''I said I didn't want to talk about it.''

Sara doesn't ask again. The silence between them isn't easy, not the way it should be. Laurel is giving off some majorly miserable vibes here so that's probably all there is to it, but she can't help but feel like maybe it's her.

Maybe if Thea were the one doing this with her, Laurel would be more likely to open up. Thea helped Laurel dig her up after all. Supported her through all that. Pretty obvious it's not just Mary she's good with. Thea is the little sister Laurel always wanted. The sister Sara could never be.

''I'm sorry I wasn't there,'' she says softly.

Laurel's eyes flick up for maybe a second. ''There was nothing you could have done,'' she says. ''And I'm fine. Dean's rescue mission worked. I guess mostly because Edie's made herself an army of crooks and fools, but a win is a win. Even though it was a halfcocked plan. Although Dean swears the smoke bombing part was Thea's idea.''

''No,'' Sara shakes her head. ''That's not - I meant, um... Your funeral. I wasn't there.''

At that, Laurel stops digging. ''Oh.''

''I should've been there.''

''Well.'' Laurel brushes it off and goes back to the task at hand. ''You'll be at the next one.''

''That is so not funny.''

''It wasn't supposed to be funny.''

Sara's eyes move over to Edie's headstone. ''I have a thought.''

''I'll alert the media.''

Sara flicks some dirt at Laurel's legs. ''Jerk,'' she snipes, ignoring her sister's snicker. ''As I was saying, I have a thought. If this is Edie - and that's still a big if, in my opinion - then what if the reason all her plans seem so poorly thought out is because in her heart she knows what she's doing is wrong and some part of her wants to fail?''

''I think it's more likely that she's just...unwell,'' Laurel says. ''You weren't there. You didn't see her. Talk to her. She switched from one mood to the next in the blink of an eye. It was like she was rapid cycling. She's spent nearly twenty years in isolation, she's been locked away, murdered, revived with Lazarus Pit water - and you know better than anyone what that water does to a person - and she's spent the past however long obsessing over me, stalking me, and planning my murder.''

''If that's true, you'd think she'd be making smarter choices,'' Sara says. ''If she's had that long to plan, she should have better plans.''

''She's unstable. You can't make rational, logical choices when you're unhinged. I know. I've been there. More often than I care to admit.''

Sara bites her tongue. She would like to know, like to ask, but Laurel does not exactly seem to be in a sharing and caring mood right now. She just focuses on digging. There better be a damn body in this casket. That's where she's at. She doesn't want to see Edie like that; all dried up and eaten away, just dust and remnants, but she can't imagine the alternative.

She and Jackson were close right up until she got on that boat. She talked to him like an hour before she boarded the Gambit. They made plans for the weekend after she was supposed to get home. They were going to go to a concert together. They haven't exactly been able to reconnect since she came home, he has a husband and daughter now, she doesn't want to bring her danger around them, but she still has years of memories with him and one thing that sticks out is his undying devotion to Edie. It didn't matter that she was gone.

We put the dead on pedestals because we feel bad that they're gone. We want to keep them with us. Edie's brothers wanted to keep her with them. They have spent a long time sainting her and believing that she deserved better. They would give anything to have her back. But not like this. Jackson used to say that her biggest flaws were that she wore too much eye makeup and listened to Mazzy Star too loudly. Sara doesn't want to have to tell him that there is more than he ever could have imagined to his sister. She wants to keep her up on that pedestal.

She keeps shoveling at the dirt, trying not to imagine the look on Jackson's face or Seth's if they have to tell them that Edie, their beloved sister, is alive, a witch, a murderer, and unfathomably cruel. It would be a blow she's not sure they could come back from.

''Okay.'' Abruptly, Laurel stops her efforts to dig and throws her attention to the headstone. ''Maybe this is a little grotesque,'' she admits. She keeps her eyes on the stone for a minute, on Edie, and then looks back to Sara. ''I keep thinking about - ''

''Her brothers?''

Laurel looks surprised, nodding her head.

''Same,'' Sara says. ''They loved her.''

''They still do,'' says Laurel.

''If this is her,'' Sara says, going back to digging. ''Maybe we just...don't tell them. What good can come from that?''

Laurel resumes digging. ''Would you want to know?'' She asks. ''If it were me?''

Sara chews on her bottom lip. ''I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.'' She lifts her eyes for a second to watch Laurel dig, methodical and resolute. Yes. She would want to know. She's selfish like that. Alive and psychotic is still alive. ''Hey,'' she says after a minute, attempting to shake off the vicious sense of wrongness and the simmering guilt. ''Want me to take your mind off the gross thing we're doing?''

''Sure.''

''Enrique Iglesias' hit 2002 song Escape isn't a love song, it's a stalker's anthem.''

Laurel stops what she's doing to look up at Sara. ''...What?''

''The lyrics are literally you can run, you can hide, but you can't escape my love.''

''No, I get what you're saying. I just don't get how it's relevant.''

''It's not,'' Sara says. ''I've just got a lot of random stuff taking up space in my head and I'm trying to get your mind off of what we're doing, remember?''

Laurel eyes her strangely, but then goes back to digging. ''Gotcha. What else you got?''

''Tomato sauce used to be sold as medicine. And Scotland's national animal is a unicorn.''

''Fascinating.''

''Not really. You know what's fascinating? There's an entire Wikipedia page about American Idol controversies. That's fascinating.''

''You and I might be defining fascinating differently.''

''Have you ever had a Chunky bar? What the fuck is that? Who asked for a chocolate bar with raisins in it? Chocolate and peanut butter? A classic. Chocolate and nuts? Great. Chocolate and nougat? Yeah, man, that's stupendous.''

''Stupendous? Really?''

''I'll even happily take a chocolate and pretzel combo. But chocolate and raisins? No. Blasphemy. Terrible combination.''

''Well, there's Raisinets...''

''Terrible combination. Anyway, butterflies taste with their feet.''

Laurel starts laughing, feebly attempting to pretend she's not but failing horribly. ''It's a real shame you and Dean haven't spent more time together. You're a lot alike.''

Sara's so happy to see her laughing that she's not even offended by that. She's not going to dignify the comparison with a response, but she's going to let it go. ''Scientology is a cult.''

''I swear it's like you have a head full of bees.''

''I could take offense to that,'' Sara slings back lazily. ''There's a town in Canada called Dildo.''

''Yeah, see, I knew that one,'' Laurel says. ''Because my husband has told me that approximately thirteen times over the course of our relationship. Really, Sara, is this why you two don't get along? You're too similar?''

''That's an unfounded allegation. I am nothing like Dean. He doesn't even like bananas. Who doesn't like bananas?''

''Uh, lots of people,'' Laurel says. ''They're historically controversial.''

''That's stupid. Bananas are great. They're so versatile,'' Sara says. ''There's banana bread, banana cream pie, bananas foster, banana pudding, banana pancakes, banana cake, banana ice cream, banana splits, banana ketchup - ''

''Lots of banana. I get it.''

''And they're excellent for jokes.''

''Excuse me?''

''You know, because they're phallic.''

Laurel stops what she's doing to stare at her for a minute. ''Okay, I'm very uncomfortable knowing I married my sister.''

''It's okay,'' Sara assures her. ''You missed me. I'm missable.''

Laurel rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling, still amused.

Sara figures that's a good sign. They work in silence for a long while, digging and digging and digging, slowly getting closer to Edie. Sara can feel her atypical anxiety level up with every shovel full of dirt. She keeps looking at Laurel out of the corner of her eye, wanting to say something, but not sure what to say. After what feels like hours (but is probably only maybe forty to forty five minutes), she speaks up again, doing her best to keep her voice light and casual. ''Can I ask you a question?''

''Shoot.''

''Your favorite song. Still a tie between Bowie's Starman and that Wallflowers song?''

''One Headlight,'' Laurel says. She looks up, confused. ''Wait, why?''

''Just wondering.''

Laurel looks suspicious, but also like she's not sure what to be suspicious about. She keeps digging and doesn't seem to give the question much thought.

Sara scoops another shovel full of dirt onto the growing pile beside them and pauses to look at her sister. Her sister with the affinity for one hit wonders from the 80's and 90's and books that make her cry and awful sappy romance movies - especially if they're adaptations of Jane Austen novels. ''What about your favorite movie?'' She asks. ''Still The Princess Bride?''

''What? Sara, what are you - Why are you asking?''

''No reason.''

''Are you planning a movie night?''

''Sure, that sounds like fun. I was just curious.''

''I still like The Princess Bride,'' Laurel relents. ''I don't know if I'd say it's my favorite, but I like it.''

''Have you ever thought about how your love of The Princess Bride totally explains your marriage?''

Laurel pierces the dirt with her shovel again and then stops short. ''Oh my god.'' Her eyes widen slightly, and then she points her shovel at Sara. ''You can never tell Dean about that. He'll never let it go.''

Sara laughs to herself. She's trying not to think about how she doesn't even know Laurel's favorite movie. It's not that big of a deal. It's not a big deal at all. In fact, it's a very small deal. Tiny. Miniscule. Except she keeps stealing glances at Edie's smiling young face and all she can think about is how Jackson and Seth probably know what Edie's favorite movie was even though they were so young when they lost her. Jackson remembers every line from the song his sister used to listen to all the time. Sara couldn't even remember the name of that Wallflowers song.

She can't even remember if she ever did. Even back before the boat, when she considered Laurel to be her best friend, the person she knew better than anyone. She doesn't think she was good at being a best friend back then, particularly those last few years. She was kind of an insufferable asshole around that time. She was unhappy with her life, felt lost and alone, and she took it out on others - mostly Laurel. Because Laurel was always there. Even when they were apart, one in California, one back at home, she was there when Sara needed someone, even when she just needed an emotional punching bag.

She was a brat. She was spoiled and she liked the attention her bad behavior got her. She was a dumbass kid who thought she could get away with being the world's biggest bitch because - well, mostly because everyone in her life let her get away with being the world's biggest bitch. And she could always justify her behavior. She was the baby. She was just having fun, just making a joke, and Laurel was annoying. She was whiny and self-righteous and she stole the boy Sara wanted so she deserved it. She needed to be taken down a peg.

There would always be time to be a better person when she got older. There would always be time to be a better sister.

She regrets all of it now. It's hard to come to terms with your own selfishness. She should let it go. She has plenty of other things to regret. She doesn't need to waste time on how she was an edgy teenager. She was hardly the first and it's not like Laurel's going to hold it against her. One thing Sara has realized is that she could do practically anything and her big sister would still forgive her for it. She got on that boat with Oliver, she was a cold blooded murderer for so long, she runs every chance she gets, and Laurel just keeps forgiving her.

Everything she did when she was a kid, Laurel forgave. Welcomed her back with open arms every time.

Jackson and Seth would give anything to be able to know Edie as adults. For her to be able to see who they've become. The men they grew up to be. They would give anything to know her favorite music and food and movie and ice cream flavor. Thy want what was taken from them. And they're just normal people. No vigilantism, no assassin school, no witchcraft or Lazarus Pit or resurrection. Death is permanent in their ordinary world. There are no second chances.

Meanwhile, here's Sara. She has been given chance after chance after chance. She gets to live and live and live again. Her sister is alive, something of a miracle, but she just keeps running, doesn't she? Can't even look at her without being thrown right back into that raging sea of guilt she nearly drowned in.

She and Laurel could be close again, if she ever stops running, if she ever opens her mouth and says it all out loud, but she needs courage to get there and she has always been rather cowardly.

Suppose she learned that from her mother.

Sara keeps digging, scooping up a few more shovels of dirt, and then she stops. She wipes the sweat off her brow and tries to make it look like she's just taking a breather when, really, she's just looking at Laurel.

Does she even want Sara as a friend? No, really, it's a legitimate question. If she tried to get back to where they started from, would Laurel be receptive?

Sara picks at the handle of the shovel. ''I missed you,'' she blurts out, without thinking.

Laurel barely even looks at her. ''You weren't even gone that long. Cut the cord, kid.''

''No, I don't mean - I meant I missed you,'' Sara says. ''I mean you passed me by.''

At that, Laurel stops. ''What are you talking about?''

''We've been like ships in the night for almost a decade now,'' Sara says. She's trying to sound upbeat, just having a conversation, but she doesn't think anyone would buy that.

''Do you ever think about that? We've lost so much of each other over the years. We were supposed to be together and we weren't. We aren't.''

''We are.''

''I don't know your favorite things.''

''Sara, come on.'' Laurel pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. The exasperation stings.

''I came home and you were gone, Laurel,'' Sara snaps. ''You were just gone. You died and I didn't even - I didn't even feel it. I should have felt it. The entire city felt it like you were fucking Iron Man or something, but I didn't.''

''Is now the best time to - ''

''You left me behind.''

''I left you - '' Laurel breaks off in a scoff of disbelief, throwing her shovel down. ''You left me first, Sara! Have you forgotten that? You got on that stupid boat. You left first. You're always leaving. You die, you come back, and then you fuck off to the other side of the world because we're not exciting enough for you. You need more and more. And you can't even look at me.''

''That's not true,'' Sara protests weakly. ''I can look at you. I want to. I want to look at you.'' She blows out a defeated breath. ''You make me feel guilty.''

Laurel, a master at covering her hurt with anger, sneers. ''Yep,'' she nods. ''That's my fault. Let me just add that to the list of reasons why people think I'm fucking garbage. Looking at me reminds people of the awful things they did to me. How dare I.''

''I'm not saying it's your fault,'' Sara tries. ''I'm just saying it's hard. I look at you and I go back to that boat so I pull away and I run because the distance is safer. It makes it easier.''

''Then you don't get to complain about not knowing me. You made your choices.''

''I know that!''

''Why did you make those choices anyway?'' Laurel looks away as soon as she asks that question, swallowing, but then she looks back. ''I've never asked you,'' she says faintly. ''I've never wanted to know before. I didn't think it would help. I'm asking now. Why did you get on that boat, Sara?''

Cold dread fills Sara's body, settling in her stomach like an iceberg. She had hoped Laurel would never ask her that question. She wishes she had a better reason. Hell, she wishes she could just say that she wasn't thinking, that it was a reckless and impulsive decision that she didn't think through. But she did think about it. Long and hard. That's the worst part. What happened between her and Oliver did not start on that boat. It started months earlier, on New Year's Eve, when he kissed her at midnight because Laurel had stormed off after a fight. ''Does it matter?'' She tries to squirm her way out of it. ''I shouldn't have done it. I was a selfish bitch. I wish I hadn't.''

''But why did you?'' Laurel is unwavering. ''I've thought it over so many times. I spent years wondering what he did to get you on that boat. What he said. How he said it. Why you let him. Why you wanted him when you could have had anyone. I spent even longer wondering what it was that I did. What was it about me that was so bad that drove you into each other's arms.''

''It wasn't about you.''

''Bullshit,'' Laurel hisses. ''You may think you don't know me, but I know you. I know exactly who you were back then. You hated me.''

''I loved you. I always loved you. We were best friends.''

''Sure, sometimes. Maybe even most of the time. But you could be unspeakably cruel to me, and I want to know why. I'm not saying - I was probably a bitch to you too, but that stupid fucking boat, Sara. I never understood how you could just...'' Laurel seems to struggle with the words. ''Leave me here. I want to know what I did. I want to know why you decided to have an affair with my boyfriend. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? It wasn't just the boat. Oliver told me about what happened on New Year's Eve. You two...'' She trails off, shaking her head. ''I want to know why.''

Sara inhales and then exhales. She feels like a caged animal. She catches her teeth between her lips. No way out now. She puts down her shovel and wipes her dirty hands on her jeans. ''I liked him first.'' She closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see the disappointment in Laurel's eyes. ''I know that's not an excuse now, but I - I liked him first. And you knew that. I was going to tell him that at the holiday party Trina Whitley had, but you called the cops and I never even got to see him. Then, when we went back to school, suddenly you two were an item. I was mad, I was so mad, so I held a grudge and I did...a lot of shitty things to you. You were right when you said I was unspeakably cruel. I was. I was a total bitch.'' She reluctantly opens her eyes. ''I'm sorry for that. I am so sorry,'' she says honestly. ''I shouldn't have. I was a dumb kid.''

Laurel is quiet. She's looking at Sara, expression blank, lips pressed together tightly. She doesn't respond for a long time, processing. Then she just picks up her shovel and goes back to calmly digging at the grave.

''What...'' Sara swallows. ''What are you - ''

''I'm digging,'' Laurel says, voice tight and tense. ''What does it look like? We have to finish what we came here for.''

''Don't you have anything to say?''

''Nope.''

Sara is unconvinced. ''Laurel...'' She takes a step toward her. ''Laurel - ''

''You're an ungrateful little shit,'' Laurel says lowly. ''You know that?''

Sara cringes, recoiling in guilt. ''Yeah, probably.''

Laurel looks at her, disgusted. ''You were fourteen years old.''

''I was fifteen.''

''No, it was before Christmas. You were still fourteen. Trina Whitley threw glorified frat parties. They were completely out of control. Everyone knew that. If you wanted to get fucked up on molly or coke, you went to a Whitley party, but you never went alone and you never ever accepted a drink from her older brother. Every girl knew that. Those parties were full of booze and drugs and horny privileged boys who didn't understand or care what the word no meant because they knew they were too rich and too white to ever face consequences. A year later, she threw a Halloween party with the same crowd and a girl was raped. Everyone knew Trent did it, but nothing happened to him because he was Trent Whitley and his parents and lawyers just made it go away.'' There is simmering rage in her voice. ''I told Dad where you were because I didn't want you to get hurt. He was the one who called in the uniforms. It wasn't about Oliver. And for the record, he asked me out. Repeatedly. For weeks. As soon as we started at that school, he had his eye on me. That was never a secret. There was nothing sudden about us. I didn't decide to date him to screw with you. It had nothing to do with you at all. I didn't plan anything. I wasn't some diabolical seductress. I was a teenage girl. I was a child, Sara. We all were. And he chased me. Not the other way around. I didn't know you liked him. You never told me. If I had known, I would have kept turning him down.''

Sara wrings her hands. ''Oh.''

''Yeah.''

''I...I'm sorry.''

''You threw your life away on a grudge and a boy and blamed it on me.''

''I didn't blame you.''

''We both know you did.''

Sara cannot refute that, as much as she wants to. ''I'm sorry,'' she tries again, feebly. ''I shouldn't have told you.''

''I asked.''

''I shouldn't have brought any of this up,'' Sara goes on. ''It's not the right time. I've just been struggling lately. With being...here. I don't normally stay here this long. You and I don't... It's harder than I thought it would be. I know that doesn't compare to what you're going through. I just... I fucked everything up and years keep passing and I still can't fix it. I can't fix what I did. Being here reminds me of that.''

Laurel stops to look up at the night sky. She looks far more worn out than she did a few minutes ago. ''Maybe we're better off apart.''

''Wait.'' Panic seizes Sara's chest. ''What? No, that's not what I - ''

''Clearly we don't bring out the best in each other,'' Laurel says, going back to her frantic digging. ''Look at you. You're a wreck when you're with me. All I do is make you feel guilty and sad and remind you of what happened. You were happy with the Legends. You're not happy here. I want you to be happy. And I'd really like to go through one day without feeling like shit.''

''But - ''

''We're different people.''

''We're not that different.''

''We're different enough.''

Sara doesn't know what if there's anything at all she can say to make this better. Logically, she understands that tonight is not the night to do this, that Laurel is pissed, and not in the mood for this crap, but she can't just let this end here. She feels like she's just being written off. ''I never said I was happy being away from you. I'm not happy being away from you. My guilt is my fault. Not yours. None of what happened back then was your fault. What Oliver and I did was - That's on us. Not you.''

''Uh-huh. Look, can you just help me here?'' Laurel lifts her eyes shortly, but doesn't stop digging. ''I'm cold and tired and hungry - and now I'm kind of irritated. Let's just get this done so we can go home.''

Sara picks her shovel back up, but doesn't move to go back to digging. She clutches the handle tightly, knuckles white. ''I love you,'' she says. ''You know that, right? I feel like I should say that more often. I didn't get to tell you before.''

Laurel's shoulders slump and she stops digging, although she does look a bit annoyed that she keeps having to stop to deal with baby sister's existential crisis. ''Sara,'' her voice is softer, but only mildly. ''You don't need to tell me that. I already know.''

''But I still should have said it before,'' Sara retorts. ''You deserve to hear it. And I shouldn't have gotten on the boat. And I shouldn't have kissed him on New Year's Eve. I took everything from you because I thought I deserved it more, and I will be sorry about that for the rest of my life.''

''Wow.'' Laurel does not seem particularly impressed by that declaration. ''That sounds like a miserable life.'' She hesitantly puts the shovel down and turns around. ''You were just a kid.''

''I was old enough to know better,'' Sara says. ''I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have spent all these years running from you just to make you chase me either. And I should have thanked you.'' She blinks back the pressure building behind her eyes. ''I want to be here,'' she says. ''I want to make that clear. I want to be here with you. I just don't know how to do it. Last May...'' It's still hard to think about last May. ''I got home and all I wanted to do was see you and tell you about everything I did. You were my first thought. Not Dad, not Mom, not Nyssa or Oliver or anyone. Just you. I wanted to tell you what I had done with the second chance you gave me. I wanted you to be proud of me.''

Laurel remains dry eyed, expression unreadable.

''You brought me back,'' Sara says. ''I am here because of you. You risked everything and I just took that for granted. I should have done the same for you. I should have tried harder.''

''Okay, honey.'' Laurel reaches for her, gently prying the shovel out of her hand. ''Come here.'' She puts her hands on Sara's shoulders and spins her around, leading her out of the hole they've been digging and a few steps away. ''Let's take a break. Sit down.'' She all but pushes Sara down to the ground before she grabs the bag she brought with her and pulls out a bottle of water, handing it over.

Sara accepts it, but, like, what the fuck is this going to do for her? Hydration is not the issue here. ''Laurel - ''

''It is not your job to save me,'' Laurel cuts in, voice soft but firm, taking a seat on the soft earth next to Sara.

''It's not your job to save me either,'' Sara says stubbornly, ''but you keep doing it.''

Laurel smiles at her. ''I'm the older sister, sweetie,'' she says. ''Of course it's my job. You're my responsibility.''

That is so fucking stupidly self-sacrificial. ''You know I'm sorry, right?'' Sara tries to hastily swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''There are so many things I'm sorry for. I need you to know that.''

''I know that,'' Laurel says. ''I know.'' She reaches over to rub Sara's back. ''But you can stop. I give you permission to stop being sorry. Do you think I want you to be miserable and guilty? Do you think I brought you back to life to be sorry? Hey, look at me.'' Gently, she grabs her chin, forcing her to look at her. ''Baby, I brought you back so you could live. That's all I've ever wanted. It doesn't matter where you go, how far you run, it doesn't even matter if I'm here or not. Just as long as you're living.'' She draws her hand back. ''And you - you say you don't know my favorite things, but, Sara, you are my favorite thing. My very favorite thing.'' She tucks a strand of Sara's hair behind her ear. It's such a familiar, soothing gesture. ''It's possible you've dropped a spot since Mary came along, but you're still my girl. I forgave you a long time ago,'' she tells her. ''I brought you home. There's nothing else I can do to make you feel better now. You need to learn to forgive yourself. Not just for the boat, but for everything that happened after. The things you did to survive. I can't untie that weight. You have to do that yourself.''

Sara sniffles. That's easier said than done. Forgiveness has never been her strong suit. ''I love you,'' she says after a second. ''So much.''

''I love you too.''

''I shouldn't have unloaded on you like this.''

Laurel looks at Sara for a second, smiling softly, face shrouded in moonlight. She reaches over to take her hand, squeezing. ''You can always unload on me,'' she says. ''I promise. Just remember I'm supposed to be the worrier,'' she jokes lightly. ''You don't have to worry about not knowing my favorite things.''

''It's more than your favorite things,'' Sara says. ''I feel like I don't know you the way I used to and I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to bridge the gap.''

Laurel nods at that, like she gets it, like she's been thinking the same thing. ''You could stick around and get to know me,'' she suggests. ''I'm unemployed now. I have the time. Maybe we could build that bridge together.'' She nudges her shoulder against Sara's playfully and then starts to pull away. ''All right, I have a lot of work to do. You sit here for a minute.''

Sara starts to protest, but ultimately chooses to remain where she is, watching Laurel pick herself back up and grab her shovel, going right back to digging down into the grave. ''If I do stay here,'' Sara calls over to her, ''are you going to make me watch The West Wing with you again? Because it's so boring.''

Laurel frowns over her shoulder at her. ''I love The West Wing.''

''You would.''

A fond roll of the eyes. ''How about HGTV? I've been on a real HGTV kick recently.''

Sara rises back to her feet, picking up her own shovel and rejoining her sister for their gruesome task. ''Ugh, not because of those Property Brothers, right? I don't trust those two.''

''No, I find them quite grating actually. I'm getting into Good Bones though. I think Mary and I could do what they do.''

''You could even get your own show,'' Sara says. ''Steal the spotlight from the Property Brothers. More mother/daughter demolition duos, less white dudes with creepy big smiles and untrustworthy eyes. Everyone wins. I'll even help you. And by help,'' she holds up a finger. ''I mostly mean I want to knock down walls with one of those big hammer things.''

''Noted,'' Laurel says. ''I'll put HGTV personality right under Youtube vlogger slash social media influencer on my list of possible business ventures.''

''You wouldn't even last a week as a Youtube personality,'' Sara teases. ''You're not obnoxious enough.''

''What about stand up comedian? I think I'd make a good stand up comedian.''

''Aww, it's cute you think you're funny.''

''Hey! Dean always laughs at my jokes.''

''That's because he's your husband. He made a vow.''

''Fuck you, I'm hilarious.''

They work in silence for a bit, easier than it was before, and then Laurel speaks up. ''Before Sunrise.''

''What?''

''My favorite movie,'' Laurel explains. ''It's Before Sunrise. With Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. I know it's just your standard white straight romance movie, but I like it. It makes me happy. It's sweet and romantic and a little whimsical. It makes me feel hopeful. I used to want something like that.''

Yep, that sounds like that kind of movie Laurel - soft, romantic, lovely Laurel - would like. ''I've got news for you, sis,'' Sara teases. ''That's what you got. It may not always seem like a romantic fairytale or a whimsical blockbuster from the 90's, but you guys... Nobody has ever loved me the way he loves you. Not even...'' She trails off, trying not to let her smile dim as that dull ache in her chest flares up again, that empty spot that was, for so long, reserved only for Nyssa. ''You got lucky.''

Laurel doesn't respond to that. She's still digging away, but she's got this unreadable look on her face. A little sad, maybe. A little regretful.

Sara doesn't want to upset her so she doesn't ask.

''Do you know what Dean's favorite movie is?'' Laurel pipes up after a few minutes.

''Yeah, it's Die Hard. He never shuts up about it.''

Laurel raises her head, a slow smile spreading over her lips. ''It's Dirty Dancing.''

Sara stops what she's doing to stare blankly. Of all the movies in all the world(s), she never would have guessed that. Although she should have. The guy does have a plain as day crush on Patrick Swayze. She stares mutely for a second, trying to picture Dean Winchester gleefully watching Dirty Dancing with rapt attention and then she bursts into laughter.

Laurel is more subdued, likely because this isn't new information to her, but she chuckles along with her.

It feels wrong to be laughing while they dig up a grave, but it's also the closest Sara has felt to her sister in a long, long time.

If nothing else, at least Edie gave them that.

It does take them a long time to reach the casket. Just like Sara predicted it would. They dig for what feels like hours. It's a long way down. Things chill out between them after Sara's outburst. It's a calmer silence. A comfortable one. Sara still doesn't like what they're doing here, defiling their cousin's final resting place, but she makes no arguments, says nothing. She just keeps digging.

At the end of the day, Laurel's right. They do need the proof.

Her muscles are screaming in protest, every part of her from her calves to her fingers to her shoulder blades are sore and burning when, finally, she goes to scoop off another layer of dirt and hits something hard. There's a fleeting moment of relief and triumph, and then her heart sinks. She does not want to open this casket. She has seen and done a lot of things over the years. She has dug up bodies before. But she does not want to open this casket.

''Laurel,'' she calls, peeking over at Laurel, taking a quick water break. ''I think I got something.''

Laurel, who has been growing increasingly tense and jumpy as a real grave begins to take shape, sighs. She gingerly puts the bottle of water down and climbs back into the hole. ''Let's get this over with.''

''One last time,'' Sara says, even as Laurel continues digging, pushing away dirt from the now visible casket. ''I have to ask. Are we sure we want to do this?''

''Yes,'' Laurel says shortly. ''Hurry up and help me.''

Sara grimaces, but does as she's told. It's nearly impossible to uncover the entire casket but since they're just going for a quick confirmation, they mostly work on getting the dirt away from the top half of the casket, just enough to open it up. The sickening exercise has really highlighted one thing for Sara: Graves are fucking hard to get into, which means they must be even harder to get out of.

So...

She's not going to ask, but how in the hell did Laurel do it? The whole ''six feet under'' thing isn't just something people say. The dirt piled on top is so compact and dense that even penetrating the earth with a shovel is difficult and caskets are heavy duty things. The amount of intense adrenaline, desperation, and pure terror it must have taken to break through one of these things and crawl out through all that dirt is unthinkable.

It's a miracle Laurel managed to break through a casket with her bare fists. It's a miracle she didn't suffocate clawing at the roof, or choke halfway through the dirt, or have a heart attack from the stress and adrenaline.

The sheer cruelty of it, of leaving her to get herself out of her own grave, makes Sara want to puke. There is no possible way Edie can have that kind of cruelty in her bones. Not when it comes to her little shadow.

Sara looks at the aforementioned escapee, down on her hands and knees, brushing dirt away from the casket with her hands. She looks jittery. She could just be cold or exhausted from how strenuous this night has been, but Sara can't help but kick herself for not bothering to think about how triggering this could be for her. ''Maybe I should take it from here.''

Laurel doesn't look up, but she does apparently read Sara's mind. ''I'm fine,'' she says, though she doesn't attempt to sound convincing. ''Let's just get this done.'' She's already fumbling around, searching for the lock in the dark.

Sara heaves herself up out of the hole, reaching to grab a flashlight before dropping back down. She flicks the light on, pointing the beam at the casket. ''Just so you know, the smell - ''

''I know what dead bodies smell like,'' Laurel says. ''I was one. It's not like I woke up smelling like roses.''

''Ew.''

''You smelled even worse because you weren't embalmed.''

Sara makes a disgusted noise. ''This isn't a normal conversation, I hope you know that.''

''You ready?''

''Not particularly, but open it anyway.''

Laurel flips the latch and, with only a minor amount of difficulty, opens up the casket.

Just for the record: Sara is not proud of her reaction. She's normally tougher. That's her whole thing. An assassin. She was an assassin. She's seen a lot of carnage. And yet when that casket opens, she gets one look at the body and freezes up like a child. Worse: like an amateur. The flashlight slips from her fingers and she closes her eyes, turning away. ''Oh, nope. Nope. Nu-uh.''

Laurel says nothing.

''Okie dokie, we've seen her,'' Sara says. ''Are we satisfied now? Can we leave her alone?

Laurel still looks curious. ''There is no way the body can still be this well preserved after sixteen years.''

Reluctantly, Sara peeks back over her shoulder, opening one eye. Just in time to see Laurel lean in close - disturbingly close - to the body in the casket. So closes that their noses almost touch. That cannot be hygienic. ''Oh my god, what are you - ''

''Sara,'' Laurel says. ''It's a dummy.''

''It - '' Sara blinks. ''What? No, it...'' She wrinkles her nose up, watching Laurel poke at Edie's young, perfect looking face. ''What?''

''It's a dummy,'' Laurel repeats, voice dull. ''And I think maybe prosthetics? It's parlor tricks,'' she says, right before she rips the face off and stands up, turning around and putting Edie's fake dead face over hers. ''See?''

Sara grimaces. ''Yeah, yeah, I get it.'' She reaches out to push Laurel's hand down. In hindsight... Guess the lack of smell should have tipped her off. Dead bodies stink. This mostly just smells musty. And...rubbery. She clenches her jaw, grabbing her flashlight and maneuvering past Laurel to crouch down, shining the light into the casket. It is a dummy. A high quality and freakishly realistic one. She moves the light down to Not Edie's dainty hands, crossed over her chest, still pristine, nails painted and everything. She reaches out to run her fingers over the hands that aren't really hands. Rubber. It's rubber.

Which means...

Sara inhales, closing her eyes. Oh, Edie. She stands up, muscles aching from all the time spent digging, and turns back to Laurel.

Laurel does not seem nearly as affected by this. Probably because she knew all along that they were never going to find Edie here. ''Rich people spend money on the strangest things,'' she muses, examining the face in her hands, looking gruesomely fascinated. ''Why not just bury an empty casket? Why go to all this trouble? It's not like it was an open casket. Imagine how much this thing cost. I can't even pay my water bill.'' She shakes her head. ''The flair for dramatics must be genetic.''

''This doesn't make any sense,'' Sara says. ''It's not - I don't understand. There was a funeral. They grieved for her. We all did. You can't fake that. Val's still grieving. This isn't...'' She trails off, looking back at the dummy in the casket. There is no way this could have been done without Aunt Valerie and Uncle Danny. At least one of them had to be in on it.

Given this family's penchant for being conniving, Sara's going with Valerie. It would make sense. Valerie was the one who found Edie's body. She's the one who has spent the past sixteen years in a Chardonnay and Klonopin induced haze of despair. Everyone assumed it was grief, but what if it wasn't? What if it was guilt?

Her eyes darken.

Nice, normal family her ass. This family of freaks was never normal. She snatches the stupid fucking face from Laurel's hand, throws it back in the casket, and slams the lid, scrambling out of the grave.

''Hey,'' Laurel's voice calls after her. ''Where are you going?''

''We need to go see Val,'' Sara says, flicking off the flashlight.

''It's the middle of the night,'' Laurel reminds her, pulling herself out of the hole with a surprising amount of ease.

''I don't give a shit,'' Sara snaps. ''She knew, Laurel. She had to have known.''

Laurel doesn't look surprised by that either. Evidently, she has thought of everything. ''I know.''

''She lied,'' Sara seethes. ''All these years, she just sat back and watched everyone grieve. She...'' She's too angry to think straight. ''She let her do this to you. I want answers.''

''So do I,'' Laurel says, far too calm. ''But we're not going to get any from Val tonight. It's Thanksgiving. They're in New Hampshire with Danny's sister and her family.''

Sara presses pause on her ranting to think about that for a second. Right. That's right. Val and her family spend Thanksgiving in New Hampshire these days. Nobody will be home. Their big ass house in Prospect Hill will be empty. That's interesting. ''Even better,'' she says, pulling out her phone.

''What are you doing now?''

''Calling Felicity.''

''Why?''

''We're going to need her help.''

Laurel sounds leery of whatever Sara is cooking up. ''With what?''

''Breaking and entering.''

.

.

.

From a logical standpoint, Sam understands the precautions ARGUS is taking.

Lyla is the new director of the agency, still working on trying to find her footing, trying to do everything by the books. If she wants the respect of her fellow agents, especially the old timers who were passed over for promotion and the higher ups who undoubtedly scrutinize her more than they would a man, then she needs to do this right. According to John, there's already rumblings that a lot of the agents are bothered by the idea of getting involved with ''witchcraft and Winchesters.''

(By the way, super fucked up that the name Winchester is evidently just known by these Area 51 wannabes.)

Especially since two agents have already been taken and presumably killed or brainwashed during the botched arrest and transfer of the Moretti brothers. Lyla needs a successful op, and Sam understands that. He also understands that it looks bad to have a civilian do the interrogation and that it would look even worse if said civilian was murdered during said interrogation.

Nevertheless, as one of those aforementioned Winchesters, he is getting fed up with all the damn red tape.

She's making him wear a wire.

A fucking wire.

Listen, there's a code. Dean has this absurd list of rules. It's very simple. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. No dogs in the car. Don't try to con a con man. Slug anyone who talks shit about Mom. And don't ever wear a fucking wire. There's also some stuff in there about, like, respecting the hustle and practicing safe sex (even though Dean evidently doesn't abide by his own rule there considering the existence of his own oops baby and his sheepish admittance of ''condom can't break if you're not wearin' one'' when Sam questioned how Laurel could have ended up pregnant) and don't take a joint from a guy named Don.

And, no, Sam doesn't know the origin of that last one. He's asked. Repeatedly. For about fifteen years. He also doesn't know the origin of the one about not wearing a wire, but, you know what, in their life it sounds legit.

Now here he is: wearing a wire. With an armed bodyguard. An armed bodyguard who is at least ten years younger than him. That's just laughable. He is quite vexed about these ridiculous distractions. He's doing this because he wants to be able to sit there and have a private conversation with Fake Dean. He doesn't need to be worrying about the safety of some SWAT dude. But Lyla doesn't budge. These are the terms. Take 'em or leave 'em. So, okay, whatever. Guess he'll deal.

The only consolation through the whole song and dance is that while Sam is busy getting all mic'd up, Dean is being his usual irksome self and by the time Sam's all wired up and ready to go, his very human brother has managed to successfully annoy Lyla into moving her people farther away from the warehouse, giving it a wide berth. It's a small comfort, but at least Sam knows he won't be taking anyone with him if Demon Dean tries something particularly catastrophic.

He does feel eerily alone as he approaches the warehouse. He doesn't generally get that nervous anymore. Hunting has been his entire life. Not much surprises him these days. This just feels different. Or, rather, it feels familiar.

Sam can feel it as soon as he steps into the warehouse, door creaking as he enters. There is a static buzzing in his head, a certain humming under his skin, a jolt of electricity in the air. It feels somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. Like something he's felt but a long, long time ago. He thinks it might be something like fear. A kind of grief.

Dean, whoever this Dean is under that beard and those black eyes and all that rage, doesn't look at Sam right away. He has his eyes on the ARGUS agent standing in the corner.

Rooney, Sam thinks his name might be. Not much of a talker, that Rooney. Just stands there, impassive, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, carefully never meeting Dean's eye.

Dean watches him with unsettlingly cold eyes.

Sam moves into the room, waiting impatiently for him to move his attention away from Rooney, who shouldn't even be here. But Dean just keeps staring at the poor guy. It becomes crystal clear, within less than a minute, that he only has one intention here and that is to terrify.

That's just mean. So dramatic. Even on another earth, he is such a fucking ham. Nice to know some things never change.

Sam pulls himself together and strides forward, straight into the Devil's Trap. He ducks behind him, just as Dean starts to look at him, and, without hesitation, he smacks his brother's douchebag doppelganger upside the head. ''Quit being a creep.''

Dean surprises him with a laugh. It's one of those rough, low and slow chuckles and it is unquestionably Dean's laugh. There is virtually no difference. It's such a familiar sound that it sends shivers up Sam's spine. It feels wrong. He wants there to be a difference. The same way there is a difference between Laurel and Dinah. He wants there to be light years between his brother and this thing.

He shakes it off, crouching down to check the bindings keeping the demon in place. The holy water soaked ropes that had been tying his arms to the rickety armrests were moved a couple hours ago when it seemed like he was starting to loosen them up, tying his hands behind his back instead. It should be harder for him to loosen that way, but Sam doesn't like that he won't be able to see the guy's hands when he's sitting in front of him. He tries to ignore the sight of the ugly, angry burns as he tightens the ropes.

''So they sent in the boy scout, huh?''

Sam pauses at the sound of the familiar voice, but only for a second, hurrying to work on the ropes. ''Nobody sent me,'' he says, finally peeking around the chair, allowing Dean to get a good look of him. ''I wanted to talk to you,'' he says. ''I wanted to see you.''

Dean looks at him, really looks at him, and Sam waits for the spark of recognition, but it never comes. He doesn't recognize him. ''Now why would you want to go and do something like that?'' Dean grins up at him, lips pulled back into a ferocious smile. ''Haven't you heard? I'll make a meal out of you, boy.''

His voice sounds different, although not in the way Sam had been expecting. He had been expecting something darker. Rougher, hoarser, maybe even deeper, just something clichéd, you know? Something that reflects the oily black tar insides.

This Dean's voice sounds lighter somehow. Not as gruff. He almost sounds personable. Charming - younger even. It's not what Sam had been expecting, but he hates it anyway. It's unnerving in a way he had not anticipated.

Still, he does his best to remain as unaffected as he can. ''Not really worried about that,'' he comments. ''But thanks for the warning.'' He steps back out of the Devil's Trap and grabs the nearby chair, placing it in front of the trap and sitting down across from him. ''I don't work for ARGUS, by the way,'' he says. ''Just want you to know that.''

The demon almost smiles, but doesn't quite get there. ''Good to know.''

Sam lets a moment go by, watching the other man watch him. He's still waiting for that Eureka! moment. For the other Dean to look at him and realize he is looking at his brother. It never happens. He has no idea why he's so disappointed. ''You don't recognize me, do you?''

''Should I?''

Sam considers all the options he has for a dramatic reveal. He takes out his wallet and plucks one of the only family photos in existence out of the plastic covering. It's the picture of the Winchester family outside the house in Lawrence. Taken the day Sam came home from the hospital. ''This is a picture of my family,'' he says. ''My mom, my dad, my brother, and me.'' He leans flips the picture around so Dean can see it and leans in. ''That's me,'' he taps the baby in Mom's arms. ''Right here.''

That's when he sees the recognition. It hits like a bullet. It dawns on Dean, this lonely, empty version of him, just who he is looking at, and it's like something falls away. He softens, everything from his eyes to his body language to his tightened mouth splitting open to reveal a real life person under all that darkness. He looks like he wants to smile. ''Sam,'' he gets out. ''You're - '' He stops. He looks at Sam. Just...looks at him. He looks awed in a way that's unusual for a demon. ''Sammy.''

It's strange to hear him say that. He says it so cautiously, nearly stumbling over it. He says it like he hasn't said it in a long time and never thought he would be able to say it again.

Sam has to swallow. He has only heard his brother's voice say his name like that once before. In Cold Oak. After.

He tries for a polite nod and a thin smile. ''Hi, Dean.''

Demon Dean just keeps staring.

Sam finds himself, unexpectedly, thinking of Dinah. This is the first real glimpse they've gotten of the actual Earth-2 Dean Winchester, the man before the monster, and all Sam is wondering is if she's seeing this on the monitor. If she recognizes him. If she misses him. Laurel would miss him.

''Where I'm from,'' the other Dean says, but then stops again.

''I know,'' Sam says. ''I died.''

''A long time ago,'' Dean says shortly. The momentary flash of whoever he was before seems to flicker, the openness in his eyes slamming shut. ''Didn't even have a chance to grow up.''

''Well,'' Sam keeps his voice even and his posture relaxed. ''This is me all grown up.''

''Taller than I expected.''

Sam allows a smile. ''It's been said.''

''You need a haircut.''

''You need a shave.''

Dean grins at him, a little more manipulative than necessary but still sincere in some way. Sam's not sure which way is best, but he opts to go the heartfelt route. Historically, he has the most success when he does the soft, sensitive routine. ''I'm sorry you lost your Sam,'' he says. It doesn't get him anywhere, good or bad, so he takes it further. ''I'm sorry about your daughter, too.''

Dean tenses, but only for a second. ''Everybody's sorry.'' He takes his eyes off Sam for a minute and doesn't look directly at the camera, but looks close enough. ''Is she here?''

''Your daughter?''

''Dinah. She must be here. Running her mouth again. As usual.'' He shakes his head and rolls his eyes as if he's some long suffering partner. He smiles then, a cold smile, and he looks right at Sam, but he's not looking at Sam. ''I'm going to cut out her tongue.''

Sam does not give him a reaction, just a small, exasperated sigh. ''I'm not here to talk about Dinah.''

''What are you here to talk about?''

''You.''

''And why is that? What is it you want from me? Hm?'' Dean watches Sam's expression closely. ''What can I give you? Is it the why you're looking for? Or the how?''

''Both.''

''Or maybe you're just here to see how much I know about Edith.''

Sam stubbornly sticks to remaining calm and empathetic. ''Whatever you want to say, you can say it,'' he states. ''I have no expectations. I'll be here to listen regardless. Like I said, I'm not with ARGUS. This isn't an interrogation.'' He puts on his best puppy dog eyes. ''I just wanted to see you.'' He leans forward, as close to him as he can get. ''There is no justice system for demons,'' he says. ''Once they take you away, you'll be gone. I won't be able to get to you. This was my one chance. I had to take it. You understand.''

Dean doesn't look like he knows what to do with that declaration. ''You have a brother,'' he says, mildly suspicious. ''You don't need me.''

''Doesn't matter,'' Sam says simply. ''You're still you. I had to try for you.'' He leans back in his chair, watching Dean take that in. It's hard to grasp what's going on in there. This demon is frustratingly indecipherable. The thing about demons is that try as they might, they're too arrogant to be that mysterious. This one is way too good at being a question mark. ''It must have been hard,'' he powers on, keeping his voice gentle and somber. ''Losing both your daughter and ex-wife. I can't even imagine.'' He gets nothing. ''It sounds like you've had a lot of loss in your life.''

''And you haven't?'' Dean's voice is smooth. ''Do you have kids?''

''No,'' Sam says. ''None of my own.''

''But you have a niece,'' Dean says, something sparking in his eyes. ''Her name is Mary, right?''

Sam refuses to have a reaction to that, working hard to keep his breathing even and his heart rate level. Somehow, he doubts that Dean, his Dean, is reacting quite so calmly to that. He can practically feel his brother's blood pressure rising from all the way in here. Earth-2 Dean's mention of Mary doesn't feel like a threat. Earth-1 Dean, Mary's father, will not see it that way.

Still, Sam does his best to remain levelheaded. ''Did you learn that from Edie?'' He questions. ''Or have you been keeping tabs on your doppelganger?''

Demon Dean doesn't answer right away. He seems to be weighing his options. ''She looks a bit like my Emma,'' he says. ''Your little Mary. I see my girl in her.''

''That must have been jarring for you,'' Sam says patiently. ''To come here and find out your doppelganger has a child with the doppelganger of the woman you're hell bent on killing.'' He lets the demon sit on that for a minute. ''Of course she wasn't always your enemy, was she?'' He smiles, just a little. ''Dinah was your friend once. You were close. You wouldn't tell your life story to just anyone.'' He probably shouldn't ask the next question. It's mostly unnecessary. But - I dunno. Fuck it. He's curious. ''Were you in love with her?''

Much to his surprise, Dean has a reaction to that. A relatively human one. It's just for a split second, the tiniest flicker in his eyes, and then it's gone. ''I thought you weren't here to talk about her.''

Sam gives in quickly. He's not interested in making Dinah even more of a target than she already is. ''You're right. I'm not. Let's talk about Emma instead.''

Dean doesn't take the bait. ''Why?''

Sam does his best to appear casual. ''In my experience, parents really like to talk about their kids,'' he says. ''When my niece first started walking, my brother called and rambled on for thirty minutes. I can't remember the last time he'd ever talked that long about one subject so passionately.'' ...Except maybe Star Trek. ''On her first day of preschool, he sent me over a dozen pictures. A dozen.''

The other Dean does not look particularly moved by that. He looks at Sam for a minute, and then says, deadpan, ''I missed my kid's first day of school. I was deployed.''

Sam pounces on the tiny slice of personal information. ''I heard you were a Marine,'' he says. Then quickly adds on a sincere, ''Thank you for your service.''

It certainly provokes a reaction. ''Don't thank me,'' Dean scowls. ''I didn't do shit for you. None of us did. We were pawns. Patriotism is a cancer.''

Uh...

...'Kay?

Out of all the potential triggers laid out in front of him, Sam had not been expecting that one to garner the loudest shot. He slides his gaze over to Rooney. The guard is still staring straight ahead, mostly blank, but even he's got one eyebrow ever so slightly raised.

Dean doesn't even notice. ''Let me ask you something.'' He tries to lean forward, straining against the bonds for the first time. ''Do they act like serving your country means something here?''

Sam blinks a few times. Then a few more times. ''Um, yes?''

''Well, it fucking doesn't,'' Dean snarls. ''You want to know what it means to serve your country? Absolutely fucking nothing.'' It's the most emotion he's shown all day. He has rapidly gone from eerily chill to agitated, positively seething at the mere mention of his military career. ''You enlist, bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready and willing, too young and dumb to know better, because they tout heroism like it's a thing that exists,'' he spits out. ''They dangle the idea of it in front of you like a carrot and you pounce. You torture yourself in basic, degraded and humiliated day in and day out, but you make it through because you're young and hungry and because you tell yourself that what you're doing means something. That you're doing something good, something selfless. You're going to be a hero. Then they...''

There's a small pause. A nervous swallow.

''They ship you off to a warzone. Throw you to the wolves. Toss you into a place where you learn what it's really like to fear death. You spend most of your time sweating and itching and bleeding, dehydrated and bruised. You follow orders, you give orders, whatever, it's all the same, and you watch your friends die, and you watch your so-called enemies die over and over until it's hard to tell the difference because carnage is carnage is carnage. You lose yourself, leave everything back there in the dust and the sand, you tear yourself up for your country. But it's okay.'' He lets out a choked, breathless, bitter laugh. ''It's all okay. Because you tell yourself that what you're doing is important. It's an ugly job, but someone's gotta do it, right? You tell yourself this so many times that eventually you start to believe it. Then you come home.''

He stops again, and Sam thinks, for a brief second, that he's trying to make sure he still has a captive audience, but, truthfully, he doesn't even appear to be looking at Sam anymore. He's somewhere else.

''You come home broken and hollowed out. This thing that used to be a person. And they hand you your papers - and maybe a medal, if you've lost enough of yourself - and say ''thank you for your service'' and that's it.'' He still sounds shell shocked by that. ''There's no help, there's no way out of the pit they've buried you in, there's no way back to the person you were before. You just have to live with yourself. And that's when you realize the truth. Know what that is?''

It takes Sam a minute to find his voice. ''What?''

''This was never your country.'' It's a positively scathing statement, full of bitter resentment and unfathomable pain. ''It was only ever theirs. The rich and the powerful, those ghoulish old folks high up on the food chain, profiting off war, sacrificing men, women, and children so they can keep their fuck you mansions and their private jets. There is no such thing as heroes. Just dumbass kids molded into expendable weapons of mass destruction. That's all patriotism is. It's a lie created to keep the blood flowing and the money in their pockets. Soldiers are just collateral damage.'' He looks at Sam, looks right at him, clenching his jaw. ''Tell me something,'' he says. ''Is it any different here?''

Sam finds himself unable to answer the question in any other way. ''...No.''

''I didn't think so.''

All Sam can think is that he's never heard his Dean sound like that before. His Dean has been through his fair share of trauma over the course of his life. He's been beaten and broken and scraped empty. He has had the thousand yard stare, he has fought his own wars, private and otherwise, and yet he has never heard him sound this haunted. Not even when he talked about Hell. It's depressing. It would have been better if this dude had just been some douchebag demon. A demon, even an incredibly powerful one with his brother's face, would have been easier to deal with than a traumatized veteran.

''I'm - I'm sorry you went through that,'' Sam is eventually able to come up with, internally cringing at the pathetic platitude. Even to his own ears, the apology sounds weak and condescending. ''Sounds like an understandable reason to be angry at the world.''

''I wasn't angry at the world,'' Dean disagrees. ''And that had nothing to do with this.'' He has somehow managed to rein in his pain, has shifted back to that spooky calm, even if there is a bit of an edge to it now, tenuous at best. ''I know you're fishing,'' he says. ''Come on. Just ask me the question directly.''

Sam waits a minute, mostly because he doesn't want to just jump when this demon tells him to jump. ''Why did you choose this?''

Dean looks at him for a moment, pensive, as if trying to decide whether to tell the truth or fuck around some more. ''I didn't know I would end up this way.'' It actually does sound like the truth.

''You didn't?'

''I didn't realize the option was even on the table,'' Dean says. ''I accepted the Mark of Cain, I'll admit to that. I went looking for it. I wanted it. But I didn't consent to being a demon. No one told me that would happen.''

...Also depressing.

''Why did you accept the Mark?''

''I needed to be stronger,'' Dean says, quieter. There is something in his voice, some trace of something that Sam can't quite put his finger on. ''I didn't realize there was a catch.''

Sam smiles wryly. ''There always is.''

''If you die with the Mark, you come back as a demon.''

''So this was an accident?''

''I've come to terms with it.''

''I can see that,'' Sam deadpans. ''You died,'' he says after a minute. ''How did you die?''

Dean laughs. There's something dark about it. ''Why don't you ask Dinah that question?''

Sam doesn't bite. ''I'm asking you.'' When he gets, predictably, no answer, he leans forward again and attempts to be open and disarming. ''You said you needed to be stronger. Why?''

Dean looks at him, but doesn't answer.

Sam gives it a minute, then another, and then he gives up. He leans back, trying not to show his exasperation. ''Fine. Let's press pause on the questions for a minute.'' He checks his watch. ''How about I tell you my theory?''

''About me?'' The slow hungry smile on the demon's face is not nearly as intimidating as he wants it to be. ''Sure, why not?''

''You followed Dinah here,'' Sam states. ''I don't know how you knew where she was, I don't know how you got here, but you found her and you found a way to get to her. Of course you did. She's your target. Demons always find a target. I could ask you why you chose her, but to be honest, I don't care. You have your reasons. I'm certain they're ridiculous and petty, but you're a demon. That's part of your wiring. Maybe you came back to life, she freaked, and you took that personally. Maybe you just enjoy the way her terror makes you feel. Or maybe she's not scared enough and that irks you. Hell, maybe she's all there is and it's just convenience. Or, hey, maybe you just loved her too much.''

Dean's eyes, which had moved over to Rooney, slip back to Sam, but, still, he keeps quiet.

''Maybe you loved her very much,'' Sam goes on, ''and when you turned and all that goodness inside of you was corrupted, your love for her turned into hate. It's not all that farfetched. Maybe that's what happened. I bet it's something like that, huh?''

Nothing.

Sam shakes off the frustrating indifference and keeps going. ''I know why you target vigilantes.''

''Do you now?''

''Pretty easy to figure out,'' Sam retorts. ''I think they trigger you.''

Dean's douchy little grin dims.

''You see all these kids running around, wanting to be like Flash or Black Canary, trying to save the world - a world that can't be saved, in your opinion - and all you can see are those young bloods that enlisted with you and died bloody in a war none of them should've been fighting.''

The warped, lonely version of Dean does not look so fucking amused anymore.

''That Mark,'' Sam gestures to Dean's arm, ''has turned all your grief and all your rage into violence. It made you a monster. And I think you know that,'' he accuses gently. ''You were a good man before. You know exactly what you are now. You know you're on the wrong side. You just don't care.'' He tries to look as disgusted and intimidating as possible, but he has a feeling no amount of posturing is going to ruffle Dean's feathers. ''You were a doctor,'' he says. ''A soldier. You saved lives. Now you're nothing but a walking corpse. A useless selfish waste.''

Dean looks at him blankly, as if trying to decide if it's worth grumbling about that. ''How could you possibly know what kind of man I was? You don't even know me.''

''I know you,'' Sam's response is instant and easy. ''You're my brother.''

Dean huffs in hollow amusement. He opens his mouth to make a snappy retort, but, unexpectedly, he doesn't get it out. Can't say whatever it was he wanted to say. He looks away from Sam's prying eyes.

Sam takes it as a victory. ''You may have come here for Dinah,'' he says, ''but I know that's not why you stayed. You didn't stay for the endless line of targets either. All that is just window dressing.'' He tries to catch Dean's eye, tries to get him to look back at him, but Dean's focus has moved, rather worryingly, to Rooney. Sam doesn't care for that, so he brings out the big guns. ''This is about Emma, isn't it?''

It works to bring Dean's attention back to him, but doesn't get him talking.

''That's why you're working with Edie,'' Sam says. ''It's always been about Emma. Edie told you she could bring her back, didn't she?''

Dean says nothing, but the look in his eyes is answer enough.

''Come on, man. You are not that foolish. You had to have known she was conning you.'' Still nothing. ''If this is about Laurel, that wasn't - '' Sam breaks off, clenching his teeth in frustration. ''The spell that brought her back was meant to bring back a live body,'' he explains. ''That's all. Not a real person. No soul. Just a vacant meat shell. Bringing her back whole was a stupid mistake that never should have happened and because of that mistake, Laurel is sick. She's dying. We don't even know if it's possible to save her. I know you don't want that to happen to your daughter. Edie was never going to bring her back. She doesn't have that kind of power.''

Dean still looks calm. ''You're right,'' he readily admits this. ''She doesn't. Someone else does.''

''Someone...'' Oh, fuck. ''Hazel.'' For the love of -

Actually, that sounds like the kind of selfish and foolish desperation a Winchester in mourning would display. Especially, it must be said, this particular Winchester. The sun rises in the east, sets in the sets, you don't take a joint from a guy named Don, and Dean Winchester does not handle loss well. The irrefutable facts of life.

This Dean, for all of that spooky calm and dark mischief, is not that different. He looks at Sam for a minute, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, as if trying to determine Sam's worthiness. ''How much do you know about Hazel Aelard and the family she came from? I'm assuming you know about the curse, but what else do you know?''

''I know she was a witch.''

''She was,'' Dean agrees patiently. ''She was an incredibly powerful witch from an incredibly powerful family. She was greedy - no matter how much power she had, it was never enough, she wanted more, and that was her downfall, but the witchcraft in her blood was strong. It was pure. She came from a long line of natural born witches. In fact,'' he smiles, a real terrifying smile, eyes glimmering in a way that makes Sam's stomach twist. ''I believe you knew one of them. Her grandmother - or at least what remained of her. A legend in her own right, and one manipulative bitch. Her name was Rose - although I think you knew her by a different name.'' He cocks his head to the side, feigning innocent curiosity. ''What was it again?''

That is the moment when Sam realizes that at no point during this conversation has he truly been in control. And also why Dinah reminds him so much of someone he used to know.

''...Ruby,'' he says the name slowly, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, the way it has for years. The memory is a sour one. He still stumbles over it, still mortified and angry and full of guilt, even all these years later. ''Her name was Ruby.''

Dean, who is in control, who has always been in control, who has successfully steered this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go, looks obnoxiously amused. ''That's right,'' he says. ''Ruby.'' He catches Sam's guilty eye. ''Boy, I heard she did a number on you.'' He chuckles for a second, but when he sees the look on Sam's face, he softens. ''Don't feel bad,'' he says. ''The women in that family are tricky. Ask me how I know.''

''You knew who I was,'' Sam spits out. ''You knew as soon as I walked in here.''

Dean doesn't deny this. ''But I had you going for a minute there, didn't I?'' He looks so proud of himself. ''Did you honestly think I wouldn't do my research? I've been here since June. I may be from another earth, but I do know how to use Google.'' He looks at Sam, fond. ''It really is good to see you, Sammy.''

''Don't call me that.''

''Did you know,'' Dean begins, casual, ''that you're famous? Especially in the underground. Hunters, monsters, witches, fucking fairies - Everyone's heard of you two. It's funny. You two used to hunt urban legends together. Now you are the urban legend. Half the people don't know whether you're real or rumor. All those things you boys have done...'' He trails off, giving Sam an appraising look. ''You've left marks. Especially you. You've had quite the life, haven't you, boy king?''

Sam stiffens. ''Definitely don't call me that.''

''I would've followed you,'' Dean says, like he's offering him a gift. ''Just so you know. In another life, I guess.''

Sam tries to muster up his most stoic look.

''Just out of curiosity,'' Dean shifts gears. ''What are the Men in Black going to be doing with me? Do you know? Am I about to be dissected? Locked in an iron box and tossed in the sea?'' He arches an eyebrow when he gets no answer. ''They're going to experiment on me.''

''It - '' Sam looks at the camera. ''It's a government black ops group. Yes, they're probably going to experiment on you.''

''Hmm.'' Dean nods. ''Do you at least know where they're taking me?''

''Louisiana.''

''Oh.'' Dean, weirdly, perks up at that. ''Cool. I love Louisiana. My ex-wife was from Louisiana. You ever had crawfish?''

''What makes you so sure Hazel can even bring Emma back?'' Sam cuts in, leaning back in his chair. ''Resurrection is dark, dark magic,'' he warns. ''An extreme amount of power. How can you be sure she has that? All you know about her are these - these stories. How can you be sure she's not just a story?''

Dean remains resolute. ''She's not.''

''Why? Because Edie says so?'' Sam shakes his head, frustration mounting. ''Look, I get that you've been through a lot. I understand you're in pain, but - ''

''You understand?'' Something in Dean's voice changes at that. For the first time, there's a blip. ''You understand?'' Honest to god rage flickers in his eyes. It's nothing like the steely thunderous resentment from when he was going off on his anarchist monologue. This is different, something primal and animalistic.

It's not something Sam can ever touch, but it sure as hell makes him jump in his seat.

''She was my life,'' Dean says, practically growling out the words. ''She was my entire life. Everything I did was for her. And she was...'' He seems to struggle with his next words. ''She was incredible.'' That might be the realest thing he's said. ''You can't - '' He stops again. ''Being a Marine took just about everything from me. It cost me my family, my friends, my marriage. There are a thousand pieces of me out there that I can't get back. But Emma...'' He looks mystified. ''She knew. She knew what I had done. She knew who I was. She always knew who I was.'' He looks wounded. ''She loved me anyway.''

There is a weight to that statement that Sam - actually, no, he can understand that one. After you've done certain things, it's hard to believe anyone could ever love you. Makes it utterly baffling when someone does.

''Even when she got older, when she was able to understand the things I had done,'' Dean continues. ''She never held it against me. She never judged or condemned. She just loved me. And I loved her. Completely. She was my girl. I was there the day she was born. I was the first person to hold her. Then I blinked and she was - she was in my morgue.'' He looks, for a moment, like anyone else. Any other lost, grieving parent. He looks human. ''I wasn't even there when she died,'' he admits, choked. ''I should've been there. I was there when she came into the world. I should've been there when she...'' He looks sincerely agonized by this. ''My daughter died alone. She was probably scared. I know she was scared.''

Sam knows he shouldn't trust anything Dean says. He's a demon. Emotional manipulation is part of the job description. But he looks so haunted. He looks physically ill at the mere thought of the way his child might have suffered in her final moments. It doesn't seem fake, and Sam wants to badly to believe in it.

''I buried my child,'' Dean says soberly. ''My baby girl. She was seventeen years old.'' He looks at Sam, eyes hard and dead looking. ''You have no idea what I've been through. You couldn't possibly understand.''

Sam can't argue with that. He wouldn't dare to. ''You're right,'' he agrees. ''I don't.'' He hopes he never does. No one should have to go through that kind of pain. And Dean is in pain. Sam is sure of that. He meant what he said when he said he knew his brother.

On any earth, on every earth, he knows Dean. All he's ever known is his brother, the light and the dark, the center of him. Demon or not, Dean Winchester, any version of him, will never be unknowable to him. There is nothing insincere about the grief in this Dean's eyes. He's a destroyed man. Lost the same way Dad was. The way Sam worried his Dean would be after April 6th. There's no way to save him from that. There's no bringing him back from this.

Sam, stubborn as a mule, a trait passed down from both sides of his family, tries anyway. ''Dean, listen to me,'' he leans forward in his chair one last time. ''They're going to pull me out of here soon. If you give me something useful, I might be able to help you. Convince ARGUS to keep you here in Washington State. No experimenting. No dissecting. Give me information about Edie. Where she lives, how many people she has in her army, just something to - ''

''Why?'' Dean's expression closes off. ''So I can stay in Star City?'' He sounds extremely uninterested in that. ''No thanks. I hate the rain. I'll take my chances in Louisiana. Like I said,'' he offers one final smirk. ''Crawfish.''

Sam tries not to let his disappointment show. He's not sure why he's so disappointed. It's not like he ever had a real chance at getting through to him. The guy's a demon. He was never going to listen to reason. Still, despite the knowledge of how fruitless this pursuit is, Sam shakes his head and puts on his best not angry, just disappointed look. He rises to his feet, or starts to anyway, and that is when Dean decides to burn one last bridge.

''I'm sorry about your girlfriend, by the way,'' he says, voice light, inappropriately casual.

Sam freezes.

''Jess, right?'' Dean clicks his tongue in mock sympathy. ''That's a tough break.''

Sam looks back at Dean. ''How do you - ''

''I told you,'' Dean grins. ''I did my research. I know everything about you, Sammy. I know about your parents, your girlfriend, your brother. I know about Stanford, and your wackadoodle destiny, and Lucifer.'' He pauses there, dropping the smile, peering up at Sam with this look in his eyes. Like the cat's got the mouse. ''I know about Brady. What he did to her.''

Sam goes cold.

''You ever think about what it must have been like for her?'' Dean's voice is level and calm, but there is a terribly chaotic glint in his eyes. ''He was your friend. He was the one who gave her to you. She trusted him. She let him in. And what he did to her - ''

''Shut up.''

''She must have felt so betrayed in those last moments. I bet she was thinking about you. Wondering where you were, why you left, why you weren't there to protect her, save her.''

''I'm warning you,'' Sam's voice is like steel. ''You need to stop talking right now.''

Dean does not stop talking. ''I spent a long time combing through your life,'' he says. ''That whole biblical apocalypse thing? That cage match between Michael and Lucifer? That was something, huh? But,'' he lifts one shoulder in a sort of half shrug. ''I was more interested in Azazel and what he did to you.''

Nope. Fuck this. ''Okay, that's - '' Sam tries to shake it off, turning on his heel to storm off. ''I'm leaving. Enjoy Louisiana.''

''See, I never knew his name.''

...Shit.

Sam can't help but turn around. ''What?''

Dean's reply is quick and casual. ''He never told me his name.'' He says it like it's nothing. ''I was nine when I first met him,'' he goes on, still disturbingly flippant. ''You were dead. Mom and Dad fought and they drank and they grieved. I was just a ghost to them. I rattled the chains. I wasn't you. I got in the way of their dysfunction. It was easier to ignore me.'' He says it all so plainly. ''I had no one,'' he says. ''And he knew that.'' He doesn't seem bothered by this. He resents whatever happened to him in the Marines, he speaks of Dinah with obsessive psychopathic hate, he still loves his dead daughter fiercely, and maybe he even feels something for his dead brother, but childhood neglect? Not even a blip on the radar. ''He was possessing the janitor at my school,'' he continues. ''I didn't know that then. I just knew that he was kind to me and he seemed to understand how I was feeling when no one else did. He put words to what I couldn't. And he brought me things. Toys, candy, soda.'' He pauses there and there's a tiny flicker, a thinning of the lips, but it's gone before it can be dissected. ''I was being groomed,'' he says. ''I get that now. Back then, I just thought he was my friend. My only friend. Then he left.''

Sam is momentarily thrown off course. ''He...left?''

''He left.''

''Just like that?''

''Just like that,'' Dean nods. ''One day he was there and the next day he was gone.''

Sam is not able to compartmentalize this the way Demon Dean is. Azazel, the memory of him, the lingering smell of smoke that follows the Winchesters around, still makes him feel physically ill on a good day. This is even creepier. It's not difficult to imagine Azazel and his sickly yellow eyes manipulating and grooming a traumatized child, but the thought makes his pulse sky rocket in anger. Even in a world where the Winchester family all lived a supposedly normal life, Azazel still wormed his way in. Even in a world where both John and Mary were alive, they still did jack shit to protect their boys. Guess some things never change. Useless on every earth.

''I never told anyone about him,'' Dean says. ''Not my parents, not even my wife or Dinah. I was so pissed at him as a kid. I thought he abandoned me. Then, as I got older, I started thinking I was lucky he had disappeared before he could do anything. I didn't realize he had already done what he wanted to me.''

There is a sinking feeling in Sam's chest at that. ''What he - ''

''There was no apocalypse on my earth,'' Dean says. ''No plan, no prophecy or destiny. Or,'' he allows, ''if there was, it was taken off the table when you died. But Azazel was still Azazel. He still wanted his power, his army, his special kids. And when you died... Well. I guess he had to call in the runner up.''

Not to be dramatic but - oh, fuck.

''He fed you his blood.''

The look in Dean's eyes and the smile on his face can only be described as hungry. It's chilling and looks wrong on that particular face, Dean's face, and it reminds Sam way too much of Azazel and Cold Oak and Jess burning on the ceiling and Dad's tireless crusade. ''You know, it's funny,'' Dean drawls out. ''I didn't develop any spooky powers the way you did. Sure, occasionally strange things happened, but strange things happen to everyone - and it was nothing like what you went through.'' He pauses, but only for a split second, sliding his eyes over to Rooney so quickly Sam's not sure it actually happens. Rooney, however, is unnerved. His hand twitches, finger moving to the trigger of his useless gun. Sam puts a hand out, inching in between Dean and Rooney. Dean looks amused, but continues with his story like nothing at all happened. ''In fact, nothing really happened to me at all,'' he says. ''At least not until Emma died.'' He looks at Sam closely. ''It started with headaches, right?''

Sam says nothing.

''I figured it was the grief at first,'' Dean says. ''Then stranger things started happening and I thought - '' he breaks off in a laugh. ''I thought I was losing my mind. I knew something was happening to Dinah, something unexplainable, but that wasn't me. I was just a normal person so I went to the local VA office. I started seeing this - this counselor. For my grief. He was a strange man. There was something off about him. He seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on why.''

Sam grits his teeth. ''Azazel.''

Dean's creepy smile is tighter this time, there's less enjoyment in it. ''Got it in one.'' He tries for a smirk, but can't pull it off. ''Long story short: He was the one who led me to Cain and the Mark.''

''He - Why?''

''He wanted the First Blade.''

''The what?''

''Big scary knife,'' Dean brushes it off. ''It's a thing.''

''Did he get it?''

''He's dead.'' For a second there, he almost looks as surprised as Sam, as if he had not been planning on blurting it out quite like that. He moves past it. ''Azazel has a nasty habit of underestimating the people he tries to manipulate,'' he says. ''The First Blade is mine. It belongs to me. His sticky fingers couldn't change that.''

Well, now they're getting somewhere.

Sam takes a step away from Rooney. ''Dean,'' he says, but the idiot isn't finished monologuing just yet.

''Then again he wasn't a total chump,'' he says. ''After all, he was the one who gave me the first taste of power. He gave me that blood. He helped me learn my way around the Mark. Steered me around the curves. He changed my life.'' He lowers his gaze to the ground, eyeballing the Devil's Trap. It's a small thing, a tiny movement, but that's when Sam realizes what's about to happen. ''Azazel was a yellow eyed beast I had to put down,'' Dean says as a low rumbling starts from somewhere underneath their feet. ''But he did teach me everything I know.'' He raises his head, eyes endless black, and Sam watches in horror as the rumbling turns to shaking and the concrete begins to creak, the earth shifting and moving.

The already unstable walls of the warehouse creak and grind, the support beams groaning, sending dust and bits of drywall and plaster raining down on them. The crack in the concrete moves along quickly, too quickly, and before Sam has a chance to even formulate some half-baked plan, the Devil's Trap has been broken.

Dean grins, but, curiously, doesn't move. Instead, he turns his head to Rooney and says, softly, ''Do you remember what we talked about?''

Rooney says, with no emotions whatsoever, ''Yes, sir.''

Goddamn it.

In the span of maybe five seconds, Rooney points his gun at the camera and fires. Sam whirls around and barely gets the chance to attempt to disarm the man before Rooney whips him in the face with the butt of the gun. He hits hard enough to send Sam sprawling to the cold ground, but not hard enough to knock him out. Dazed, momentarily unable to move his limbs, frozen in shock and pain, he can't help but wonder how the hell Dean managed to mind control Rooney through a Devil's Trap.

It's not important right now because Rooney's calmly untying the ropes holding the demon in place and also because this entire warehouse is getting ready to collapse in on itself, but it's certainly something to ponder later. What happens next happens even faster. Dean stands up, shaking off the ropes, stretching leisurely. ''Thanks a bunch, kid,'' he says to Rooney, casual and disarming. ''Now,'' he smiles. ''You know what to do.''

Rooney's movements are, easy, and well practiced as he trades his automatic for a Glock and points it at Sam.

Sam, annoyed at the inconvenience, head still aching from the blow, huffs in irritation, but wisely chooses to stay still. He knows that Rooney is a victim here, that he has no choice here, mind warped and twisted by Dean, but he is really starting to get on Sam's nerves here.

''Thank you, Rooney,'' Dean says, voice still soft and cloying. ''You've been such a big help.'' He reaches up to squeeze the back of Rooney's neck, almost paternal in some uneasy way.

It's such a darkly manipulative thing to do and Rooney looks torn, caught somewhere between terrified and pleased that it makes Sam want to puke. Azazel sure did teach Dean everything, didn't he?

''You and Miles both,'' Dean says, toothy smile widening. ''You're such good boys.''

That's when the shots ring out from outside the warehouse. A lot of them. Undoubtedly from an automatic weapon. Sam tries not to flinch or react, tries to keep his attention squarely on this Dean, but his Dean is out there with a mind controlled ARGUS agent. So is Cas. And Charlie. Oh god, and the puppy. The puppy. If someone guns down a puppy, he's going to have to use lethal force, right? You can't just go around killing puppies. Who does that?

''Just so we're all on the same page,'' Dean says, still calm but in a tone of voice that makes it known that he is not just talking to Sam, but everyone listening in. ''If anyone in here - or out there - tries to be a hero, a lot of blood is going to be spilled.'' He licks his lips, eyeing the grimy windows. ''I don't feel that's necessary.'' He removes his hand from the back of the boy's neck and for a second the poor kid falters. ''Do you?''

Sam clenches his teeth and grudgingly says, ''No.''

''Good choice,'' Dean nods. ''I hope the others follow your lead.''

Considering there has been no SWAT team-esque convergence, that seems likely. That's nice for him. Lyla wants to save his life. Amanda Waller probably would have sacrificed him and Rooney without a second thought. Sam takes his eyes off Dean for a minute to look at Rooney. He's still got the gun aimed at Sam and he's serious about taking his orders, but there's a conflicted look in his eyes, like he realizes what he's doing is wrong but doesn't know how to stop.

Earlier, when Dean's hands were moved behind his back and the ropes were tightened, two ARGUS agents were the ones who stepped inside the Devil's Trap to do it. Agent Rooney and Agent Miles. That must have been when they were compromised. Dean was weakened because of the holy water and barely conscious, there were several other people around - and a camera - and nobody noticed anything. Except that...

He was mumbling.

Miles himself had reported to Lyla that the prisoner had been mumbling under his breath.

She asked him, ''What was he saying?''

Miles just said, ''I don't know. I couldn't make it out. It sounded like nonsense to me.''

It wasn't nonsense.

Dean has been in control this whole time. What a tool.

''So this is your exit plan?'' Sam looks up at the demon wearing that familiar face. ''Get these two kids to make a path for you and just walk on out?'' He rolls his eyes. ''This is just obnoxious, Dean. You really think that's going to work? There's an army of ARGUS agents out there and now you've got two of their own under your control. You think they're not going to take you down?''

Dean frowns. ''Do you think they can?''

''You're one man.''

''Except that's the thing, isn't it?'' Dean's voice is alarmingly casual. ''I'm not just a man. Not anymore. You have no idea what I'm capable of.'' He grins at Sam, gaze lingering on him for a minute before he turns back to the young agent. ''Rooney,'' he says, remorseless and with no hesitation, ''time to go, kiddo.''

Sam assumes that means it's time for them to make their getaway. He realizes perhaps just a second too late that it means something much worse. Rooney's eyes widen at the words, a terrified look passing through his eyes, and that's when Sam gets it.

Rooney, horrified and unable to stop himself, turns the gun on himself.

Sam just reacts. His body moves before his brain can catch up, surging forward to tackle Rooney, trying to get ahold of the gun. Strangely, Dean lets it happen. He does nothing to stop Sam or use the scuffle to escape. Just steps back and watches. Sam scrambles to wrestle the gun out of Rooney's hand. He manages to knock the gun to the ground, but he can't quite get to it before Rooney. The kid snatches up the gun and turns it on Sam, forcing him to freeze, and there's nothing he can do from there.

Rooney looks right at Sam, shaky and disoriented, but unable to stop himself. ''Please tell my Mom I'm sorry.''

''No!'' Sam tries to lunge for him, but he's not fast enough.

Rooney fires one shot and crumples to the ground, and it's like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

In the tense silence left behind, Sam turns his gaze to Dean, rage boiling just under the surface. ''You could have just let him go! He was under your control! He would have done anything! You didn't have to - ''

''No, I didn't, but I did.'' Dean kicks the gun away from the lifeless body on the ground, crouching down to check for a pulse. ''I'm trying to make a point here, Sammy.'' He stands straight, looking at Sam. ''I'm walking out of here and you're not going to follow me. If you try, you will regret it.'' But he still doesn't leave. He circles Sam, keeping a close eye on him and the door as if anticipating a breach. ''Now,'' he says, voice smooth and way too close. ''The only question left is what are we going to do with you?'' He stops moving, somewhere off to the side, close, too close, and leans in. ''You could come with me,'' he suggests, voice heavy and thick with all the things he isn't saying.

Sam is struggling to keep his composure, clenching his fists, doing his best not to let Dean look him in the eye, but he can't help but cough out an incredulous laugh at the proposition. ''The hell would I do that for?''

''Imagine all the things we could do together.''

''Go screw yourself.''

Dean just laughs, light and airy. ''That's a shame,'' he throws out, moving to stand in front of Sam. ''We'd make a good team, don't you think? We are brothers, after all.''

''You are not my brother.''

Something flashes in Dean's eyes, a flicker of something that looks like it might, if he were human, be hurt. There's no time to dwell on it or decode the momentary lapse because the silence is broken by the sound of breaking glass. An arrow slices through the air from the direction of the back side door of the warehouse and in one easy, controlled movement, Dean snaps to the side and catches it, one handed, before it can it its target.

He looks merely inconvenienced at first, brows knitting together as he looks down at the arrow curiously, but then his expression opens up into one of what can only be described as abject horror.

Sam doesn't even have a chance to ask what's going on before the arrow is tossed and his brother's asshole evil twin is pouncing. His first thought, as he's being manhandled, is: Rude. His second thought, when he catches a momentary look at the arrow on the ground, is: Wait, why is that arrow blinking?

Unfortunately, that's all he has time to think before he is being half shoved, half thrown across the room like a fucking rag doll. He hits the ground hard and the next thing he knows, there is a deafening, fiery explosion erupting within the already unstable warehouse. There's a wave of heat, stinging, burning pain on one side of his face, and then his head cracks against something hard and all he knows is darkness.

.

.

.

Tacoma, Washington

Breaking into Aunt Valerie's house turns out to be even easier than expected. A little help from a half asleep but still sharp as a tack Felicity with the streetlights, alarm system, and the doorbell camera, and they're in.

Truthfully, it's embarrassing how easy it is. Maybe she should leave a note or something. Your security system sucks. I stole the coffee cake you had in your freezer. Xoxo, Sara. PS: I know your dead daughter's not dead and I know you're a lying liar who lies.

Maybe not.

Probably wouldn't go over well.

Aunt Valerie and Uncle Danny live in the affluent Prospect Hill neighborhood of Tacoma, a small but coveted area at the North end of the city with winding, narrow roads, great views, and nosy neighbors. The house is a picturesque Craftsman style house, originally built in the early 1900s with an immaculate garden, a welcoming front porch, and views of Mt Rainier, the Cascades, and Commencement Bay. All very storybook.

When they were kids, the girls from the poorest neighborhood in Star City and then, later, the girls who had to share a room at Grandma and Grandpa's because their young, broke parents couldn't afford a house of their own, Laurel and Sara used to love coming here. It was a whole new world for them, this fairytale house with the secret garden, the stone pathways, and the porch swing. Even when Mom and Dad were able to scrape together the money to buy a home of their own, that townhouse on Magnolia Blossom Avenue, it couldn't compare to this.

Sometimes Sara wonders if part of the initial attraction to Oliver Queen was that he was someone who could give them a life like this. She can't say for sure that's what Laurel saw in him, in fact she's sure it's not, but she thinks that might've been what she saw. He was someone who could offer comfort, safety, and stability.

It wasn't just Val and Dan's house that was coveted. To the Lance sisters - at least to the younger one - they had the perfect life. The perfect family.

The thing about the three Drake sisters is that they are all extremely different.

Natasha, the youngest of the Drake girls, is an eternal wanderer. She is a proud starving artist in love with life, gorgeous and leggy with razor sharp wit and a voracious love for things as beautiful and free spirited as she is. But she has never truly settled, too wild at heart, always searching for more.

She left home at eighteen and immediately went to California in search of a world that Star City couldn't give her. She tried out modeling for a spell in Los Angeles, even dabbled in acting, mostly in commercials, but art was where her heart was and everyone knew it was where she was going to end up. It was through her love of art that she met Christian.

Nobody in the family talks about Christian much. Partially because none of them ever really knew him, but mostly because of how much it upsets Nat. They try, they ask questions and no one wants Bo to forget his dad, but he is still, even after all these years, an open wound for her. Only Grandma ever met him in person - he was soft spoken, she said, but charming and very handsome - so he's something of a ghost to the rest of them, only glimpsed through Bo, but one thing has always been clear: Natasha will never again love anyone the way she loved Christian.

In some unknown way - unknown because, as strange as it sounds, no one even knows if their relationship was romantic, Nat's always refused to clarify, has only ever stated that it doesn't matter - he was the second greatest love of her life. The first being Bo, the best gift Christian ever gave her.

What Sara has been able to piece together over the years is this: Christian Warner was a fellow artist living in the Silver Lake area of Los Angeles who took Nat under his wing. He was older than her by seven or eight years, already married and widowed with a young son. He was eccentric, like most artists, but kind. He was gentle but strong with an irreverent sense of humor and a big bleeding heart. And he was talented. He was wicked talented. That's obvious from the artwork left behind in Natasha and Bo's possession - paintings that she takes with her wherever she roams, the sketches that now live, preserved for a lifetime, on Bo's skin in the form of intricate and sprawling tattoos - and the lessons and the passion he left behind in Bo's equally talented hands. And he loved both his son and his ''muse'' deeply, with his whole heart.

Whatever it was that Natasha had with Christian, whether it was a one of a kind friendship or a whirlwind romance, it was something intense and passionate and unyielding.

And fleeting.

Christian died about three years after meeting Nat. Murdered in a botched mugging outside of his own studio. Bled out on the pavement for sixty bucks. Nat never recovered after that. Tell you the truth, Sara doesn't remember what her aunt was like before he died. She has only ever known her after him, as someone scarred and lonely and unsettled. She's been all over the world with Bo by her side, has lived in Austin, Seattle, New York City, San Francisco, Santa Fe, Amnesty Bay, even spent a year in Rome during Bo's gap year, but she has never truly settled the way she was in California with Christian.

She seems at peace now, living in Portland, running her own gallery, with a live in girlfriend and everything, and she's happy Bo has found a home in Maine, but there's still a part of her that seems lost.

People have always told Sara that she's a lot like her free spirited flower child aunt. Nothing holds her down. She's bold and brash, like Natasha, marches to the beat of her own drum, like Natasha, forges her own path, and she, too, left the dreariness of the Pacific Northwest for the sunshine of Los Angeles after graduating high school when she was eighteen years old.

The comparison doesn't hold up when you dig deep enough. Natasha is not a runner the way Sara is. She wanders and drifts around, but it's never aimless. She is unsettled, but that's only because her heart is still spilled out on that pavement in California. She has spent decades searching for Christian in every piece of art, every brush stroke, every piece of clay in the country.

Sara is just a scared little kid. It's not that deep.

If you ask her, it's Laurel who reminds Sara of Natasha. Laurel, with her dry sarcasm and her warm heart, her penchant for loving just a little too deeply, her lifelong searching, and the ache in her bones.

It's Valerie's life that Sara has always secretly desired.

She loves her mother. Looked up to her in a lot of ways. Her mother, the middle Drake daughter, is brilliant and poised and put together. She moves with impeccable grace. She can be manipulative and calculating, too ambitious for her own good, almost cunning in a way, very Slytherin-esque, and sometimes her intense thirst for knowledge gets her into trouble, but she means well. She is generous, to a fault, and has a whip smart sense of humor, a passion for social justice, for helping people, and one of the main things she taught her girls was that if you can help someone, you should. It's your responsibility.

She can also be close minded, cold, awkward, quick to anger and judgment, overly stubborn, and irritatingly self-righteous. Sara never saw those negative qualities when she was a kid, even though, as an adult, she has become acutely aware of the fact that both she and Laurel inherited some of those things. All she saw was a headstrong woman who knew what she wanted and wouldn't stop until she had it.

When she was a kid, if someone asked her to describe her mother the first thing that would have popped into her head was, ''Brave.'' That was how she thought of her mom for years. A flawed but well meaning woman.

But Mom and Dad struggled so much over the years in very real and alarming ways. They struggled with issues in their marriage ranging from their different parenting styles to her father's job to brief infidelity on her mother's part about fifteen years ago - a momentary lapse of judgment with a colleague, her mother explained to her last year, voice clipped. They had a whirlwind romance and married young, before they even knew each other, and jumped headfirst into adult life before they knew what they wanted.

Money was an issue for their entire marriage. There was never a moment where finances were not a stressor. They had a few years of feeling comfortable enough, were able to buy a house, managed to scrape together money to send the girls to that private high school, even took a few vacations, but their biggest fights somehow always circled back to money.

Sara didn't want that. She didn't want to marry a cop, she didn't want to drown in debt, so when she pictured a happy life, she pictured Aunt Val.

Valerie, the eldest Drake daughter, is a meticulous woman who loves her garden, her house, and her family. Her life has been far more traditional than Natasha's and far easier than Mom's so she was the one all of Grandma and Grandpa's stodgy old fashioned friends talked about in that complimentary tone. She followed the rulebook. She was ''such a good girl.'' She was the golden child.

She married her first serious boyfriend during her second year of college, got a degree but didn't use it, choosing instead to become a stay at home mom. Which worked just fine for her and her family considering Danny not only earned himself a lucrative career as a cardiologist but also came from old New England money.

For a long time, Valerie's life mostly consisted of taking her kids to and from school, soccer, and dance, puttering around in the garden, and having dinner on the table by six o'clock. All things most would consider to be the opposite of anything Sara would ever want. And that's true. Val tended to her plants and cared way too much about throw pillows and table runners and wall art and white wine with ice. She did things like raise children and bake muffins for the PTA meetings and make her own holiday wreaths and centerpieces and she's gotta have at least one Live Laugh Love sign in her house. Sara would very much like to avoid all of that.

But - holy shit, was Val ever happy.

It's been a long time since Edie died and took all the lively, bright pieces of Valerie with her, leaving behind a thinned out, dulled down shell full of sobs, Chardonnay, and various prescription pills. It's possible Sara might have romanticized the woman her aunt was before the loss, created an image of what she wanted to see, but she remembers her being...happy.

She seemed so grounded and strong back then. So content with her life. The woman really did live, laugh, and love.

As an adult, Sara has been clued into the darker side of her aunt. She knows now that Valerie has had depression for her entire life, that she was often overly sensitive to an almost nonfunctional level, even that she's been hospitalized before, but Sara still remembers that sense of joy that seemed to envelope Valerie and everything she touched. It was a kind of tranquility. She built herself a life that she loved enough to stay in. She planted roots.

Sara's always looked up to that. She wanted that. She could do without the kids, and, quite frankly, the husband part seems largely unappealing at this point, and she would probably kill a garden - and, for the love of god, you don't put ice in wine - but she wants that kind of peace. That kind of belief in herself and her choices.

Valerie could have been anything. She could have chosen a career above all else the way Mom did, she could have chosen to travel the world like Natasha, but she didn't. She chose to be a wife and a mother because it was what she knew she wanted and she was comfortable with that. She was steadfast. Sara envied that. She wants to live a life and love it enough to stop running. She wants to make the right choices. She used to be so in awe of Valerie's steady hand.

...Yeah, well.

Turns out the whole family is fucked. There's no one to look up to here. Everyone's damaged, basically everyone is a fucking liar, there's mental illness around every corner, and - sorry, has she mentioned all the goddamn lies?

It's everyone at this point. Everywhere she looks, there is disappointment. Mom and the aunts and all the kids and Grandma and Grandpa - yeah, they seemed great, real pillars of the community, honest and hardworking people, loving and generous and all that jazz, but they sure did spurt out some duds so who knows. Maybe something was off with them too. Wouldn't surprise her. It would devastate Laurel, but Sara's too bitter right now to think of anyone in her family positively.

The only one who isn't completely screwed is Mary. She is perfect and good, a sweet, warmhearted little girl with an infectious laugh and she's never going to do anything wrong in her life ever.

Everyone else is fifty shades of fucked up. Even the ones who aren't blood related are hot messes.

When they first find themselves in Val and Dan's darkened, looming, probably haunted house, they split up. Laurel says something about the attic and disappears upstairs, leaving Sara to comb through the downstairs. She rifles through the big living room, the kitchen, and the dining room, but the only place that has any real potential is Dan's office/study.

She is not, in all honesty, expecting to find much in here because there is not, in all honesty, much to Daniel Hart. He's a bland guy. Always has been. He's a good man, kind, loves his wife and kids, makes a lot of cheesy Dad Jokes, and seems to sincerely care about helping people as a doctor. He's just tame. Ordinary. The anti-Valerie.

Val used to have a big personality. She was the life of every party. He was more of a wallflower. He tended to fade in her presence. He was swallowed by her. Even in the years since Edie, as Valerie has dulled, turned to stone, a shadow of herself, she still seems to overtake him. No one hurts the way she hurts, no one grieves the way she grieves, no one could possibly understand, not even her husband. Her pain is so big that it pushes his to the side. Even when he should be her partner in sorrow, he still fades to the background.

Sara is not expecting to find pay dirt in his study. Technically, she doesn't. She finds no evidence that he knew about Edie. But she does find his journals. As it turns out, even when it comes to the most uncomplicated man in the world, there will always be more than you know.

Uncle Danny's journals, painstakingly arranged in the cabinet by the window, go back for decades, detailing everything from finances to his emotions to family life to what he had for breakfast. They illuminate all the dark parts of a seemingly stable family. There is a wealth of Hart family secrets here, recorded by an exhausted husband and father just trying his best.

Among many other things, Sara learns:

Danny had a gambling problem at the beginning of their marriage and came close to being cut off from his family's money.

Seth had a drug problem as a teenager and would frequently run away from home, leading his harried father on wild goose chases through the roughest parts of Tacoma in the middle of the night.

No one was particularly surprised when Jackson came out as gay, least of all Val, but Danny's parents had a negative, extremely homophobic reaction. They cut off his parents, good riddance, but the damage was done and it took Jackson years in therapy to get over it.

Danny had an affair in 2008 with a nurse at the hospital he worked at. He and Val worked through it, but it was a stressful time and he eventually had to take out a restraining order against the nurse.

They have loaned a lot of money to the Lance family over the years. Sara pauses at that, gaping at the amounts written down. Almost all of the money was paid back neatly and with zero issue, but the last time was different. It was a substantial amount of money and Valerie refused to allow Mom and Dad to pay her back. Insisted it was a gift, even to Danny's bewilderment. It was for Laurel's law school tuition. All of it. Every cent.

And...

Aunt Valerie is sick. She has been sick for a long time. Even before Edie died. Even before she had children. There are entire journals, hundreds upon hundreds of pages dedicated to documenting symptoms, things she's said or done, various treatments she's been through, medications she's taken, multiple suicide attempts and hospitalizations, finally culminating in a diagnosis of bipolar disorder in 1998.

None of it is written in a controlling, abusive way like he's gathering ammunition. He just sounds scared and frantic, frustrated with the stigma and the lack of help, desperate to find some way to help his wife, to keep her from going somewhere he can't follow. That is the hardest part to read. Even harder than the terrified rambling after the car accident that activated Edie's ''inheritance'' or the grief stricken, downright hysterical entries after her death.

Sara reads about all of Valerie's highs and lows, her drinking problem, how she sometimes goes off her meds and ends up in a manic episode, how she keeps a box in her closet full of previous suicide notes.

She reads an entry from 1999 about Grandma and Grandpa coming to stay for a week, which eventually turned into a month long stay, to help with the boys in September because Valerie couldn't get out of bed. She was so despondent that Grandma had to help her with basic tasks like bathing and eating.

An entry from last Father's Day about a family vacation to the Virgin Islands turning into a family crisis because Valerie drank too much and got into a vicious argument with Jackson over her refusal to go to rehab. Jackson and his family ended up leaving early and he didn't speak to his parents for two months.

An entry from the fall of 2004 about Danny and Seth having to break down the bathroom door because Valerie had locked herself in there with a pair of gardening shears and was threatening to slit her wrists. Which she did two weeks later, 72 hours after she was released from the psych ward and found a pair of scissors Danny had forgotten to hide. She only survived because he woke up in the middle of the night, realized she wasn't in bed, and knew instantly what she was doing. She can tell from the shaky handwriting, the way he keeps writing there were no hesitation marks over and over again in disbelief that it was one of the closer calls.

It's horrific to read; all the entries that talk about her having a good day only to have that followed up two days later with, Had to take Val to Emerg tonight to have her stomach pumped again.

The last entry she reads, the one that is the hardest to stomach, is from just this past August when she and Danny were vacationing at his brother's place in Martha's Vineyard. In it, he talks about a good day. About the sight of her smile. She's back on her meds, stable for the time being, refreshed and enjoying the crisp summer air and the company of her in-laws. He says he's grateful that she still has fight left in her. He knows she's tired and he knows she's in pain, but he loves her and he is selfishly happy that she hasn't left yet, even though he knows one day she will. It's an especially poignant entry, written so succinctly and matter-of-fact, but still with so much love, and it makes her nauseated to read.

I think we both know that this is a fight she will ultimately lose, Danny writes, handwriting steady. I know one day she will succeed in leaving and those of us left behind will have to accept that and live with the loss, the same way we with live with Edith's, but, for now, with her beside me, we will weather the storm for as long as we possibly can, and I will thank whoever is listening for every day she remains with me.

That's where Sara has to stop reading, feeling sick and guilty that she has so shamelessly invaded Danny and Valerie's privacy. In many ways, it's not all that surprise to learn that there is something more to her aunt's quirkiness. Sara's always wondered. Most people have.

Aunt Valerie has many wonderful qualities. She makes lovely floral arrangements and the best damn coffee cake in the world. She is beautiful and statuesque and somehow ethereal, like most Ellard women, and she makes the absolute filthiest jokes. She loves tremendously and is loved tremendously in return, but she has always had a restless heart. It's something that is easy to tell from one interaction with her.

One of those things you just know.

She has had one foot here and one foot out the door her whole life. She used to say she belonged only to the moon, never to the earth - which, yes, was an odd thing to say, but Sara used to brush it off as quirky humor.

It doesn't seem funny anymore.

How is Sara supposed to read all this and not think of her own sister? Her own slowly dying sister with her restless heart, a history of addiction and mental health issues, and at least one suicide attempt under her belt.

How is she supposed to read about Danny's frantic, agonized love for his ill wife, about him wrestling garden shears from her hands and pulling her out of bloody bathwater, and not think of Dean pouring vodka down the drain in the middle of the night with Laurel sobbing on the kitchen floor, or the careful way he looks at her sometimes, as if waiting for her to eventually disappear?

How can she read about Seth crying and begging his mother not to kill herself outside the bathroom door, or Jackson's searing anger at what she has put them through, and not think of Mary and what her future could look like if her mother deteriorates the way Val has?

What is she supposed to think?

It's not like it's just Valerie and Laurel. It's all of them. Dinah Ellard weighed herself down with rocks and drowned herself. Great Aunt Faye lost her kids and hid from the world in the woods, paranoid and alone. Her daughter drank herself into homelessness and eventually an early grave. Edie is ostensibly a homicidal maniac, a violent explosion of betrayal and arrogant desperation.

And Laurel...

It's the curse. It has to be. There's no other explanation. There is something inside of the firstborn daughters, something frantic and inconsolable and toxic in their blood that's pulling them apart from the inside, ripping them to shreds, and what if...?

What if?

Sara does her best to clean up the study, putting the journals back where they came from straightening up the mess she's made, stewing and sulking all the while. She is in a decidedly wretched mood now.

She can't stop thinking about how it makes sense, now, that there were no knives in the kitchen, no letter openers in the study, how Aunt Valerie would rather belong to the moon, the harrowing love in this family in the big house on the hill, and Laurel. Always Laurel.

She doesn't want Laurel to belong to the moon. She doesn't want to lose her to the wilderness, to the sea, to her restless heart, but what if there's no choice? What if Laurel is a ticking time bomb full of all that bad blood, that insidious, sprawling curse and one day...

It's an easy fight to lose.

Aunt Valerie knows it. Faye knew it. Dinah Ellard certainly knew it. Does Laurel? What does she know of love and losing it, all the secrets she has not told Sara? What if Dean already has journal like Danny's, the pages full of terrified love scrawled in shaky writing? What if he's just waiting?

Sara hurries up the stairs after she cleans the study, filled with an overwhelming need to see Laurel and make sure she's in once piece. She wanders the vast second floor of the old Craftsman, old bones creaking under her feet, poking her head into empty, shadowy rooms. Eventually, she finds her in the master bedroom, standing in the en suite bathroom.

Laurel looks out of place in the bright, expansive bathroom, creamy white marble dripping with wealth, fake red roses lining the windowsill. It's odd for her to look so out of place. Out of the two of them, she's the one more outwardly at home in the world of riches, fitting seamlessly into Oliver and Tommy's sleek, wealthy world, classy, elegant, and well mannered, always well groomed and appropriately demure. Someone everyone thought was fit for the Queen name.

She is not herself tonight, disheveled and full of graveyard dirt, wearing rumpled and simple clothes that don't fit her normally graceful, somewhat expensive style. She looks more Winchester than Queen. She looks rough and sickly pale, standing there red eyed and hollowed out, face still bruised and beat up from her ordeal the previous night. The lighting in the bathroom is harsh and not doing her any favors, but she looks almost ghostly.

Sara hovers in the doorway, wringing her hands, watching Laurel pop a pill. ''What are you doing?''

Laurel doesn't startle at the sound of her voice nor does she look surprised when she catches sight of her sister in the mirror as she's closing the medicine cabinet. ''It's just Motrin,'' she says, toneless. ''I think I'm getting a migraine.'' She doesn't give Sara time to ask any follow up questions. ''Did you find anything?''

''That depends on what you mean.''

''What does that - ''

''Uncle Danny doesn't know Edie's alive.''

That was another thing that was made abundantly clear in his writings.

Danny loves his daughter. He talks to her in the pages, in close to every entry. He pleads with her. He apologizes. He has spent the past sixteen years full of regret and riddled with guilt, blaming himself for her death, wishing he could go back, regularly admitting that they handed things all wrong after the car crash triggered her inheritance. He believes she committed suicide and he blames himself for that. Believes what they did ''drove her to it.'' There was nothing to suggest he knows anything more than that.

Sara can understand why it might be easier to keep the truth from him. He doesn't let things go. He never lets things go. If he knew Edie had been ''murdered,'' he would have given up everything else to chase that thread, to find justice. It might be quieter to keep that from him. But she can't imagine keeping someone she loves in the dark for sixteen years when it's so blinding that the weight of his guilt is crushing him, burying him alive. She doesn't know what would have been kinder, the truth or the lie, but she just cannot imagine keeping that lie up for all these years.

Laurel doesn't seem surprised by the revelation. ''I figured,'' she admits. ''He doesn't have the stomach for this lie.'' She eyes Sara curiously. ''You find something else?''

''Nothing about Edie, but...'' Sara tries to buy herself more time. ''He keeps journals. He's written in them for as long as he and Val have been married.''

''Okay...''

''Did you know about Aunt Val?''

''What about her?''

''She has bipolar disorder.''

Again, Laurel seems unaffected by that. ''I didn't know for sure, but that does explain a lot.''

''There is some heavy, heavy stuff in his journals,'' Sara says, and then starts ticking them off on her fingers. ''She's regularly suicidal, she drinks, she's on and off her meds all the time because she randomly decides to stop taking them, she has frequent manic episodes, and it always ends in a suicide attempt. I lost count of all the attempts.''

''Bipolar can be a tough one to live with,'' Laurel says.

Sara waits for Laurel to expand on that. Say something more. She doesn't. ''That's it? That's all you're going to say?''

''Is there something more I should be saying?'' Laurel asks, confused. ''Mental illness can be a terrible burden on a family. My heart goes out to her and Danny. I hope they're both getting the support they need and I hope she has a great mental health team to help with her care.''

It's so professional sounding. Sincere, but lacking all her normal warmth. It's like a PR statement. It's unlike her to be so robotic. She's been off tonight, seemingly numb, but Sara expected her to have more of a reaction to the news that their aunt, someone they love dearly, has tried to commit suicide several times.

Tonight, she just brushes past it. ''I did a sweep of the bedrooms and combed through the attic,'' she says. ''Nothing to find. However, Edie's room is locked. That's why I came in here.'' She turns to swipe something off the marble counter, holding up a bobby pin. ''Come on.''

When she starts to brush past, Sara grabs onto her arm, halting her in her tracks. ''Hold on,'' she frowns. ''Aren't you - I don't know. Doesn't this worry you?''

A shadowy look passes through Laurel's eyes. ''Sara, I've been worried about Aunt Valerie since I was old enough to understand the seriousness of her situation. We all worry about her.''

''I'm not just talking about Valerie,'' Sara says. ''You know she's a firstborn daughter.''

''I know.''

''And so is Edie.''

''They're also mother and daughter, which means the genetic factor - ''

''Laurel,'' Sara snaps, frustration mounting. ''Come on.''

Laurel's lips press together into a thin, agitated line. ''Every family is a little screwed up.''

''A little screwed up.'' Sara resists the urge to roll her eyes. ''Our great grandmother drowned herself.''

''I know that, Sara.''

''Faye gave up her children and banished herself to the woods. Elizabeth drank herself to death. Val wants to die so badly that poor Danny's just - '' She throws her hands up in the air, gulping down the lump in her throat. ''He's just accepted that one day she's going to kill herself. Edie is a fucking disappointment - and possibly a legit psychopath. And you - ''

Shit.

She maybe shouldn't have said that.

In the doorway, Laurel stiffens. ''What? What about me?''

''It's the curse,'' Sara declares. ''It's poison. It'll kill you.''

''It won't kill me.''

''You can't tell me you haven't noticed the connection. The sickest women in this family have been the ones with this - this thing.''

Laurel doesn't react much to the derisive tone. ''I prefer the term genetic abnormality,'' she says mildly. ''And, yes, I've noticed. How could I not? However, there is no way to be certain that the scream causes any other issues. Mental illness runs in our family. It's in our roots. That's the way it is. It's genetics. I don't think you're getting just how prevalent mental illness is in the world. We are just now, as a society, attempting to lessen the stigma surrounding it. If it seems like it's everywhere nowadays, it's just because people are finally acknowledging it. There is nothing sudden about it. The scream is - It's...uncomfortable,'' she decides on. ''And it's frightening. It's a trauma. Which makes it a stressor. It's likely that it exacerbates previous conditions, possibly even speeds up the onset of mental illness, but there is no evidence to suggest that it causes it.''

''But why take the chance?'' Sara keeps on, unwilling or unable to make herself walk away from this one. ''We need to get this thing out of you.''

''I don't think it works that way.''

''We can make it work that way.'' She takes a step closer and considers reaching out to her, but thinks better of it, hands falling limply to her sides. ''There has to be something we can do for you.''

''Sara - ''

''We should have been looking into it as soon as we found out. We've lost so much time. If we had started searching weeks ago - ''

''It's not going to happen.''

''But it could!'' Sara bursts out. ''It could. If magic did this then magic can take it away. We can find a cure, we can - ''

''Stop it,'' Laurel practically growls out, eyes flashing. ''Stop it. Shut up.'' She doesn't raise her voice or scowl, but something about her tone, the look in her eyes, the visible change in her posture makes Sara stop talking and take a tiny step back. ''I know you're scared, but you sound ignorant right now,'' Laurel snaps, and Sara flinches at the blow. ''There is no magical cure for mental illness,'' she goes on, firm. ''You can't wave a wand and erase it from existence. No one is going to grant your three wishes. This isn't a fairytale. This is real life. Do you think Valerie repeatedly tries to kill herself for shits and giggles? Do you think she wants to want to die? Do you think I like having panic attacks and depressive episodes? Having my husband care for me like a child because I can't summon up the energy to function? These things stole from me, Sara. I missed half of my child's life because I was drunk and sick. I can't have a glass of wine when I go out to eat because if I start, I won't stop. I put too much on Dean's shoulders all the time. He didn't sign up for this, for any of this, raising a child by himself, caring for some half dead lump in the bed. I was better when we first met. I was a whole person. Now I'm just - I'm...''

There is a moment where Sara thinks her sister might cry and she doesn't know what she can to do help her, but Laurel doesn't cry. She just barrels right past it.

''Do you think I chose that?'' She demands. ''Do you think any of us did? If this could be removed, if there was something out there that could make me a better mom and a better wife...'' She stops to take a breath, struggling to get the next part out. ''I would rip this out of me if I could, but I can't. It doesn't work that way, and I can't have you running around out there thinking it does. That's dangerously naive. Something I know you're not.''

She stops again, like she's waiting for Sara to say something, but Sara doesn't think she could get the words out if she tried.

''The sickness in this family does not begin or end with that curse,'' Laurel goes on. ''I need you to hear me when I say that. Even if you lift the curse, take away the scream, I'll still be who I am and Edie and Valerie will still be who they are. I'm sorry that scares you so much.'' She offers nothing else, not even enough time for Sara to react. As soon as she's finished, she turns on her heel and leaves the bathroom - and her stunned sister - behind.

Sara grimaces in the empty marble, rose petal-scented space, a sick, remorseful feeling settling in her stomach. She hadn't meant to upset her or make her feel like a broken doll in need of fixing. And she knows that mental illness isn't something that can just be wiped away. She knows that.

She sighs heavily and sits down on the tacky faux fur chaise lounge that was undoubtedly a Valerie purchase. She catches her reflection in the mirror, lined with twinkle lights, and then she has to look away. Is it wrong of her to want better for Laurel? To want someone she loves to not be in pain anymore? Is that really so bad? Even if you strip away the curse, that dastardly inheritance, Laurel has still been through hell. They both have. It can't be wrong to want things to be easier at least one of them.

She pulls herself to her feet after a minute or two of pointless Oliver-like brooding, taking one last look around the truly gaudy bathroom before she flicks off the light and ambles off to find Laurel.

.

.

.

Sam drifts back into consciousness slowly, first becoming aware of the ringing in his ears, and then realizing that he has opened his eyes and that the hazy, blurry blob-like things hovering over him are people.

Everything feels like it is happening somewhere else. He can hear the hollow, thin, echoey sound of muffled voices, as if someone is calling for him from the end of a very long tunnel. He can hear muted sirens, he thinks, unless that's just the ringing in his ears. He knows there are people surrounding him, hovering over him, and he can just barely feel two cold, soft hands on either side of his face, but he feels like he is completely removed from the situation, underwater, in some other lonely place.

Eventually, it's like his sluggish brain catches up and things start to come into focus around him. Immediately, he is able to recognize that the two figures hovering over him, looking frantic, are Dean and Cas and he thinks he might be lying in Charlie's lap, her hands keeping his head from moving.

He hopes the cold wet thing nudging at the back of his left hand is the puppy.

He blinks a few times, but cannot seem to make his mouth work. His body is too numb for him to even begin assessing what hurts and what doesn't. Everything is still muffled, overtaken by that ringing in his ears, and there's so much going on around him, lights flashing somewhere close by, that everything blends together and he has no idea what on earth Dean and Cas are trying to tell him.

It takes him a moment longer of stupefied blinking to realize why Dean keeps moving his hands like that. Oh, he's signing. Right, yes, he remembers that's a thing.

Dean signs, again, for what must be the millionth time, Are you okay?

''I'm fine,'' Sam gets out, even though he does realize that he is anything but. As he starts to piece himself back together, he is becoming aware of a dull throbbing in his head, a familiar ache in his chest that tells him he might have at least a bruised rib or two, and something stings terribly on his face. He looks at Dean, watching his hands.

Dean shakes his head at him and signs, Don't move.

Sam decides to move.

It's instinctive. He starts flashing back to what happened, starts turning those memories over in his head, working out what's happened, and he panics.

All at once, there is an uproar among the rest of his family, with all three of them telling him not to move and stay where he is. It's annoying. They're probably right. That's even more annoying.

''Sammy,'' Dean says, voice still sounding dulled behind the sound of the ringing, but loud enough Sam is at least able to catch it. He looks like he has aged a couple years since Sam last saw him. You were in an explosion, he signs. ''A fucking explosion,'' he says, words bursting out of him frantically, possibly not even meant for Sam.

Cas shoots him a mildly concerned look.

Sam, meanwhile, just stares blankly. He still feels disconnected and disoriented. ''Yeah, but,'' he tries to swallow, ''just a little one.''

Dean looks somewhat relieved by the sarcasm, but not so comforted by the reassurance that it was only a little explosion.

''Am I bleeding?''

Cas nods. From your head, he signs.

Broken glass, Dean adds. They bandaged you up, but we don't want to move you until we know you're okay. That is why you need to lie still for now. Then, How many fingers am I holding up?

Sam ignores the three fingers his brother holds up. ''I can hear you.''

Dean says, ''Not an answer. Do you know what day it is?''

''Fuck off.''

''What's Cas' favorite song?''

''Stars Are Blind by Paris Hilton.'' His hearing is still compromised and the pain from his injuries is becoming sharper as he fully comes back to himself, but he's with it enough to pick up Charlie's laugh, even over the ringing and the nearby sirens.

Cas throws a withering glare in Dean's direction. ''I asked you not to tell anyone about that.''

''Oh, dude, I told everyone about that.''

''You know what,'' Charlie speaks up. ''It is surprisingly catchy.''

''Exactly!'' Cas exclaims. ''It's very catchy. And I never said it was my favorite song. Just that I listen to it sometimes when I go for a run. There's nothing wrong with - ''

''Hey, man,'' Dean holds his hands up. ''I wasn't judging.''

''You totally were,'' Charlie says.

Sam decides to take advantage of the momentary distraction to make another attempt at sitting up. It doesn't work. Once again, he doesn't get far before Dean and Cas are pushing him back down into Charlie's lap and her skinny little arms are winding around him like she is trying to physically restrain him.

''Hey!'' Dean snaps. ''What part of don't fucking move isn't getting through, pal?''

Normally, Sam would be irked by this pervasive overprotectiveness, but tonight it's... He's okay with it. That other Dean was such an asshole. He's grateful for the reminder that his Dean is only sort of an asshole some of the time.

Also he just got a glimpse of the warehouse he was just in. Or, rather, what's left of it. Which is...not much. A smoldering pile of rubble surrounded by scores of ARGUS agents, SCPD officers, and firefighters. He can tell that he's been pulled far enough away from the wreckage that he's not in danger and not in the way and the fact that there aren't paramedics crowding around him when he can see at least two ambulances on the scene makes him feel relieved that his injuries are not bad enough to warrant immediate attention, but -

''Holy shit,'' he blurts out. ''All that from one exploding arrow?''

There's a second of silence and then Charlie pats his chest and says, ''Yeah, you missed some stuff, buddy.''

Sam turns his head enough to discern that the wet, cold thing pressed against his hand is indeed Aida. Poor girl looks stressed out, whining and shaking slightly, shuffled as close to him and Charlie as she can get. Oh, man, they've given a puppy PTSD. This is a real low point for them.

''There was another one,'' Cas says. ''We think the archer must have placed that one on the other side of the building before the attack on you and...the other guy.''

''They were small blasts,'' Dean says. ''Fairly contained. All things considered. But that warehouse was a house of cards. The second arrow blew while we were trying to get you out and the building just crumbled.''

''Are you guys okay?''

''We're fine.''

Sam tries to lift his head enough to look over at the fiery rubble of what used to be the warehouse. ''Everyone else?'' There's another pause, a longer one this time. It doesn't feel like a good sign. ''How many?''

Cas is the one who finally nuts up and says it. ''Six so far. Three from before the collapse - Agent Rooney, Agent Miles, and another agent Miles shot outside - and three from the collapse. Four people are still missing - three agents and a firefighter. Agent Miles shot three other agents before he was taken down. One's in critical condition at the hospital.''

''How many others were injured?''

''Eleven so far.''

''Including you,''' Dean picks up. ''Which is why we need to get you a medic.'' He straightens up, turning his attention off to the distance. ''I know you're low priority, but - ''

''What about John and Lyla?''

''Fine,'' Dean says. ''So is Dinah.''

''Holy crap, Dinah,'' Charlie says. Sam still can't see her, but he can hear the amazement in her voice. ''You should have seen it. When the building started coming down, she swung in like a Big Damn Hero and screamed the thing away from the crowd. She physically pushed the building away with her sonic scream so it wouldn't topple over on us.''

''Saved a lot of lives,'' Cas says. ''It was very heroic.''

Dean seems to think that's really funny. ''Heroic,'' he grunts. ''I hope I'm there when you tell her that.''

''Dean,'' Sam blurts out. This time, when he tries to move, their protests don't deter him. ''The other Dean,'' he says urgently, swatting away their well-meaning hands enough to successfully sit up. ''Where is he?''

''Everything's fine,'' his Dean says, somewhat sharply. ''We got him. He's on his way to a holding cell with a Devil's Trap bullet in his cranium. You were right about those bullets. It was an easy fix. Real anticlimactic, frankly. I thought I was gonna have to chase the bastard down, but he wasn't going anywhere when I found him. It was more like an execution.'' He contemplates this for a moment. ''I didn't love shooting myself in the face.''

''Great,'' Sam replies, voice laden with sarcasm. ''Tell your therapist.''

''Don't you dare try to stand up.'' Dean points a warning finger at Sam when he notices him twitch. ''You could have a concussion, you - ''

''I'm fine,'' Sam assures him. He reaches up to touch the bandage on the side of his face. ''I don't have a concussion. The ringing's already started to fade. I'm okay. I swear. It's not like this is the first time I've been knocked in the head.''

''You do get knocked out fairly frequently,'' Cas allows.

Dean rolls his eyes and mumbles something that's probably pissy under his breath, but does seem to realize he is not going to win this battle. ''Okay, all right,'' he relents, without Sam even needing to pull out the puppy dog eyes. ''At least go slow.'' He and Cas are the ones who wind up hauling Sam to his only slightly unsteady feet, but Aida's the one who makes a big stink about it, barking and yipping at them in great offense.

''I'm fine,'' Sam tells everyone, including the dog. ''See? I'm standing. No puking, no dizziness, no concussion.''

''Still bleeding,'' Dean gripes.

''Maybe you have better luck than I thought,'' Charlie remarks, scooping Aida up into her arms.

Sam's not convinced luck had anything to do with it. ''Are they still taking him to Belle Reve?''

''For now, they're keeping him at an ARGUS safe house near Anacortes,'' Dean says. He steps forward into Sam's space, curling a hand around the back of his brother's head like he's checking for any lumps or bumps. ''With his injuries, they didn't want to risk transport. Lyla said they'd re-evaluate once he's healed. They might send him to Belle Reve, but she says she's considering keeping him here in Star City. You,'' he frowns, and steps back. ''You got a lot out of him.''

''And he's - ''

''He's alive,'' Dean assures him. ''He'll be fine. He's... It's bad,'' he admits. ''Anyone else would be dead, but he was already healing last I saw him.''

''And as an added bonus,'' Charlie starts, ''if you've ever wondered if it's possible for demons to regenerate any limbs their bodies may lose, he sure answered that question. It's a yes.''

''Eh,'' Dean brushes that off, unimpressed. ''It was mostly his hands. And they weren't lost. They were still there. Sort of.''

''Barely,'' she dismisses. ''They were hanging on by a thread. Just tendons and bones. And one half of his face looked like a bad Halloween decoration. Oh my god.'' Her eyes widen. ''Do you think when his face heals, he'll only have half a beard?'' It seems like an innocent, albeit peculiar question, and she's the picture of innocence standing there with her eyes blown wide, but when Dean - who has been exceptionally grumpy about this whole doppelganger situation - starts laughing, it becomes clear she knew exactly what she was doing.

''So you - '' Sam looks between them. ''You guys heard everything he said?''

Dean stops laughing, but seems to purposefully keep the lighthearted look in his eyes. ''Yep. He's a real peach, huh?''

''Guess you can't make any more Captain America jokes. Turns out he's hardcore anti government and anti military.''

''A regular anarchist,'' Charlie nods her head.

''I can respect that,'' Dean says, nonchalant. ''It's a relief, to tell you the truth. I thought for sure he was gonna be just another propaganda butt monkey.''

Cas narrows his eyes. ''A what?''

Dean turns to him and says, louder, with emphasized enunciation, ''A butt monkey!''

Cas inhales and gets one of those flat and tired how did I end up with these people looks on his face.

Sam rubs at the back of his head. He still doesn't think he can chalk it up to luck, but he does appear to be in way better shape than he should be. His head aches, but he doesn't feel too out of it and he's not fighting for his life. It's not a miracle, but he's grateful anyway.

''Sam.'' Cas inches closer, moving his hand to Sam's arm with a concerned frown. ''Are you sure you're all right?''

''Yeah,'' Sam says, but avoids nodding. ''Yeah, just, um...'' He looks over at the carnage of what used to be a building, trying to accept what has happened. ''I think he saved my life?'' He presses his lips together. Looks at Cas. ''Shocker, right?''

Cas just says, calmly, ''Not really.''

...No.

Guess it's not that much of a stretch, huh?

''The shooter,'' Sam brings up, diverting his attention back to Dean. ''Did you - '' He stops, taking in the look on their faces. ''You didn't get him.''

''Chased him for about a block on foot,'' Dean says. ''Then it was like - poof.''

''Do we know who it was?''

''We know it wasn't Oliver. Apparently he's passed out on painkillers at home. And it wasn't Thea. Doesn't seem like it's any archer we know.''

''Merlyn?''

''This was not his style,'' Cas says. ''Too...gauche.''

''The guy put earthquake machines under the city.''

''Which seems inelegant,'' Charlie says, ''but those machines were highly sophisticated.''

''Besides,'' Dean adds. ''He has no skin in the game here. What reason would he have to blow up my doppelganger? Or you for that matter?''

''Okay, so - wait.'' Sam shakes his head, and immediately regrets it, fighting off a grimace of pain. ''There's another archer in town? Seriously?''

''Seems that way.''

Charlie pulls a face. ''Why does this place have so many random archers? Who even uses a bow and arrow?''

''Personally, I blame The Hunger Games,'' Cas deadpans. ''It's that Katniss Everdeen character.''

It's unclear if this is a joke, but Charlie runs with it anyway. ''Damn you, Jennifer Lawrence.''

''Don't blame Jennifer,'' Dean comments. ''It's that weird ass motherfucker Jeremy Renner. I don't trust him, but he's in those Avenger movies slinging arrows everywhere.''

''Renner wishes he had what Jennifer has,'' she mutters. ''People aren't going to take up archery because of his bland and overwhelmingly straight self.''

''Newsflash,'' he fires back at her. ''You just described Jennifer Lawrence. She's just as dull and monotone as he is.''

''She has an Academy Award.''

''So does Nicolas Cage. And Jeremy Renner was nominated for one. How much meaning do you want me to assign to those things?''

Sam adds nothing to this conversation and would rather not be a part of it at this current moment in time. First of all, it's an irrelevant conversation and even the dog looks like she thinks it's a dumb thing to be bickering about right now. Second of all, he doesn't think Jeremy Renner is that bad. Third of all, he's distracted.

He keeps trying to replay the events of the night in his head; those last moments, the last seconds before the explosion. It's fuzzy, but he does remember. He remembers Dean, the other Dean, grabbing him and throwing him out of the way. Trying to get him as far away from the bomb as possible. ''He tried to get me away from the explosion.'' He doesn't even realize he's said that aloud until he gets a response.

''We know,'' Dean says. ''He tried to shield you too.''

''He did?''

''The second explosion may have caught him off guard,'' Cas says, ''but the way we found you two... It was clear he was trying to take the brunt of it.''

''I would have done the same thing,'' Dean says.

''He saved me,'' Sam says, mostly just to say it. He's still trying to figure out what that means.

''He did,'' Charlie agrees, sounding skeptical. ''But he also killed a bunch of other people. Not just tonight, but the entire time he's been here. I'm not sure we should let our guards down.''

''I'm not,'' Sam rushes to say. ''He's a bad guy. He's a demon. I'm just...trying to work this out.'' He looks around, scanning the crowds. ''Where's Dinah?''

''Chain smoking,'' Dean says. He nods at a figure standing off in the inky black darkness, on the edge of all the chaos, where the Impala has been moved. ''She needed a minute.''

''Did she hear everything he said?''

''She did.'' Dean eyeballs Sam, undoubtedly searching for some sign that something's wrong, the tiniest thing that can give him a reason to drag him over to one of the ambulances. ''Sammy, come here for a minute.'' He pulls him off to the side, giving him another one of those irksome big brother looks. ''One more time: Are you sure you're okay?''

Sam huffs, somewhat resentful at being treated like a child. ''Yes, Dean, I'm fine.''

Dean doesn't believe him, it's written all over his face, but he does let it go. At least for the moment. ''You're getting checked out by a medic before we leave,'' he says, more like orders. ''Don't argue with me.''

''Fine,'' Sam gives in.

''But you should go talk to Dinah.''

Sam looks back over at her, studying her figure for a second before he looks back at his weary brother, taking in his worn out, disheveled look. ''What about you?'' He asks. ''Are you okay?''

Dean looks like he attempts a smile, but can't manage it. ''I was really hopin' he would just be a monster.''

''...Yeah.''

''I get why he's doing it. I'm not saying it's right, but I get it,'' Dean confesses. ''If it was Mary...'' He lets that thought go unfinished. ''There's nothing I wouldn't do.''

Sam really, really believes that.

''Okay, go,'' Dean waves him away. ''Go talk to Dinah.''

Sam feels more reluctant now than he thought he would, but he does turn to leave.

''New Orleans,'' Dean says from behind him. ''October, 2005. Right before I came to get you.''

Sam whirls back around. ''What?''

''When and where I met Amanda Waller.''

Fucking knew it. ''You - '' He narrows his eyes. ''And that's a story you'll tell me later, right?''

Dean's lips split into a grin. ''You make it out of your chat with Dee alive, I'll tell you the story.'' Then he turns and heads back over to Cas and Charlie.

Sam watches him go for a minute, trying not to let his train of thought derail. Dinah first. He needs to talk with her. Then he'll deal with whether or not Dean could be a sleeper agent for ARGUS. Probably not, he really doubts it, but - I mean, you can never tell when it comes to sleeper agents, right?

He is not terribly enthusiastic about having a conversation with Dinah in a secluded area, just the two of them, while everyone else is preoccupied. He's wary of this woman and the gigantic chip on her shoulder and her festering eyes that remind him of someone he left behind a long time ago. But after that conversation with Earth-2 Dean, he knows it's necessary.

She's pacing all alone in the dark, jittery like a caged animal, smoking a cigarette and continuously running a hand through her hair. He can't see her face, but she seems frazzled and off her game.

''Dinah?''

Despite how distracted she is, she doesn't startle at his approach. She knew he was coming. She turns to look at him, moonlight hitting her damp looking face. She doesn't even try to hide the fact that she's been crying. You'd think she would.

He doesn't mention it. ''Uh, hi,'' he greets. ''I just thought I'd come check on you.''

''I'm not the one bleeding from the head.''

Sam instinctively touches a hand to the side of his face. ''It's really not that bad,'' he says, which is true. He's not actively bleeding anymore. He's all bandaged up. He's sure it must look worse than it is.

''You got blown up,'' she says.

''I didn't get blown up,'' he argues. ''Your guy made sure of that.''

''That surprises you?''

He dodges that one. ''Was any of it a lie? What he said?''

''Not from what I heard.''

''But it wasn't the whole story either,'' he guesses. ''There was a lot that he didn't say.''

Dinah smirks. It looks hollow. ''There's always more to the story.'' She takes one last puff from the cigarette and then crushes it under her boot. ''How's your head?''

Sam does not think for one second that she cares about his head. ''I have a hard head. It can take a lot.'' He looks over his shoulder to where Dean is talking to John and Lyla and Cas and Charlie seem to be trying to calm down Aida. When he looks back to Dinah, he notices that her eyes are on Charlie. ''So,'' he says. ''You know Charlie on your earth, huh?''

She crosses her arms, looking twitchy. ''Her name isn't Charlie from where I'm from.''

His head hurts too much to press that issue right now. ''Nothing he said explained why he wants to kill you.''

She glares at him, but it's lacking any of the usual venom. ''If you're trying to - ''

''I'm not.'' He raises his hands, palms up. ''I'm not asking you to tell me.''

She keeps scowling and looks like she wants to bitch him out, but can't muster up the strength. She tilts her head up to look at the moon. Stays quiet so long he starts to wonder if it's even worth his time to be trying with her. He is bleeding, after all. He has better things to do.

Then, right as he's getting ready to give up, she says, ''Emma was babysitting my son.''

He tries not to react too much, but he can feel his jaw go slack at the admission. He can't help it. That was not something he could have guessed. No offense but there is nothing maternal about this woman. He thinks back to Dean's reaction to learning that his double's daughter had died while babysitting. He seemed to read between the lines. He knew. Not for the first time, Sam wonders how much of her his brother has gotten to know since she broke into this world. ''You have a son?''

She looks away from the moon and back to him. ''He was eight,'' she says. She looks more like Laurel now than ever. ''He was big into science and physics and the mechanics of things. He was so smart. He wanted to become an engineer when he grew up.'' She says it all flatly and mechanically, as if trying to distance herself from the roiling storm inside of her. The past tense is not lost on him, answering a question he hadn't yet asked. ''I was supposed to take him that night,'' she says. ''He was so excited.'' There's a silence and he does his best to pretend he doesn't notice that she's starting to struggle. ''But I couldn't get off work and neither could Dean so Emma offered to take him. She knew how important it was to him. ...They both...'' Her voice is tight and on the edge. ''We don't know the specifics of what happened, but they were both, um, hurt. Very badly. My son - He...died a few days later in the hospital. Emma coded on the way to the hospital. Massive internal bleeding, I think.''

Sam tries to come up with something better to say than I'm sorry. That doesn't feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough. ''I'm so sorry.''

She slips her gaze over to him, tiny mocking smile twisted onto her lips. ''Everybody's sorry,'' she says, echoing her Dean's earlier statement.

''He blames you for that night?'' Sam asks.

''He didn't,'' she says. ''Not for a long time. But there was - There was a lot that happened after. We both...changed. Probably too much to be together.''

He looks at her, startled. That's the first time he's heard her admit that they were together in some way. He wonders if she even realizes what she just let slip.

''He said he needed to be stronger,'' she says, trying to shake herself out of the grief she's been pushed back into.

''Right. Yes. You heard that?''

''I think that was because of me. After what happened...'' Her lips thin. ''Losing my son was what triggered my scream. I wanted to use it for revenge. I was determined to kill Harrison Wells. I wanted him to suffer the way I had,'' she says. ''I wanted him to hurt the way my baby hurt. And I wanted him to look at me when I did it.'' The seething hatred is still plain as day in her voice even years after the explosion. He can't blame her for that. ''But Dean...'' She laughs then, a caustic sort of chuckle. ''Revenge was never his game. If you can believe that. He was too rational for that. Pragmatic.''

Well, that's...ironic.

''I don't know if he wanted to stop me or help me, I don't even think he knew, but he believed he needed to be stronger to save me. Azazel must have preyed on that.'' She slumps back against the bumper of the Impala, looking drained. ''There's a lot he blames me for.''

Sam looks at her for a minute, taking in how exhausted she looks. She's much less threatening right now, but he still doesn't trust her. He broaches the subject with caution, moving next to her, but not too close. ''Dinah,'' he says. ''I - I don't want to make any assumptions about whatever your life was like or whatever you two were to each other, but you cared about each other once. You still care about him. I think something in him still cares about you.''

She jerks her head up to give him a sharp stare at that.

''But I think you need to know that what happened to him is not on you,'' he tells her. ''If what he said about Azazel was true, if that really happened then it wouldn't have mattered. What you did or didn't do. Even what he thought he needed to do to save you. Azazel would have gotten to him one way or another. If he knew about Emma, he had his way in. He's manipulative. He wants what he wants and he knows how to get it. He may not have realized what he was creating with Dean, but he was going to create it regardless. What happened to him was not your fault.'' He tries to say it firmly but kindly, stepping in front of her to meet her eyes, but he's not sure it's getting through. ''It was out of your hands.''

She stares at him for a beat, gaze even, eyes locked on his. ''Out of my hands,'' she repeats, voice low. She looks off to the side, her eyes tracking Dean, his Dean, as he moves. When she looks back to Sam, her eyes are alarmingly piercing and angry. ''I killed him,'' she says coldly. She waits for him to say something to that, to condemn her, and seems disappointed when he does not. ''He begged me to do it,'' she goes on. ''The Mark - He said it was making him something he didn't want to be. And it was. It was rotting him from the inside out. I saw it happening. He was different. He was colder. Full of rage. He was losing everything. And he was in pain.'' Her voice seems to die in her throat. ''He,'' she clears her throat. ''He was becoming dangerous. And he begged me. He pleaded with me to help him. I was all he had left. I was the only one. So I did it.'' She peers up at him with unflinching eyes. ''I killed him.''

He doesn't know why, but he's not all that stunned by that.

''Neither of us knew he would come back,'' she says. ''Certainly not like this. But he did. And nothing I did could stop him once he turned.'' Her breath hangs in the cold night air. ''Everything that's happened since,'' she says, pushing off the Impala. ''Everything he's done - That's on me.'' She pulls herself up to her full height, still glaring at him with searing anger and an intense grief. ''Don't tell me this was out of my hands, Sam. My hands are what caused this.''

When she slips away from him and spins on her heel to leave, he tries to come up with something to say that will stop her, but there is nothing left to say.

She still stops, all on her own. ''You think you can save him,'' her voice is softer, more familiar. ''You think because he saved you that might mean there's something left of him in that monster.'' She turns back around to face him, just for a moment. ''I'm telling you right now there's not,'' she warns. ''Sometimes he lets you live. That doesn't mean it was a kindness. I have tried to get him back, I want him back, but there's nothing left to save, Sam. Even if you could get him back, if you could somehow strip away the demon and bring the man he was back, he would never be able to live with what he's done. He was a good man. Now he's gone. There's just - '' She stops, shaking her head, winding her arms around herself. ''It's just a body. Don't get yourself into trouble trying to breathe life back into it.'' She doesn't wait for a response, turning to stomp away, leaving him alone in the darkness.

Sam watches her go, raising a hand to his sore head, knowing she's right. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. Some things are too far gone. Sometimes the fire keeps burning and there's nothing you can do to stop it. But. ...If this had been his doppelganger, if there was another Sam running around out there, Dean would still try. He would. He would do anything. Any Dean would pull any Sam from the fire.

The least Sam can do is try to return the favor.

.

.

.

Tacoma, Washington

Sara drags her feet as much as she can, trying to give her sister a few minutes to cool off. She slips down the hallway, quiet as a mouse, footfalls practically nonexistent, her old stealth training kicking in. When she rounds the corner at the end of the hall, she finds Laurel, crouched in front of Edie's closed bedroom door, picking the lock with the bobby pin. Sara watches silently for a moment, mildly surprised by how comfortable Laurel looks doing that.

The idea of Laurel Lance being some master lock picker would have been hilarious a few years ago.

Sara takes a deep breath and approaches. ''Dean teach you how to do that?''

Laurel tenses at Sara's unexpected appearance, but brushes it off, concentrating on what she's doing. ''He didn't have to. I already knew how.''

Sara props one shoulder up against the wall. ''Really? You?''

''Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't as much of a buzzkill as people seem to think I was. I was usually the one tasked with breaking into the liquor cabinets.''

''Why you?''

There is, for a flicker, a tiny smirk on Laurel's face. ''Because they knew no one would ever suspect me.''

Wow, that's... That's diabolical. Hats off to the Three Musketeers.

Sara watches Laurel patiently fiddle for the lock, waiting for that telltale click. ''Just so you know,'' she starts. ''I wasn't saying I wanted to change who you are. I would never - ''

There's a click and Laurel exclaims, ''Got it!'' She straightens up and pushes the bedroom door open, completely ignoring Sara's attempted apology.

Sara rolls her eyes before following after her. She flips the light switch Laurel has neglected and as soon as light floods the bedroom, a nervous laugh is bubbling up in her throat. ''Whoa,'' she mumbles. ''Let's do the Time Warp again.''

Edie's bedroom looks exactly the way she would have left it. It's unnervingly preserved like she was just here, like she's going to walk back in through that door at any minute, a pimply, scrawny fifteen year old with too much smudged makeup and a love of Mazzy Star.

''It's like a lifetime of 1995,'' she says, eyeing the posters on the wall.

''I don't think anyone's ever touched her room since the accident,'' Laurel says, entering the room uncertainly, with a pained looking wince. ''I feel bad to...'' She trails off, seemingly unsure. ''Let's just...'' She stops again, looking around. ''Be careful here. Whatever she's done, I don't want to hurt Valerie.''

Sara puts down the copy of Jagged Little Pill, still in the plastic packaging, waiting for Edie to get home from her dance recital in Bellingham. ''All right, hang on a minute.'' She takes out her phone and snaps a few pictures of the room at various angles. ''Reference photos,'' she says. ''If we move anything, we can - ''

''Do you feel that?''

Sara lowers her phone, turning back to a fidgety looking Laurel. ''Feel what?''

''I - I don't know.'' Laurel looks around again, eyes somewhat wild, as if she is frantically searching for something. Her eyes linger on a picture on the desk of Edie and her late best friend. ''There's something wrong with this room.''

Sara looks around, but sees only a teenage girl's bedroom. ''Wrong how?''

Laurel looks sick somehow, weak and stricken with some intense emotion that doesn't quite fit her. Calmly, albeit with shaking hands, she puts the picture back down. ''I don't think - '' Her fingers curl around the desk chair. ''She doesn't want me here.''

Sara tenses, eyes scanning the room for some an apparition. ''Who? Edie?''

Laurel nods. ''It feels like she's pushing me out.'' She sets her jaw, steely resolve setting in. ''Which means we're in the right place.''

''Maybe you should wait outside.''

''I'm not giving her what she wants.'' Laurel moves over to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer. ''You got the closet?''

Sara keeps her eyes fixed on her, but, eventually, does what she's told. She ducks into Edie's ridiculously large walk in, spends a minute wishing she'd had a walk in closet when she was fifteen, and then gets to work. In no time at all, she learns that Edie's two greatest loves at fifteen were makeup and music. She really loved eyeliner. And Doc Martens. It's all very nineties.

Her music collection, mostly CDs, which takes up a fair sized chunk of the wall in the closet, is categorized and alphabetized. It's like if Jen Lindley and that wannabe Jen Lindley from One Tree Hill had a baby and then went back in time to raise that baby in the perpetual nineties. It's also a bit like a graveyard. Music is personal, revealing, and Edie's collection is no different.

Sara skims the CDs, all neatly in their places, and figures out quickly that, at fifteen years old, Edie was already full of secrets.

There's a lot of grunge - Nirvana, Soundgarden, Mudhoney, 7 Year Bitch, the Melvins, Screaming Trees - and a lot of Riot Grrl music - Hole, Calamity Jane, Bikini Kill, Heavens to Betsy - but that's all to be expected given that she was a teenager living in the Pacific Northwest in the nineties. It's all the other stuff that gets the gears working in her head. Mazzy Star, Tori Amos, PJ Harvey, Kate Bush, Team Dresch, Jill Sobule, Placebo, the Murmurs, and the Indigo Girls. Freaking Ani DiFranco.

There is also, tucked inside a copy of Little Earthquakes, a photograph. It's of Edie and her best friend and it's - uh. Let's just say it has an entirely different vibe than the picture of them on the desk.

In that picture, the girls are younger, around nine or ten, and they are sitting on a rocky beach on a gray, foggy day in raincoats and rain boots, grinning at the camera, still young and innocent.

In this picture, the one Edie chose to hide away and keep only for herself, the girls are older, the candid photo likely taken not long before the accident. They are still young, but they have lost a little baby fat, not grown yet but growing into their bodies. It looks like it was taken at a party, possibly snapped by a friend, there are other teenage limbs in the picture, some of them blurred, most off to the side, but the focus is on the two girls sitting alone on the couch, both of them focused on the other, presumably whispering and giggling together. There is a familiar sly look in Edie's eyes, easily glimpsed even from her profile, and she's got her hand on her friend's knee. It's not a picture of two friends.

She steps out of the walk in and looks around the room with fresh eyes, picking up on things she missed before. Little things. Certain posters on the wall, certain books on the shelves, etcetera, etcetera.

Oh, okay, she sees what's going on here.

Guess Edie's music collection wasn't the only thing in the closet back in 1995.

''Sooo...'' She raises an eyebrow and puts a well-worn copy of The Price of Salt back on the bookshelf, hidden from view behind a jewelry box. ''Edie's gay, huh?''

Laurel, pawing through the desk drawers, stops what she's doing to swivel around in the desk chair and gape at Sara. ''How could you possibly know that?''

''Girl's got an awful lot of Virginia Woolf on that bookshelf,'' Sara says, pointing a finger at the books. ''And her CD collection gives it away.''

''Her CD collection?''

''Music can be illuminating.'' Sara moves around the bed to hand over the photograph. ''Also this.''

Laurel takes it and looks at it, but doesn't have much of a reaction beyond, ''It feels intrusive to be looking at this.''

''You don't seem surprised.''

''I'm not.'' Laurel hands the picture back over. ''I don't feel right speculating about someone else's sexuality, but I...'' She eyes the room so intently it's like she's searching for prying eyes. ''I wondered,'' she confesses. ''I know she loved to dance, but the whole ballet thing... I don't think she wanted to be a ballerina. I think she did it - ''

''Because of a girl,'' Sara finishes, nodding her head.

Yep, been there.

''Because of the girl,'' Laurel corrects. ''Siobhan Sweeney.'' She turns back to put the contents of the top drawer away. ''Plus, I think there was something going on between her and Lady Shiva at some point. Again,'' she throws a look over her shoulder. ''We really shouldn't be speculating about someone else's sexuality. But there were definitely vibes there.'' She pulls open the second drawer. ''Then again she also seems to be in some kind of relationship with Ricky Moretti. I guess it could be one sided, but a guy like that isn't going to go all Kevin Costner in Bodyguard unless he's getting something from it. He's a pig like that. The worst kind of man.''

''Well.'' Sara plops down on the side of the bed, eyeing the lava lamp on the bedside table. ''Regardless of how she identifies, she's terrible representation for the community. I hate the Evil Gay trope. It's so harmful and reductive.''

''I'll be sure to mention that the next time I see her,'' Laurel remarks dryly. She goes back to rifling through the desk drawers and Sara goes back to looking at the picture in her hand.

The two young girls in the picture look so joyful, enjoying the excitement of puppy love, happy to be learning their way around themselves and their bodies, figuring out who they are with someone they're comfortable with. Sara's almost jealous. At least they had each other. She had to figure things out by herself.

Instead of putting the picture back where she found it, she pockets it. She's not sure what her thought process is there, but it feels important. Perhaps somewhere deep down, a childish part of her still believes that fairytales are possible, that true love can save the day, and good will always triumph over evil. Believes that if she can give this back to Edie, all the coldness will melt away and she'll remember who she is, who she was, and she'll stop what she's doing and come home.

Or maybe she just needs the reminder that Edie was, at one point, just like everyone else. She was young once. She was in love. She liked music and books and eyeliner, she wore short floral dresses with Doc Martens, she was figuring herself out like all teenagers, and she did ballet so she could be close to her girlfriend. She was good before she was bad. The same old story.

Sara looks over at Laurel for a minute, trying to determine how she's doing, and then she fixes her eyes back on the bedside table. Specifically the lava lamp.

She used to have a lava lamp like that when she was a kid. Aunt Natasha got it for her for her birthday one year. Whispered to her that she once had a lava lamp in her room as a teenager. ''They're tacky lamps,'' she said, ''but great for keeping secrets.''

Sara looks over at the table on the other side of the bed, the one with the normal lamp, scattered with belongings. She gets to her feet and heads over to the lava lamp. It's not even plugged in. There's not even an outlet over here that it could be plugged into. Sara lifts up the glass part of the lamp and turns it over.

Not what she was expecting.

''Huh.'' She rips off the small baggie taped to the bottom of the lamp, inspecting it dubiously. Surely that cannot be what she thinks it is. ''Uh, Laurel?''

Laurel turns, eyes widening slightly. ''Is that...?''

''Cocaine?'' Sara holds up the baggie, flicking it. ''I don't know. It sure looks like it, but it can't be, right? She was only fifteen.''

''Rich kids start the party early,'' Laurel reminds her, getting to her feet. ''Thea was thirteen when she first got high.''

''Thirteen?''

''Easy access, zero accountability, a checked out mother, unresolved grief and trauma, boredom while wealthy.'' Laurel sounds oddly apathetic about it. ''It all adds up to this.'' She snatches the baggie from Sara's hand and pulls it open. ''Age old story.'' Before Sara has a chance to stop her, before she even realizes what she's doing, Laurel sticks her pinky finger in the powder and licks a tiny bit off. ''Yeah, that's what you think it is.'' She seals the baggie back up and tosses it back to Sara. ''Standard rich kid debauchery. Not exactly what we're looking for.'' Then she just goes back over to the desk and resumes her search of the drawers. ''If it makes you feel better, it doesn't look like she ever did anything with it.''

Sara stares at her. Well, now she has some questions. The most important one being - ''What am I supposed to do with this? Flush it?''

''Just put it back,'' Laurel advises, pulling open the last drawer. ''No one knows it's there.''

''I know it's there,'' Sara mumbles, but puts the baggie back where she found it anyway. Man, the lives rich kids live. The shit they get away with never fails to weird her out, and she used to hang out almost exclusively with rich kids when she was a teenager. ''Should you have done that?''

''Done what?''

''Tasted it.''

Laurel barely even looks at her. ''It was a miniscule amount.''

''Right, but still.''

''It's not a big deal, Sara.''

Sara crosses her arms. Kinda feels like a big deal. Especially considering she was just drugged and is very obviously still dealing with the fallout from that. ''How do you even know what...?'' She gets halfway through the question and then a sudden and horrible thought occurs to her. ''Oh my god, did you used to get high with Tommy and Ollie?''

Much to her surprise, Laurel bursts into laughter at that. She cackles like it's the most ridiculous suggestion anyone could ever make. ''Ollie could barely even handle weed,'' she gets out. ''You think he was snorting coke the club bathrooms? He was a drinker, but rarely did he partake in any recreational drugs.''

''What about Tommy?''

Laurel still seems amused, but she takes a second to choose her words more carefully. ''Tommy hung around with a lot of people,'' she says. ''Everyone loved him. If I had to guess, he would have been more likely to sell than sample. Max Fuller, though. Total cokehead.''

''Well, yeah, everyone knew that,'' Sara says. ''What about you? You never did drugs, right?''

The pause Laurel has to take before she answers, visibly trying to come up with a lawyerly non answer to that is, like, surreal. ''I'm an addict, Sara,'' she says. ''There are a lot of things I've done that I'm not proud of. I never did cocaine with Oliver or Tommy.'' That is a half answer at best. She stops what she's doing to look at Sara, seemingly giving her a onceover before she admits, ''I did with Max Fuller once.''

''Laurel,'' Sara blurts out, a stunned hiss. ''What the fuck? You did cocaine with Max Fuller?''

''Once. And stop emphasizing every other word like that. It's distracting.''

''That's one time too many. You don't fuck around with cocaine,'' Sara exclaims. ''We don't live in Gossip Girl.''

''No, you're right, we don't,'' Laurel says, impatience bleeding into her tone. ''We live in the Pacific Northwest, a car ride away from Seattle. Do you know how easy it would have been to get my hands on some oxy? Meth? Fucking heroin? I knew how to get it. I knew who to talk to. Everyone did back then. Drugs were a big part of the world I was in then. That's just the way it was. It would have been ridiculously easy to get my hands on some really bad stuff. I could have asked Max, I could have asked Trina Whitley, I could have asked a number of people, and they would have supplied me with whatever I wanted. No questions asked. I'm an addict. I've been an addict for a long time. I'm lucky all I did was mess around with cocaine once. And, by the way, you, of all people, do not get to judge me for the choices I made back then.''

''I'm not judging you,'' Sara protests, even though she can recognize that maybe she was. ''I'm - I don't know.'' She throws her hands up. ''Weren't you the responsible sister?''

''No, people said I was the responsible sister,'' Laurel says. ''There's a difference.''

''Were you alone?''

''I just said I was with Max.''

''That is so much worse than being alone. Fuller's a creep.''

''Yep,'' Laurel agrees tightly. ''Sure is. That didn't matter to me that night. I knew he liked me, I knew he wanted to get back at Oliver for sleeping with his fiancée - even if he was dead - and I used that to score drugs.'' She pauses, licking her lips. ''I know what people thought of me. I know I was supposed to be the good girl. But you can't just drop an already emotionally unstable teenage girl into a toxic world of money, drugs, and booze and expect her to come out unscathed. We both know that. At least I...'' She trails off, eyes darkening. ''I got luckier than you did. I did a little coke. You had to drown.''

Sara would have agreed with her for a long time. But there are many ways to drown. She knows that now. There were no lucky ones. Not in their circle. She sits back down on the bed, studying her older sister, who has far more skeletons in her closet than she ever realized. ''Does Dean know about that night?''

''Yes.''

''Does Dad?''

Laurel's jaw visibly clenches. ''Is there any reason why he should?''

''...No, I guess not. Does anyone else know?''

''I think people have enough ammunition to use against me,'' Laurel says, rubbing at her temples.

It's strange and upsetting to know that when she says ''people'' like that she mostly means Oliver.

''Look, Sara.'' Laurel sighs, closing her eyes briefly. ''It was a bad night. I needed to keep myself awake. I had just been put on a new antidepressant and the fatigue was killer and - and most of the time I used Adderall as an upper, but it wasn't doing the trick so I guess I just thought...'' She looks away, fiddling with a letter opener on the desk. ''I made a bad decision. After the boat went down...'' There is a half pause and then she lifts her eyes back to Sara. ''I made a lot of bad decisions. I was in pain. I couldn't see straight. I was reckless. I don't need you to tell me how stupid I was.''

''I'm not,'' Sara protests weakly. ''I swear. You weren't stupid. You were hurting.'' She tries to swallow down the guilt. ''I never knew how bad it got for you.'' It's weird to think of Dean Winchester as a stable influence, but she is suddenly really glad her sister stumbled into him. He may have come with his own messy baggage, but at least he kept her from wandering down heroin row. ''Did you have a lot of bad nights back then?''

Laurel doesn't answer. She has gone back to poking around the desk and she's frowning down at the last unchecked drawer, opening and closing it curiously.

''Laurel,'' Sara tries to prompt her to answer the question.

All Laurel says is, ''There's something off about this drawer.''

''What?''

She closes the drawer, looks at it, and then opens it back up, perplexed. ''It should be deeper than it is.''

Sara hops to her feet and moves to join her. The bottom drawer on the left side of the desk is full of what looks like old school work of Edie's and a bunch of disorganized random crap, but Laurel's right. It should be deeper. There should be room for more than a stack of seemingly inconsequential papers. The sisters look at each other for a second and then there's a rush to get the junk out of the drawer. Sara raps on the unassuming bottom of the drawer with her knuckles and is met with an unmistakable sound. ''Hollow,'' she declares.

Laurel is already reaching for the abandoned letter opener on the desk. With little difficulty, she pries the false bottom up, revealing a secret compartment with stacks of letters neatly tucked away. There are a few other things at the bottom of the drawer, a large manila envelope, a sparse looking file folder, a magazine open and folded over to a specific page, but the letters are what catch Sara's attention.

She swipes a stack and twists off the elastic band keeping them together. The first letter on the top of the stack is postmarked Oak Island, North Carolina and the date, written on the envelope in Valerie's neat handwriting is August 2006. The body of the letter, presumably written by Edie, is somehow both ordinary and alarming at the same time. In the letter, Edie spends most of her time trying to placate her mother, assuring her she's fine, telling her about how pretty the North Carolina sunsets are, how beautiful the weather is, thanking her for sending money, and telling her, a few times, I didn't really mean what I said last time. Sara has no idea what was said in the previous letter, but something must have spooked Val. The most eyebrow raising part of the letter is a line right near the end, a casual, even flippant remark.

I heard through the grapevine that John Winchester's luck finally ran out, by the way. It's about time. One down, two to go.

A lot to unpack there.

Aside from the ominous one down comment and whatever it was that Edie didn't really mean, this letter, written by Edie to her mother, was written six years after her supposed death.

One of the things she had noticed when going through Danny's journals was that there was a lot of Hart money going toward various charities. Most of them were recognizable charities, a few local ones, and then a few that didn't ring any bells. One of them, Sara remembers, was based in Wilmington, North Carolina. How much do you want to bet that was just Valerie funneling money to her daughter right under poor Uncle Danny's clueless, grieving nose? It also explains why Valerie was so insistent on paying for Laurel's law school. It was guilt money.

Sara tries to ignore the white hot rage boiling in her gut. ''Valerie knew the whole time,'' she says. ''She was helping her. She sent her money. I bet she helped her get out of Washington.'' She flicks through some of the other letters. ''Helped her set up a new life in North Carolina.''

Laurel hums in agreement but doesn't look up from what she's reading.

Sara looks through the other letters, checking the dates Valerie has written on the backs. From what she can tell, the letters started coming in March of 2001 and stopped in December of 2010. There are no letters from recent years.

''She watched them.''

Sara looks up at the sound of Laurel's horrified voice. ''What?''

Laurel hands over the letter she was reading before frantically searching through the other letters. ''She watched them,'' she says again, pulling another letter out of its envelope. ''For years.''

Sara glances down at the first line of the letter Laurel handed her from May 2007. I heard a rumor one of the Winchesters died in South Dakota, but I don't know if it's true. Things are surreal right now. Something's happening, Mom. Something big.

Oh.

Laurel, pale, is slowly putting a letter down on the desk. ''She kept an eye on them,'' she says again, voice low. ''I thought there would be more about me in these letters, but pretty much all of these have updates on the Winchester's location. She watched them.''

Well.

Sara can kind of understand that. If someone hunted you down and failed to kill you, you'd want to make sure you never got on their radar again. By all accounts, post-2000 Edie seemed to move through the same crowds they did. There is mention of witchcraft and hunters even in the earliest letters. It makes sense Edie would want to know where they were at all times so she could avoid them.

She picks up the letter Laurel has just discarded. June 2008. Dean Winchester died last month. I talked to a friend of Bobby Singer's and was able to confirm it. Rumor is it was hellhounds. A nasty way to die. He got what he deserved if you ask me.

Ouch.

That's cold.

''I know why she would want to keep one eye on them,'' Laurel says. ''But...''

She doesn't need to say anything else. ''It's creepy,'' Sara nods. ''I get it.''

Laurel clears her throat and then moves on, taking out the rest of what's in the secret compartment.

Sara sticks with the letters. She sits back down on the bed and tries to skim through as much as she can. While Laurel is poring over whatever else there is, Sara is piecing together Edie's slow but steady decline into witchcraft and what can only be described as madness. There is a lot that isn't in the letters, a lot of pieces of the puzzle conveniently missing, things she likely didn't want to share with her mother, but there is enough info that a picture does begin to form.

A large portion of the earlier letters, even the ones well into 2003, mostly just consist of Edie unloading on her mother, blaming her for everything, for passing down her inheritance, for what happened with John Winchester, unleashing years of pent up anger and hurt. Some of the venomous letters are dripping with hatred and profound pain. But, as time goes on, her tone begins to reluctantly even out. To the naked eye, it appears she's calming down, reaching acceptance, maybe even forgiveness, but Sara doesn't think that's what was going on in Edie's head.

She's not calming down. She's descending into something darker than fury. In the beginning, mentions of witchcraft are sparse. They're there, crumbs dropped here and there, but it's few and far between. But as her tone and language choices begin to change, subtle manipulation tactics evolving into blatant gaslighting and love bombing in order for her to get more money out of her guilt ridden mother, witchcraft becomes more and more prominent in her letters - and her life. She mentions briefly living with a coven in Delaware. She mentions honing her craft. She mentions revenge.

Mentions of Laurel and the Winchesters pick up too as time goes on. From what's in front of her, Sara doesn't think Edie ever actively tried to do anything to the Winchesters. She may have steered a few less than stellar people in their direction - there are multiple mentions of some guy named Gordon Walker, a few references to a Roy and a Walt - but she never once went after them herself, never tried to attack them, not even as she delved deeper into witchcraft and her power grew. She just...kept one eye open for them, like she was waiting.

She kept a home in Oak Island, North Carolina but moved around a lot, learning about witchcraft, visiting various seers and psychics and covens and witch doctors, even a voodoo priestess, to grow her power. If the Winchesters got too close, she picked up and left. She never could outrun them completely. They were everywhere, popping up all across the country, and she was certainly bitter about that, but she never laid a hand on them. Never even tried. She was relieved when John Winchester died, incensed when Dean Winchester somehow came back to life, irate when she learned that they were the cause of the apocalypse that had everyone on edge, but she never made herself an enemy of them.

Her mentions of Laurel, on the other hand, were never bitter. She made sure to keep herself updated on her younger cousin, but not necessarily in a predatory way. She talked with her mother about her, about Laurel being a firstborn daughter, and she never agreed with keeping Laurel in the dark about her inheritance, but she never seemed jealous, never talked about overthrowing her, stealing her power. Certainly never talked about murdering her. Her mentions of Laurel were fairly innocuous. She cared about her. She felt protective of her.

When the boat went down, she was concerned. She asked her mom to watch her, said she had been at Sara's funeral, hidden away in the back, and she was worried about how her young cousin looked and her frame of mind. She asked Valerie to keep an eye on the Starling City news and told her to contact her if Laurel ever started behaving erratically.

I know I'm not supposed to show myself, but if this is her trigger, she wrote, I need to be with her, Mom. She'll be scared. She'll need someone who understands.

Sure, it could have been a ploy, but it reads genuine to Sara. Edie was being consumed by what she was doing, the power she craved, all that darkness she kept chasing, but the girl they loved was still there in 2007, trying to cling to the kindness in her like a life raft. She still loved her family.

Fast forward to when the letters stopped, in 2010, and she was someone else entirely. Her last letters are different - darker, angrier, full of rage and contempt. As far as Sara can tell, that's where it started. That was when the switch was flipped and Edie started concocting her harebrained scheme to manipulate Laurel into walking down a specific path that she paved for her. Girl came unglued in 2010. Like, glaringly so. She talked about Laurel prior, sure, but her ramblings from those last letters are straight up unhinged. As much as Sara hates to admit it, the evidence within these letters suggests that there was one thing that triggered her that she could not come back from.

It was when Dean and Laurel met.

Two extremely different parts of her life - the girl she loved, the one she wanted to protect and the man part of a family she hated with every fiber of her being - converged in an entirely unexpected and unwelcome way and she just...snapped. She lost it. Maybe there could have been outside factors, other things going on in her life and this was just the final straw, but...

She spent years terrified of the Winchesters. She loved Laurel and thought of her as fragile after the boat. It's understandable she would freak out upon learning her former little shadow was falling in love with a man she considered to be a monster.

In fact, what is really painful to read, is that Edie's initial plan was not a power grab. It was a rescue mission. Sara's not sure what changed, why Edie switched goal posts, but it seems like, from her ramblings, at the beginning of her more obsessive stalking, her intentions hadn't been cruel. Her intentions had been to save Laurel.

Sara can almost understand that. What she can't understand is how Edie's intentions got so warped. She doesn't know what changed, but she knows that Edie's last letter, the one from December of 2010, is unreservedly wrathful, so full of searing hatred and poison that it's a startling to read. She warns she's going to show her. She's going to make her see. She rants about how Laurel is disrespecting her and the family and Hazel and Alice Aelard and all the Ellard women who died for this.

They cut it out of me, the last line of the letter reads, so I'm going to cut it out of her.

Seriously, what the fuck?

Did she just lose her marbles all of a sudden? How did things go so off course from November to December? Was it just greed? Ego? Did dark magic completely corrupt her? Rot her from the inside out? Or did she just see something she didn't want to see?

Laurel is happy with Dean. She was happy with him back then. She loves him. She married him. Had a baby with him. She trusts him with her life, her heart, all the parts of her that no one else, not even Sara, not even Oliver, has ever known. Maybe that pissed Edie off. Maybe there are parts of this story that they don't have yet. Or maybe this is just about resentment and pent up anger being taken out on the wrong person.

One thing is for sure: Laurel is not going to like what is in these letters. Sara looks over at her, sitting rigidly at the desk, eyes still on whatever she's looking at. She looks tense and unhappy, jaw clenched, body stiff. Sara slips the last letter back into the envelope and makes a decision. She's going to keep the contents of these last few letters to herself. She stacks the letters, bands them back together with the elastic, leaves most of them on the bed, and snatches up those last letters.

Dean and Laurel are self-loathing enough as it is. She doesn't want to encourage that. There is no reason they should have to blame themselves for everything that's happening now just because they had the audacity to fall in love and build a life together. Fuck that. They deserve to be happy. Whatever happened to Edie was not their fault.

She folds up the letters and tucks them away in the inside pocket of her jacket before she rises to her feet, heading back over to the desk. ''What are you looking at?''

Wordlessly, Laurel slides the magazine over to her.

It's one of those slightly narcissistic rich people newsletter-y things that mostly consists of all the local PNW wasps patting each other on the back for the bare minimum. It's open to a write up of some garden party from the summer of 2012. There are a few pictures splashed on the pages of attendees, but the one on the bottom right is the one that catches Sara's eye. It's Aunt Valerie and Uncle Danny, posing in the sunshine, smiling for the camera. The caption identifies the other couple as Dr. Alan Lovejoy and his wife Katherine.

Apparently the party was a fundraiser for a charity that Dr. Lovejoy, the newly retired Chief of Surgery at the hospital Danny works at, founded. The write up talks about the charity and about Dr. Lovejoy himself, going into his achievements in medicine and his recent retirement. There's an interview with him where he talks mostly about his charity, but also about how much he's looking forward to spending more time at home with his new wife Katherine - who, by the way, is significantly younger than him.

He's an old dude, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. At least in his seventies. She's in her early to mid-thirties at the most. She's a young, leggy, beautiful blonde with coy eyes and a wide, white smile. Pretty much what you'd expect from a stereotype.

Sara might be missing something here? She doesn't see the relevance. She lowers the magazine and shuffles through what Laurel has pulled out of the file folder and the manila envelope. It's all about Katherine ''Katie'' Lovejoy. There are legitimate PI surveillance photos of her. Getting coffee, picking out peaches at a Farmer's Market, going to the gym, out on a lunch date with Dr. Lovejoy. There is a photocopy of their marriage certificate, pictures from the wedding in Turks and Caicos in 2011, even a list with dates and times of her daily schedule. She likes to go to the gym a lot.

Everything goes back to Katie Lovejoy and her bubbly grin.

Sara is hopelessly lost.

''When I first met the witch,'' Laurel says. ''When she was in my head, she told me that she'd had lots of names. One of the names she gave me was Katherine.''

Sara picks up one of the pictures from the Lovejoy wedding. Despite the noticeable age difference, they look like any other couple on their wedding day. Bright smiles, flushed with excitement, dripping with exuberant joy. ''You think Katherine Lovejoy is - ''

''Edie,'' Laurel finishes. ''It makes sense.''

''I'm sorry, but how does this make sense?''

''I told you. She can change her appearance. She can look like anyone she wants. Including a pretty blonde Hallmark Channel looking gold digger.''

''Yeah, but - ''

''I'm telling you,'' says Laurel. ''Katherine Lovejoy is Edie.'' She plucks one of the surveillance photos from the pile and hands it over. ''It would explain everything. Where she's getting her funding. How she's been able to be here, one eye on me, one eye on - presumably - her mother, without anyone recognizing her. And I'm not just - '' She sighs, sounding resigned. ''I know Katie Lovejoy,'' she admits. ''She and Alan were one of CNRI's biggest donors. They moved out of Tacoma after he retired and ended up between Seattle and Star City so they would go to events in both places. We'd see each other at fundraisers and say hi. Every now and then she'd drop by the office with baked goods. She'd ask about Mary, I'd ask about her yappy dogs. She's high up on the socialite food chain around these parts.'' She sifts through the papers on the desk and passes over a print out of an obituary. ''Especially after Alan died and left her everything.'' She leans back in her chair. ''He was found face down in their pool. Coroner said he had a heart attack, fell in, and drowned. That was in the spring of 2015. Right before Edie started her final play. She'd slotted everything into place over the years, she was ready to knock me down, there was no need for him anymore.''

Holy shit, that's...insane. That is batshit insane. Sara skims over the obituary but abandons it in favor of the photo Laurel handed her of Katherine. It's different from the others. It's Katherine in a parking garage, phone held to her ear. Unlike all the other pictures of her, there is a noticeable change in her body language. Her normally warm and open eyes are cold and closed off, all that bubbliness replaced by...something else. Just something different. It's evident that this is the one time she didn't realize she was being photographed. Even in all the other surveillance photos, she still kept that perky mask on. This one caught her off guard.

Sara puts the picture down and goes back to the magazine, re-examining the picture of the Lovejoys with Valerie and Danny. She tries to study her aunt's body language and the expression on her face, trying to work out if she knew who she was standing next to. If she somehow sensed it. Felt it. She flips to another page, the last page about the garden party, and instantly spots one. It's a picture of Alan and some other rich old fart, but in the background, at separate tables, there's Valerie and Katherine, with Valerie noticeably turned around to stare at the back of sunny Mrs. Lovejoy's head. The look on her face isn't suspicion or shock or ''oh my god, it's my dead daughter.'' It's fear.

''Valerie figured it out,'' Sara says.

''As soon as she met Katie, I bet,'' Laurel nods. ''There are some things that you just...'' She trails off, looking down at the desk. ''I would know Mary anywhere.''

''You know,'' Sara muses, dropping the magazine back down. ''None of this,'' she gestures to the surveillance photos, ''suggests she was happy to see her.'' She thinks of those last letters Edie sent, about I'm going to cut it out of her. ''She's known for a while that Edie isn't the same girl we lost.''

''Then she should have told someone,'' Laurel bites out. ''She could have warned me. She could have stopped this.'' She looks up. ''Do you think Mom knew?''

''I...'' Sara genuinely does not know how to answer that. ''I don't know.''

''But it's possible, right?''

''It- ''

''What about Aunt Nat? Or - Or Grandma? How many lies did she tell me?'' That's where her voice breaks. She's been off tonight, all day really, hard where she's normally soft, too numbed to do much but shrug, but now she looks shaky. Like it's all ready to spill out. ''How many of my loved ones were involved in letting me die? How long have I been dying without even - '' She shakes her head. ''I don't understand,'' she chokes out. ''I don't know what - I was good, wasn't I?'' She turns pleading eyes to Sara. ''I didn't do anything wrong. How could I mean so little to my own family? I loved them.''

''Laurel - ''

''No.'' Abruptly, Laurel tries to brush it off, dodging Sara when she reaches for her and rising to her feet. ''No, it's fine. Never mind.'' She sniffles and hastily wipes at her eyes. ''I'm fine.''

''Laurel, you're not fine,'' Sara says firmly. ''You can't possibly be fine. And that's okay. I promise that's okay. I'm not either. This is screwed up. This is so screwed up.''

Laurel sniffles again, but doesn't say anything, pacing around the room restlessly. She pushes the pink curtains away to peek out the window and rakes a trembling hand through her hair. ''Everything that's happened,'' she says. ''It just... It's hard to shake.''

''I get that,'' Sara says. ''If you - '' She bites her lip. ''We could talk. If you want.''

''I wouldn't know where to start.''

''Okay, well, you don't have to.'' Sara frowns, watching Laurel curl her arms around her middle, practically shrinking before her eyes. ''I just want you to know I'm here.''

Laurel nods, a jerky movement. She looks cagey right now, reaching up with a shaky hand to brush away the tears she can't seem to stop from falling. She looks like she's on the verge of something, rapidly coming apart. Sara hates to admit it - because it's pathetic - but she has a fear of her sister having a panic attack in her presence these days. She's just not who anyone would want with them during that situation. She's not a comforting person.

But Laurel doesn't have a panic attack. Instead, she just sags. Drops onto the edge of the bed and deflates. ''When I... When I died...'' But then she pauses, mouth working soundlessly. ''It's all so vivid in my head, you know?''

Sara nods silently, even though she does not actually know. It's hard to come back once you're gone. She knows that. She still has her own issues stemming from her unceremonious return. She still has nightmares. Still lives with the guilt of what she did while she was soulless. All that blood on her hands. She tries not to let it show around Laurel because she doesn't want her to feel guilty. But it's... It's hard to come home. It's unnatural. Sometimes she feels like an alien in this world. Or a crime. Her very existence is wrong. She has to live with that. Still, in a way, she thinks she might be lucky in some small way. She doesn't have vivid memories of her death. It's gotten lost somewhere along the line. It's hazy.

There was a rooftop, she remembers. It hurt, she remembers. Laurel was there, she remembers. That's mostly what she remembers. Laurel was there. She was holding her. That's about it. She thinks the shock must have protected her mind from the worst of it. She remembers coming home, but she doesn't remember leaving.

It appears Laurel doesn't have that kind of protection. She has to live with the agony of both death and life.

''I didn't get those seven months to come to terms with what happened,'' Laurel goes on. ''For me, it's all still right here. Like it was yesterday. I remember how it felt when the arrow...'' She looks nauseated. ''I remember how the concrete felt and the taste of the blood and how cold I was. I didn't understand why I was so cold. I have nightmares every night. Sometimes it's the grave. Sometimes it's Iron Heights. I always seem to end up back there.'' She stops to take a few breaths, visibly wrestling with something. ''Even when I'm awake, if I close my eyes... It's like I slip.'' She hunches over, still holding her middle like she's trying to keep her body from falling apart. ''It's like I'm not really here,'' she says. ''Like I left something behind in the dirt. I can't get away from the cold.''

Sara tentatively moves to take a seat beside her. ''I remember the cold.''

''I'm - I'm such a hypocrite too,'' Laurel says, tiny half smirk on her lips. ''I keep telling people to let it go, leave that night behind, move on, walk away, but I can't walk away from it myself. I know no good can come from staying down, I'm watching it eat Dean alive, but I can't... I can't...'' The poor thing looks like she's using every ounce of energy left in her to keep from bursting into tears. ''This thing, this horrible thing happened to me. I was the bloody one. I was the dead one. I still am. I don't get to just let that go. I don't get to walk away. My body still remembers.''

Now that Sara can totally understand. Sometimes she wonders if she's still drowning, still falling. If she ever made it out of the water. If she's even hit the ground yet in that dirty alley. ''Yeah,'' she says. ''It's hard to be the dead girl, isn't it?''

Laurel tries to chuckle. ''I'm - I'm supposed to be the strong one,'' she gets out, and that's where she hits her limit, dissolving into tears. ''I'm the daughter that lived. Except I didn't, did I? I got killed off, and nothing is - It's not getting better.'' She struggles to pull it together, trying desperately to stifle her sobs. ''I feel like every day just gets harder. I know I've got all these people on my side, I know you're here and Dean's here and Thea and Dad, I know I'm loved, I swear I do, but - I don't... I don't think this is something love can fix. I'm not the same person I was before. I never will be again.''

''I know,'' Sara says. ''You know I know what that's like.''

Laurel looks over at her. ''I thought that knowing who was behind this would help me. At least give me some sort of direction to go in, but...knowing that it was Edie... It doesn't help. It just makes everything so much worse. And now, with Valerie... We don't know how deep this goes. How many chances there were to stop her or save her or...''

''Save you,'' Sara finishes. She's not sure where to go from here. ''Laurel,'' she says. ''If you can tell me what you need me to do to help you, I'll do it. I'll do anything.''

''I don't know what I need.'' Laurel tries to straighten up. Get it together. ''I can't be the strong one right now,'' is what she eventually comes up with. ''It's too much. I'm in pain. I'm in a lot of pain.''

''Okay,'' Sara says. She wants to say more, but she doesn't know what she can say. She knows there are no words that can possibly help with this. She watches her sister pull herself together, tiredly picking up all her scattered pieces once again all by herself.

Laurel rises back up to her feet and goes back over to the desk, distractedly telling Sara they should head home as she puts everything back in its place. Everything but the letters.

Sara thinks of the sorrowful look on her dad's face when he had to tell her about Laurel's death. She thinks of Dean, struggling to keep from falling to pieces, left to raise Mary all alone, barely sleeping, trapped with all the remnants of a dead wife - the empty side of the bed, phantom traces of her perfume, the gradually disappearing scent of her clinging to pillows. She thinks of Mary and that unwashed nightshirt she called Mommy because there was no living being left to hold that title. And she thinks of Laurel's grave, a shrine before that statue, covered in stones and flowers and the grief of well meaning strangers.

It's hard to be the dead girl. It might've been even worse to be the daughter that lived.

Last November, almost exactly one year ago, her sister brought her back to life. Pulled her out of the dirt with her own hands and lowered her into the water. Neither of them knew it at the time, but it was one of her last acts of love. A few months later, she was gone, cold and in the ground before Sara could even get to her, leaving behind a little girl and an unpayable debt.

Well, she's back now.

Their mother is a questionable woman, but one thing she taught them is that Drake women pay their debts.

''Laurel,'' Sara says. ''Every day I lived was for you.''

Laurel closes the top drawer of the desk and turns around. ''What?''

''I tried,'' Sara says evenly. ''I want you to know that. I did try to bring you back. For months. I searched and searched for a way to bring you home, but I couldn't. It wasn't up to me. When I couldn't bring you home, when I failed, I...'' She tries to work around the rock in her throat. ''There was nowhere I could go where you - where you were.'' Her voice shakes. ''I - I guess that's not entirely - You were everywhere. And nowhere. But I wanted you with me,'' she insists. ''So I kept you here.'' She places a hand on her chest, over her heart. ''And I thought about you all the time. I hoped you were happy. I hoped you were in the sun. And every day I lived was for you. Every day. I figured I owed you that much.''

''You don't owe me anything.''

''Yes, I do,'' Sara says, calm but firm. ''I do. And you have to let me. You have to let me owe you because that's where I am right now. I haven't healed yet. I need more time. I think...'' She takes a few steps closer. ''So do you. It's okay if you're not up to moving on right now. You need to know that. It's a good goal to have. It's a good endgame. You deserve to live again, but you've been wounded. All wounds need time to heal. You don't need to rush it. Take your time.'' She attempts a smile. ''You've lost a lot. You're allowed to grieve,'' she tells her. ''It's safe for you to do that.''

Laurel looks up sharply at that, at the reassurance of safety, and something about the wide eyed wonder in her eyes makes Sara feel sick and sad.

''I - I'm sorry if - '' That's where Sara stumbles. ''I know things haven't always been...'' She stops again. Takes a breath and starts over. ''Please, please know that you're safe with me, Laurel,'' she practically pleads. ''All I ask for in return is that you let us listen. Wherever you are, no matter what, I'll sit there with you while you heal. I promise, okay?'' She brings a hand up to touch Laurel's cheek. ''I promise I'm not leaving you this time.''

Laurel, too stubborn for her own good, looks like she wants to melt into the soft touch, but doesn't. She tenses and Sara has no choice but to draw her hand back, watching her sister's wild at heart eyes, just like Aunt Nat's, seek out the door. She doesn't run, though she looks like she wants to. Just sinks back down onto the edge of the bed. She doesn't seem to know what to do with the kindness. She sits there for a moment, seemingly blank, and then she looks back up at Sara, waiting patiently, still there. ''I - I think I...'' There is the faintest tremor running through her body when she finally says, eyes bright, ''Sara, I think I need some help. With this. I don't know how to... I don't know what to do.''

Sara doesn't know how to explain, even how to understand herself, the profound feeling of relief that warms her from the inside out when she hears her say those words. She wants to rush over and hug her, but she just sits next to her on the bed and reaches over to take her hand. ''I can give you that,'' she promises.

This promise, she intends to keep.

.

.

.

end part fifteen

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AN: Additional (spoilery) warnings for this chapter: While it is minor, there is some casual ableism in this chapter. Some intentional from Dinah (Black Siren) who is just trying to be inflammatory and some unintentional from Sara.

Suicide and suicide attempts are heavily featured in two parts of this chapter. One: A minor character is forced via mind control to kill himself. Two: Sara learns more about her aunt's history of severe mental illness and there is in depth, somewhat graphic talk of several failed suicide attempts.

It's not explicitly mentioned (other than Sara referring to her as ''off'') but Laurel's mental state is not good at all within the time frame of this chapter and she spends much of it in a borderline dissociative state until she becomes overwhelmed and breaks down at the very end.