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.

17. What You Were Will Not Happen Again

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: The opening flashback of this chapter is told from the POV of someone in the middle of a severe mental health crisis. It's not...a happy flashback. It deals with addiction, depression, PTSD, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and what is essentially the rock bottom of a nervous breakdown. It was a rough one to write and I know it might be a rough one to read. Please proceed with caution.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Seventeen

What You Were Will Not Happen Again

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February, 2014

Laurel is watching her family from underwater.

She can hear them and she can see them and they are right there, but she is far away. It's dinner time. She has grown to loathe dinner time. The forced conversation. The togetherness of it all. The monotony. She would rather be in bed. It is exhausting to have to be here. Her head hurts. She's not hungry.

She takes a sip of water. She thinks of Sara, who is not, it would appear, underwater. It's still so strange to think about. To accept.

A year ago, Laurel might have cared about that. It is not a year ago. She does wonder what Sara is doing right now. If she's with Mom and Dad. If she's angry. If she's sorry. She's not sorry. Why would she be? She never has been before. She got away with it, the way she always has, the way she always will. Laurel can't even get away with being alive. She was punished for that for so long. For being here when Sara wasn't. For being the daughter that lived. Sara won't even be punished for putting them through the past six years.

Laurel takes another sip of water.

Her baby is sitting in her high chair next to the table, her tiny fingers happily stuffing bits of roast chicken and potatoes into her mouth. She seems happy tonight, bouncy and full of life, babbling away in between bites, kicking and shrieking joyfully.

God, the shrieking. It is not helping with the headache.

Her husband is watching their little girl, keeping a close, watchful eye on her while she eats, so distracted that he has barely touched his own food. He looks noticeably exhausted tonight, visibly run down, but he is still grinning, still seems sincerely happy to be here with his daughter.

And Laurel is a ghost, a hollowed out, broken down carcass on the other side of the table, stripped down to the bone, separated from them by more than space.

It is what it is.

Frankly, she doesn't much care. She is aware that she should care, that the person she was before would care, but she has not been that person in a long time. There is nothing left of that woman. She died. She deserved to. She was foolish and bright eyed, optimistic and full of love.

Eat the chicken. Don't eat the chicken. Listen to the baby shriek cheerfully. Watch the husband smile with his tired eyes. None of it matters. It'll be the same tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. What else is there? Nothing really. People will tell you there is, but they're lying. It doesn't get better. We know that. We just like to lie to ourselves.

Laurel spears a potato with her fork, but cannot bring herself to eat it. It probably wouldn't stay down anyway. She's pretty sure she's getting a migraine. She shifts in her seat, restless, itching for the bottle of wine she put in the fridge earlier.

Thinking about that only makes her angry. She didn't ask to be here, you know. She asked him not to touch her wine. He poured it down the kitchen sink. She looks at him for a minute, raising her eyes to him and when he looks away from Mary, he catches her.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen is the sound of forks and knives scraping against the plates, the sound of Mary babbling away to her dad.

Dean is the one who eventually breaks the silence, putting down his fork. ''So - what? You're not even going to talk to me?''

Laurel pushes her plate away from her. ''What do you want me to say?''

He sighs. He sounds frustrated. ''Look, I get that you're pissed, but - ''

''You get that I'm pissed,'' she repeats dully, raising her head to look at him. ''Really? Do you get how disrespectful that was?''

''Disrespectful,'' he echoes, sounding slightly incredulous. ''That's funny.''

''You destroyed something that didn't belong to you.''

''Oh my god.'' Now he definitely sounds incredulous, rolling his eyes as if she is the one being unreasonable here.

She's not.

She's not and the look on his face, judgmental and self-righteous just makes her even angrier. How dare he make her the bad guy. How dare he be so hypocritical. ''Is this the kind of thing you're teaching our daughter?'' She asks him, glaring. She only asks the question because she knows it will sting.

He seems unfazed, firing back instantly, easily, ''What are you teaching our daughter? What does she learn from you during the fleeting moments you spend with her? Life sucks, day drink?'' He doesn't seem to care too much about low blows either. ''I poured a bottle of wine down the drain,'' he says. ''I didn't stomp on a family heirloom. Yes, I think it's ridiculous you're acting this way about a bottle of wine.''

''It was a waste of money.''

''It was a waste of money either way,'' he argues. ''And you know what? I'd do it again.''

Therefore, they have arrived at a stalemate.

Feeling shamed but also angry that she's feeling shamed, she crosses her arms over her chest and holds his gaze, steely eyed and indignant.

He is, ultimately, the first one to look away. It doesn't feel like a victory. ''I thought you said you didn't need it anyway.''

''That's not the point,'' she says weakly.

''Kinda feels like the point,'' he mutters, going back to his dinner. Now he won't look at her at all.

In her high chair, Mary grunts in annoyance and throws a piece of chicken at her father. She seems surprised when it flies through the air, but her surprise morphs into absolute delight when he catches it and then pops it into his mouth and winks at her. She starts laughing, that fully body giggle that is so Mary, the one that sums up her entire little personality, the one that used to make Laurel feel so wonderfully warm inside.

It only makes her cringe now and she doesn't even have the energy to feel guilty about that anymore. Her head is already pounding, like it so often is these days. All the shrieks and giggles are the last things she needs.

Mary makes another noise, unintelligible through the mushy cooked carrot she has just shoved in her mouth. She's just trying to make sure she has Dean's undivided attention, holding out a piece of potato to him as if she's trying to make him feel better by giving him something, anything, of hers, which has to be something she's learned from him, but Laurel cannot help her physical reaction to the noise. She can't help the grimace, but it's just because the noise hurts.

Dean sees the way she recoils. He doesn't seem to understand that it's just a pained reaction. He looks at her for a second, flickering between stung and exasperated, and then he turns back to Mary, accepting the potato with a pointedly bright smile, gushing his thanks.

Laurel stares down at her mostly untouched plate, resisting the urge to slouch in her seat and disappear. She looks at the food on her plate. The chicken, the potatoes, the roasted vegetables. He makes an effort with dinner. He makes an effort with everything. What would his life be like if he had a partner who could do the same? He'd be less tired, that's for sure. He wouldn't have anything to react to with such disgust and disappointment and contempt either.

She twists at her wedding rings. She is going to replace the bottle of wine tomorrow. In the meantime, she knows there is another bottle in the garage. Chardonnay. Not her usual taste, but it will do in a pinch. It will at least take the edge off her migraine.

Dean will not approve of that.

Really, what is the point of this? What are they doing here? He doesn't even like her anymore. She's not sure she remembers how it feels to like anything at all. Why is he wasting his time? Why are they putting themselves through this? Why are they putting Mary through this?

Despite everything, she still has rationality and logic to fall back on. She knows if he divorces her and they sell the house, he could use the money to take Mary to Kansas or South Dakota. They could start fresh; build a life there, closer to his family and his roots. They could have a nice life together. Just the two of them. They would be so much better off. Away from Laurel. She's been thinking about that a lot lately. Ever since the disaster that was Christmas.

''Did you call Joanna back?''

She looks up at him when he speaks, caught off guard by the sound of his voice. ''What?''

''Joanna,'' he repeats. ''You know, your best friend. I think you've met her once or twice. She called earlier when you were in the bath. You said you'd call her back later.''

Oh. Right. That. She never did get in the bath, did she? She filled the tub, she lit the candles, added a few drops of essential oil to the water. She meant to get in. She was supposed to take a few minutes to herself to relax. She paced the bathroom instead. Just wrapped herself in a towel and paced until the water got cold, trying to walk off the feeling in her chest, smooth out the rough fuzzy edges of whatever this is. She can't remember why she did that. She can't remember what she was trying to outrun. That is all she does nowadays. She attempts to run. She loses time.

''I'll call her back tomorrow,'' she says, and has to swallow something down, something thick and hot and painful.

He looks at her for a second. ''I'm not trying to pressure you, but she did pull a lot of strings to get you this interview at her firm.''

''I didn't ask her to do that,'' she responds, instinctively defensive, perhaps overly so.

''She's just trying to help.''

''I'm not a receptionist. The position is for a receptionist. I'm a lawyer.''

He is still just sitting there looking at her. He seems like he is purposefully biting his tongue, probably doing his best not to mention that she is not a lawyer anymore. ''If you want me to get a job,'' he starts slowly, like he's tiptoeing through tall weeds. ''Just say the word.''

See, there he goes again. Making an effort. Trying his best. He's kind of an idiot sometimes. Hasn't he figured it out yet? He's married to a dead thing. This is not worth the effort.

''We can make that work,'' he goes on, still trying. ''You can stay home with Mary.''

''I don't want to stay home with - '' Laurel stops talking, clamping her mouth shut. She closes her eyes. Her voice sounds pathetic, small and child-like. She can't even bring herself to look at Mary. ''I don't want to stay home,'' she says, careful with her wording this time. ''I'm not good at that.''

He seems both hesitant and determined to go on. ''Well, we're going to need to figure something out. We're okay right now, we have some savings, but we have a child and a mortgage. We can't both be unemployed.'' He looks over at Mary. He tries to smile at her, but there's an uncomfortable look on his face, a faint splash of red. ''I can't get a decent job,'' he confesses, quieter, ashamed. ''I don't have...'' He trails off, clearing his throat. ''The most I'll be able to get is minimum wage. We can swing that if we tighten up the budget and if you stay home, but there is no way we'd be able to afford daycare. That shit is pricey. Especially around here. If you don't want to stay home, that's fine, but you're going to have to - ''

''Can we just talk about this later?'' Laurel rubs at her temples, trying to fend off the migraine. She's irritated and sore. She's tired. She's always tired. She's not in the mood for this.

''Laurel,'' he sighs again. ''We can't keep putting this conversation off.''

''I realize that, but...'' She trails off, feeling sick to her stomach. She doesn't want to think about fucking money right now. She doesn't need the reminder. She knows what she has done to them. She looks at Mary, who is looking right back at her, smiling as if trying to get her mom to smile back at her. Laurel can't smile back, but she keeps looking at her for a moment, guilty and confused as to why it physically hurts her so much to look at her child these days. She looks away without smiling back, heart speeding up anxiously in her chest. ''We're fine for now,'' she manages, tongue heavy in her mouth, raking a hand through her hair, doing her best not to vomit all over the dinner table. ''We don't have to do this right this second.''

There is a heaviness settling over her. A fog. She recognizes it at once. She takes a sip of water, then another, and then rises to her feet. Her fingers twitch and itch for something to do.

Dean watches her go, says something, but she doesn't hear him.

She leaves the kitchen without a word, scurrying into the garage. The bottle of Chardonnay was a wedding present from Aunt Valerie and Uncle Danny. It was a poorly timed gift, given that Laurel was pregnant at the time and Dean was an alcoholic trying to dry out, but it was expensive and she felt guilty giving it away or tossing it. She hid it with Sara's old things. No one ever opens those boxes. Her parents didn't even want to have those boxes in their homes. They knew they would never be able to let go.

Laurel took the boxes. She accepted the wine. She is always shouldering things the rest of her family cannot. She's the good girl, responsible and well-mannered and wretchedly alive. Things are different now. Sara is alive, again, home, as golden as ever, eclipsing her older sister. The daughter that lived gets to disappear again. Melt back into the shadows she grew up in with all these rocks on her back.

That's fine.

Sara can have her things back. She can have Mom and Dad. Laurel just wants the wine. She has earned that much.

She finds the bottle nestled away in Sara's tacky prom dress. She doesn't even think about Dean when she grabs the wine. She doesn't factor in his disapproval or his disappointment. She doesn't even think about Mary. She takes the bottle back into the kitchen, she fumbles around for a corkscrew, ignoring the eyes on her, the annoyed sigh, and she opens the bottle. She pours herself a glass of wine.

Behind her, Dean says, ''Are you serious right now?''

She barely manages to hide a scowl, keeping her back to him. ''Please don't start with me. It's a glass of wine. I can have a glass of wine with dinner.'' She takes both the glass full of wine and the bottle back to the table, sitting back down, keeping the bottle close to her so he can't grab it.

He watches her, expression blank. ''Best to get some alcohol in your system before the withdrawal symptoms get too bad, right?''

She glares at him over the rim of the glass. ''I have a migraine. I've always gotten those.''

''Sure.''

''I am not going through withdrawal,'' she all but growls. ''Addicts go through withdrawal. I'm not an addict. My father is an addict. You're an addict.''

''Jesus, Laurel.''

She's not even sorry for the barb. She's not proud of it, but she's not sorry. ''I drink wine with dinner,'' she says. ''Plenty of people - ''

''With dinner, with lunch, in the bathtub, before bed, lying on the couch in the middle of the day. Last night I caught you sitting outside drinking at three in the morning.''

''I couldn't sleep. I went to check on the garden.''

''And then subsequently decided to drink an entire bottle of wine - ''

''It wasn't an entire bottle!''

'' - In a travel mug all by yourself at three in the morning, in the backyard, in February, with no shoes on, in nothing but your bathrobe?''

''That's not - It didn't happen like that. You're making it sound - ''

''What? Pathetic?''

She tries not to take the bait, slouching down in the nook, clinging to her glass of wine. ''Now you're starting to sound like him.''

''Your dad may be a dick half the time,'' he says, lowering his voice, ''but he does have a point about you. Like you said, we're addicts. You think we can't spot another one?'' He looks away from her then, going back to Mary - who, it appears, is growing increasingly fussy as the tension between her parents begins to reach its inevitable boiling point.

Laurel scowls at the dig, narrowing her eyes. ''I am not an addict,'' she snaps. ''And my father doesn't know anything about me. He has no idea what I've...'' She can't even choke the rest out. She takes one more sip of wine and then puts the glass down on the table. ''You know,'' she says quietly, almost accusingly. ''You know it's been a bad year. You know that.''

''Yeah, I do.'' His voice is clipped. ''I know it's been a rough year. I can see that. I'm right here. I've been right here the whole time.'' He sounds slightly desperate saying this. There's an edge to his voice. Does he think she doesn't know that? ''I've watched you push everyone away. I've watched you sink. I've watched you shrivel up into nothing. I saw it. What have you seen? Where have you been? I lost him too, you know. I pulled his body out of the rubble.''

There is a lump in her throat that wasn't there before. She tries to gulp it down with wine. ''Stop,'' her voice sounds strained. ''Don't.'' We agreed, she wants to remind him. She wants to yell. We agreed not to talk about that. They agreed not to talk about it in front of Mary, is what technically happened. She doesn't need to know about their misery. Their terrible grief.

He does stop there, but he keeps looking at her like he wants her to say something. What more is there to say?

Sure, this is about Tommy. And it isn't about Tommy. This is about all of it. Her body, her mind, her scars, every stupid scrap of her that hurts and bleeds and stings and never stops and never heals and never gets better. Why do people keep trying to tell her what it's about? Why do they assume she doesn't know? Do they want her to open up? Do they want her to name it? They don't have that kind of time. They certainly don't have that kind of patience.

''You're in pain,'' he says, voice softer. ''You're struggling. I get that. I understand,'' he insists, even though he doesn't, even though he could never. ''But this is not just you having a bad year, honey.'' He looks at her intently. Meets her eyes when she lets him. He tries to get in.

Mary makes a noise in her high chair, distressed. She shoves her food away forcefully. His reaction is quick. He turns all his attention to her, standing to move in even closer to her high chair, leaning in to cradle her cheek, murmuring something to her. It is so loving and tender that Laurel almost hates looking at it. She doesn't think she could muster up that much tenderness right now. That much love. Not even for Mary.

Dean gets Mary smiling. He gets her to eat a piece of chicken. He sits back down and grins, all lit up just for her. She smiles back.

Laurel cannot remember the last time she smiled.

When he looks back to her, he is immediately dimmed with worry. He is no longer smiling. ''I can see you disappearing,'' he says. ''I can see you fading away. That's...'' He visibly hesitates. ''Do you understand how scared I am for you?''

It is such a huge thing for him to admit to someone. To say something like that out loud. He must trust her an awful lot to be that openly vulnerable with her. He's a fool. She's a mess.

She swipes her wine glass off the table and takes a sip of the expensive white wine that she doesn't even really like. ''Now who's being dramatic?'' It is such a bitchy, cruel thing to say.

He doesn't look hurt by the comment. Not even particularly angry. Just disappointed. ''You're not you, Laurel,'' he tells her. ''How do you not see that? You don't do anything.''

''I do things.''

''Half the time you don't even bother to get dressed. You barely get out of bed, not that you sleep much either. You're up in the middle of the night pacing. You hardly eat. You lost your job. Your job,'' he stresses. ''That meant everything to you. You worked so hard and you just let them take it from you.''

Correction: CNRI meant everything to her. She built that place from the ground up with Joanna. She made a difference there. What she did mattered. She did not become a lawyer to work for the DA's office. It wasn't even on her radar. She became a lawyer to help people. People. Not the government and not corporations. CNRI was created from her blood, sweat, and tears. It was hers, and it was Joanna's, and it was good. It was really good. And it was taken from her the way everything is taken from her.

What's the point in fighting when you always lose?

''What was I supposed to do?'' She stares down at her wine. ''They want to disbar me.''

''So fight it.''

''I don't have any fight left in me right now,'' she says, lifting the glass to her lips.

''Got enough to fight everyone who loves you,'' he comments bluntly, and she looks up. ''You're angry. All the time. And, hey, I get that. I'd be angry too if I were you. I'm angry for you. But you're snapping at anyone who gets even remotely too close. Hell, you're even snapping at our kid.'' He's getting frustrated she can tell, but what can she do about it? ''If you're not angry, you're having panic attack after panic attack and you're barely functioning. Look at you.'' He gestures to her increasingly hollow body. ''There's hardly anything left of you. Do you even care?''

He's frustrated and scared and he loves her so much, too much. She feels like she should tell him to stop, warn him away, but it wouldn't stop him. She hates that nothing will stop him. ''I get it,'' she deadpans. ''I suck. Thanks for hammering that in.''

''That's not what I said.''

Mary fusses again, whining in her high chair, big eyes skittering nervously between Mom and Dad.

Dean snaps out of it right away, looking away from Laurel. ''It's okay, kiddo,'' he smiles again, weaker this time, and lifts Mary out of her high chair and into his arms. ''Mom and I were just having some grown up time. It's a thing. It's dumb.'' He seems to make a concentrated effort to liven up, softening his voice. ''We shouldn't have done that in front of you.'' He wipes at her mouth with her bib before he takes it off, trying to catch her eye as she squirms. His voice is so gentle when he asks, ''You okay?''

Laurel looks away from both of them. Mary is looking at her, she can feel those lovely eyes on her, but she doesn't look back.

She can hear Dean make a sound in the back of his throat, irritated. ''I should get her into the bath,'' is all he says, colder than before.

She nods. ''I can clean up dinner.''

He makes a ''hmm'' noise but is too annoyed to speak to her. He starts to leave with Mary on his hip. Makes it all the way to the kitchen door before he stops and turns around. ''Your daughter loves you unconditionally,'' he tells her. ''All she wants is to be near you. Doesn't that count for anything? Doesn't that make you feel - I don't know - something?''

She doesn't understand the question. She doesn't tell him that. She doesn't tell him that she is no longer sure she believes in unconditional love. She doesn't tell him that she is no longer sure she believes in anything. She doesn't tell him anything at all.

He walks away, undoubtedly exhausted and aggravated. She has a habit of making people feel that way. She does consider the question after he is gone and she has been left all alone in the painful silence.

Doesn't that make you feel something?

Which answer would he have wanted? The lie or the truth? What is there to feel? She feels pain. Every day. Today, her head is pounding, she's nauseated, and there is an ache in her throat where something wants out. Tomorrow, perhaps it will be her back, her shoulders, her chest, sore from being crushed by the weight of...this. Living. That dark thing.

There is nothing else to feel.

She doesn't have anything left. She doesn't know how to get anyone to understand that. She is empty. Inside of her is a black hole. It has already swallowed up everything else. She looks at the dinner plates left on the kitchen table. All the food that's left. She can't seem to muster up the energy to get up and do something about it. She drains her wine glass and then pours another. She closes her eyes.

Her body does not relax, muscles still tight and full of tension. Numbly, she replays his words in her head and attempts to debunk something, anything, that he threw at her. She can't. It was all true. She doesn't sleep well, but she stays in bed for at least half the day most of the time. Even on Christmas, she didn't drag herself out of bed until nearly noon and that was only because Dean made her. She paces at night because everything is so much worse at night. She doesn't eat much, although she tries. She drifts mostly. In and out of rooms and wine bottles and conversations. She's been having a hard time focusing.

She is not a good wife. She is not a good mother. She knows these things like she knows the back of her hand. They're just facts now. Anyone can see it.

She does try. Perhaps that's the worst part. Everyone thinks she's not, but she is. She is trying to...stay. She is using up every piece left in her to love. She wore herself down to the bone during Mary's birthday, pretending to be happy, smiling and laughing when she was supposed to, putting on a big party, a celebration, even though it felt like trying to swim through a pool of quickly drying cement. She even tried on Christmas, though it obviously didn't seem like she was. She has never tried this hard in her life. She's just not sure it's enough anymore. She's not sure she can keep doing it.

She has made her husband lonely. She does know that. She never wanted to do that, but she knows it's what she's done. She hasn't touched him since... Well, she's not even sure. New Year's Eve, maybe. Or was it before that? Christmas? She's not sure. She can't stand when he touches her. She can feel that warmth when he lays his hands on her, all that tenderness and all that love that she has forgotten what to do with. It feels so wrong now. It makes her skin crawl.

He should not love her that way. He should know better. She is going to suffocate him. Drag him down the same way his father did. Ruin him the way she has been ruined. There is already so much that she has put on his shoulders. He takes care of the baby by himself and he takes care of the house and the meals and whoever walks in that door. He's going to get a job, even though she knows he doesn't want to. He even takes care of her, as if she deserves that kind of steadfast love, tends to her like she's the sickly spouse, dying of something that has nothing to do with her, like this isn't her fault, even though she knows this is her fault.

He shoulders the emotional weight for all three of them. He shouldn't have to do that. He deserves better than that. He deserves more. She would regret what she's done to him if she could, but she can't.

Because the answer is no, by the way. No, she doesn't feel anything at all. She could stand in her daughter's room and watch her beautiful, perfect baby sleep and she wouldn't feel a thing. Her husband could kiss her and tell her he will love her forever and she wouldn't be able to say it back and mean it.

That's all there is now. She tries and she tries, but that's all there is. Just this insufferable nothingness. An emptiness she can't fill. She drinks to dull her senses and she takes benzos that she bought from an old friend from her partying days to force herself into a drugged sleep and one day she is going to kill herself and no one will save her. No one will even want to.

She doesn't care about any of it.

Despite the knot of panic in her chest and her trembling lips, she doesn't give a damn.

She raises the wine glass again, gets halfway to her lips, and then the kitchen door swings open and Dean comes thundering back into the kitchen. He is without Mary this time, his body language tense, movements fast and determined and fucking furious. He slams something down onto the table with such ferocity that the plates jump and cutlery clatters to the ground. His voice is a near growl. ''What the fuck is this?''

As soon as she sees what has been slammed down in front of her, a coldness that she did not know she could still feel invades her body. It's the bottle of Xanax she took into the bathroom with her earlier when she said she was taking a bath. She must have forgotten to put them back in the bedroom, tucked away in her dresser where she usually hides them. ''Dean...''

He's already trying to get away from her, too disgusted to even look at her.

''Wait!'' She's on her feet before she realizes what she's doing, lunging at him, grabbing onto his hand, his arm, whatever she can claw at. ''Let me explain. Please let me explain.''

He shakes her off like she's nothing. Swats away her anxious hands, fluttering round him like birds. ''You swore to me.'' He's so angry he's nearly shaking with it. He looks physically repulsed by her he's so mad. ''You swore to me you were done with the pills.''

''I - ''

He holds a hand up to stop her. ''I can't look at you right now.'' He is not even the slightest bit affected by the fearful expression on her face. He turns on his heel and leaves her there, standing in the kitchen all alone.

This should be a relief.

Isn't this what she wanted? He knows the truth. He knows what she has done, what she will do to herself, to him, and to little Mary too. He knows where this is going. He can leave now. Take Mary like he took Sam and run from this burning house. That's what she wanted. But the thought of it actually happening, the thought of him taking their child and fleeing, of being without him -

It stirs up something inside of her, something looming and awful. Panic. Maybe even love. Dean Winchester is her steady right hand. What happens if he is no longer here?

She follows him, through the kitchen doors, through the dining room, just in time to see - and hear - Mary's bedroom door slam shut. She can't make herself go any further. She retreats back to the kitchen, pouring herself another glass of wine. She looks at the bottle of pills, ignoring the way her hands shake. She is going to end up alone. She is going to end up here, in this quiet kitchen, alone.

It's for the best. It would be a kindness to Dean and Mary.

Tommy refused to leave her. After Ollie and Sara, she pushed all of their mutual friends away. She told them to leave her alone. She got drunk and made scenes, threw fits, sobbed in club bathrooms, made them all whisper behind her back. Made them understand why he did what he did. How he could have done this to her. She made Ollie and Sara victims. Her victims. If she hadn't been so fucking terrible, they wouldn't have done it. They would be alive. People left her in droves. Avoided her like the plague. Crossed the street to get away from her.

Tommy, stubborn to his core, never left.

It didn't matter what she did, what she said, how she said it. He stayed. He told her he didn't want her to be alone. He told her he didn't want to be alone.

Look where that got him.

She doesn't want that to happen to Dean and Mary. She doesn't want to bury them.

She finishes the glass of wine, trying so hard to breathe evenly to calm her agitated body, her twitching fingers, her listless heart. She considers pouring another glass, but doesn't. Considers taking a few pills, but doesn't. She needs to come up with a lie. An excuse. Something to get him to just forget about it. Let it go. She could tell him they aren't hers, but he won't believe that. He won't believe that it's a legitimate prescription either. Which it is not.

She wanders back out into the dining room with her empty wine glass, bathed in the cold and lonely silence. She could come up with something if given enough time. She's a lawyer. She's a liar. She could make it feel real. There's not enough time. She's not sure if Dean really has managed to get Mary to sleep that quickly or if he's just placed her safely in her crib and promised to come back after he talks with Mom, but he's not gone ten minutes before she hears Mary's door open. She leaves the wine glass on the dining room table and makes her way to the end of the hall, watching him.

He looks...defeated. He's not looking at her, one hand still gripping the doorknob, head down like he's trying to steel himself for whatever comes next.

When he does look at her, she feels small under his gaze. Weightless. ''Okay.'' Her voice sounds trembly. ''I know you're angry and I know this looks - this looks bad.'' Reflexively, she wrings her hands as he approaches her, cowed by the look of hurt and betrayal on his face. ''But it's - it's not,'' she insists, rather weakly. ''I promise. I have it under control.''

He remains visibly unmoved by the hasty reassurance. His jaw clenches and he looks at her, his eyes like knives, scraping over every inch of her. ''You fucking liar.''

It's an inevitable blow, but she flinches anyway.

''You looked me in the eye and promised me you were through with the pills,'' he says, voice low, but sharp, too sharp. ''And you fucking lied.''

An inexplicable burst of indignation lights up in her. ''It's not that easy!''

He just shakes his head at her yet again, seemingly sickened by her. ''Nothing ever is with you, is it?''

''Like you can talk,'' she sneers back at him. ''You really want to condemn me for this? You?'' She laughs bitterly. ''Go ahead, you hypocrite.'' The nerve of him, an addict, looking down at her because she's...

She pulled him out. She pulled him out of the rock bottom hole he was in. This man once laid on her fucking bathroom floor, sick from withdrawal, crying and sniveling for his dead mother and she stayed with him. She loved him through all of it. And he can't even be bothered to give her a little bit of grace here.

She crosses her arms over her chest. ''You're just as bad as I am,'' she throws back at him, foolishly defiant.

He laughs at her. ''No,'' he says. ''I'm really not. See, I'm sober. You're selfish.''

Her face heats up, red creeping up her cheeks. ''Selfish?''

''Yes. Selfish.''

''You have no idea - ''

''You have a problem, Laurel. You know you have a problem.''

''Oh - '' She rolls her eyes. ''God, you're all like broken records.''

''How can you not - You're hiding drugs!'' He takes a step closer to her. Shouts like he'll be able to get through to her if he yells loud enough. ''You're hiding drugs in our home! What's not getting through? Where did you even - I was with you when you - '' He stops, looking away from her, scrubbing at his mouth. He does that when he's anxious. When he's scared. He's scared more often than he will ever admit. ''You were never prescribed these,'' he says after a second. ''Did you buy these off the fucking street?''

''What do you want me to say?'' She throws her arms out. ''What do you want me to say?''

He tilts his head to the side and looks at her with something akin to horror creeping into his eyes. ''I've left you alone with Mary.'' The expression on his face morphs from horror to something that can only be described as possibly homicidal. ''How many times?''

''How many times what?''

''How many times have you been high while you were watching my kid?''

''How can you even ask me that?''

''Answer the question.''

''Never!'' She bursts out, offense twisting into rage. ''Not once.''

He takes a second to look at her, disappointed. ''I don't believe you.''

The silence between them is tense and full of all the words they cannot - or will not - say. She asks again, ''What do you want me to say?''

He can't answer her. Maybe he doesn't know at all.

She wipes at her eyes even though she's not crying. She looks away. The moment she does, some sort of realization slams into him and he straightens up. When she looks back to him, he's already halfway to the kitchen, booking it toward something.

''Dean.'' She takes a step, but doesn't follow. She's confused for about thirty seconds, until he pops back out of the kitchen with the bottle of pills. ''What are you...?'' It's when he starts down the hall that she understands. ''Dean!'' She races after him, following him into the bathroom, making it just in time to see him lift the lid of the toilet and pop the top on the pill bottle. ''No!'' Without even stopping to think about what she's doing, she lunges at him, frantically grabbing for the bottle. ''Wait, wait, you can't just - ''

''Watch me.'' He manages to hold her off - quite easily given that she's just skin and bones - with one hand, ignoring her pitiful flailing and screeches, the way she claws at his skin like a tantruming toddler.

''Dean, please! Please don't - ''

He tips the contents of the bottle into the toilet and flushes. Somewhere inside of her, deep down, she does realize that this is the most embarrassing and shameful display of her entire marriage, but in the moment, all she's thinking is that she needs those. She takes them to help her sleep. All the wine and vodka in the world can't even begin to touch her sleep issues. The pills do. They knock her out. Give her at least three or four hours nightmare free.

She watches him flush her safety net down the toilet and this unavoidable, unstoppable rush of panic just knocks her to the ground. He yanks free of her talon like grasp and she crumples to the ground like a ragdoll. And then she bursts into tears.

It's a horrific display.

No wonder he's so repulsed by her. No wonder he never touches her. How could he? He remains resolute, undeterred by her pointless hysterics. ''I don't know you,'' he states bluntly, unsuccessfully hiding hurt.

Far too gone to care about what she's doing or how it looks or his skin underneath her fingernails, she looks up and him and snarls, ''Spare me the self-righteousness! You don't get to act all high and mighty with me! Not with me. I know who you are. I am not your villain.''

''Oh, come on,'' he barks back at her. ''That is so far from what I - ''

''I - I have a right to this!'' Her voice is a screech, hysterical and loud, followed immediately by the sound of Mary crying.

It's the only time Dean ever falters.

She doesn't even consider that a win. ''I have a right to my pain!''

''No one's saying you don't.'' He looks over his shoulder, body practically twitching to get back to Mary. ''Come on. Get up.'' He hauls her to her feet and drags her out of the bathroom and down the hall.

She lets him pull her back into the living room, but she doesn't stop. She doesn't think she can. It's all coming out now. ''I have a right to my hurt and anger! They're mine! They're the only things I have. You don't understand.'' She dodges away from him when he tries to reach for her again. ''You don't understand. He was...in the rubble. He was just lying there. Do you - Do you know how many broken bones he had? It wasn't just the - '' She breaks off, trying and failing to swallow the lump in her throat. ''Do you know how much it must have hurt? He wouldn't have died instantly. He would have felt it.''

''Laurel - ''

''And I was...I was ready when the Dollmaker - When he... But I lived. I lived. I keep living. Everyone else... But I just keep living. I stay alive. I don't want to do it anymore.'' It's an awful thing to admit, slipping through her lips in this agonized moan that she can't take back. ''I don't want to do any of it. I want to be angry,'' she declares. ''I want to be searingly angry. I want to be resentful like my father is. I want to tear things apart with my bare hands. I want to rip and cut and strip it apart. I want to be burning. I want to be a burning thing. But no one will let me.'' She looks at him with her dulled, tired eyes, the corners of her lips tipping up into a bitter smirk. ''Everyone wants me to be who I was. They want me to be clean. But I am not clean. ''

The look on Dean's face is like nothing she has ever seen before. He looks sick and scared. Like he is stuck, restless and squirming inside of himself, near tears, so stupidly in love with her. Still. Even still.

In the background, locked in her room, Mary is crying, screaming, howling.

''You're killing yourself,'' he gets out, voice strained, somehow full of both grief and rage at the same time. ''Why are you doing this? You're killing yourself. Is that what you want? Is that the endgame here?''

''There is no endgame,'' she mumbles. ''I'm not trying to do anything.''

It is not necessarily a lie, but it is not necessarily the truth either. She wants to go to sleep. That doesn't feel wrong. She just wants to go to sleep. If she doesn't wake up, so be it. No one will care. She doesn't say any of this out loud, but he hears it anyway. He looks like a raw wound standing there, half in the light of the dining room, half in the darkness. He looks pale and drawn and afraid, the way people look when they have to watch a loved one die slowly, death eating away at them for days and weeks and months and years. She has been slowly dying for years now. Since long before she met him. She's surprised it took him this long to notice.

''No,'' he says suddenly, decisively. ''No, you're not gonna make me sit here and watch this happen. I didn't sign up for this.''

''What did you sign up for?''

''Well, sure as hell not to watch you die.''

''I did,'' she spits, and watches him wince, unable to argue with that. ''I signed up for that. I married a hunter. You went around courting death day after day and I had to sit there and wait for the phone call telling me you came to an inevitably violent and bloody end. Why was that okay? Why was it okay to put me through that? I thought you were going to die every day you were gone and I couldn't stop it. And you can't handle a little - ''

''A little what?'' He interrupts her, voice biting. ''What is this, Laurel? What is happening to you? Can you even say it?''

''You knew who I was when you married me.''

''This isn't who you are,'' he insists. ''I don't know who you are now, but you are not the woman I married.''

''You married a fuck up,'' she says. ''You said it yourself. I'm a fucking liar. That's who you married. This is who I am. This is who I've always been. I'm the whiny bitch, the clingy girlfriend, the weak and stupid girl. Sara's the golden girl. I'm just the gold digging whore. That's all I've ever been.'' She smirks but it's ugly and shaky, tears dripping down her cheeks. ''I'm the problem. This is who Oliver had, you know. It makes sense now, doesn't it? How he could do what he did. Why he would want to. I'm the problem. Sorry you got stuck with the short straw.''

''You need help,'' Dean says, gentle but firm. ''Laurel,'' he tries. ''Dinah.''

The use of her first name is what gets her to meet his eyes.

''You need to get help,'' he says. ''Please.''

She is not particularly convinced. ''Why? What would that change? What's the point?'' She sniffles. ''What happens if I don't?'' She attempts to straighten up, squaring her shoulders. ''What then, Dean? You'll leave? You wouldn't dare.''

''You know what sucks?'' He doesn't even sound angry. Just sad. ''I would. We are rapidly approaching the point where I might have to.'' It shouldn't come as a surprise. ''Laurel, I love you.'' He says it so strongly and confidently. Then he says it again. ''I love you.'' He doesn't say those three words often, but here they are now, strong and clear.

Normally, on a better day, she feels so full and happy when he tells her that. It's nothing she doesn't already know, but the words are comforting, peaceful. Today is not a better day. There are no better days. The words are wasted on her. They make her skin tingle, discomfort crawling around her skin like parasites. She thinks he's lying.

''You have no idea,'' he says. ''You have no idea how much.'' He looks like he wants to reach out and touch her so badly, but he doesn't. She wouldn't want him to anyway. ''But I love her more.'' He says it simply, plainly, but the weight of it hangs in between them like a wall. ''I have to love her more. I may be your husband, but I'm her dad. She comes first. Before you, before everything. I have to do what's best for her.'' He pauses, turning his head to look down the hallway where Mary is. ''I have to give her her best shot. That's the responsibility I took on when I chose to become a parent. I have to be here. I have to lead her. I'm not letting anything get in the way of that. Not even you.''

She feels small at the words, dwarfed by the enormity of it. He's right. She does get that. She wishes she could be a better mother. She wishes she had that in her. She ducks her head down, wiping at her face. She only looks up when he moves. ''Where are you going?''

''My daughter is crying,'' he says. ''I'm going to her.''

''Dean - ''

''No. I can't do this with you anymore,'' he pleads. ''She's hysterical in there and I didn't give her the fucking bath and I still have to - I don't know.'' He waves a hand, gesturing somewhat helplessly. ''Clean the fucking kitchen or whatever. You told your dad we'd host this stupid fucking dinner tomorrow.''

''I - '' Her voice is a childish sounding squeak. ''I can do that.''

He doesn't look like he believes her, but he lets it go. ''I think Mary and I should sleep in the guest room tonight,'' he says tonelessly. ''Give you some space.''

Rationally, Laurel would like to say she understands that, but she is not particularly rational at the moment. All she hears is a petty and passive aggressive dig. He turns and starts to walk away from her and she fumes, all that poisonous hurt building into anger inside of her. And then she lashes out because that's what she does. That's what she's always done. If she has to live - and live and live - with a knife in her back then so does he. ''You wouldn't - '' She clenches her fists, something in her trying to stop her from saying it. ''You wouldn't win custody.'' She folds her arms. ''If you left me.''

He stops in his tracks, frozen, back to her.

''You have nothing to offer her,'' she accuses coldly. It's out before she can stop it. It doesn't matter that she regrets the words as soon as they're out of her mouth. The words are harsh and cruel and they cannot be taken back.

He turns to face her but doesn't even really look at her, blankly staring through her. ''Yeah,'' he says, voice wooden and hollow. ''That one's gonna be hard to come back from.'' Without another word, without so much as looking at her, he leaves, finally escaping her to go tend to Mary.

Laurel is left where she is always left; alone and adrift in a sea of misery of her own making.

If he doesn't leave her after that one then maybe he's the crazy one.

She stays where she is for a moment or two, rooted in her spot, listening to the sound of her baby crying. Mary calms down eventually, soothed by her father, the only real parent she has, and then there is just silence and the ticking of the old grandfather clock. It's too loud. She's starting to feel shaky and claustrophobic, like the house is too small, like her body is too small. She looks around with wild eyes, searching for an escape, and then it's like her body moves on its own, staggering over to throw open the front door.

She didn't mean it. She didn't mean what she said. She would never take Mary away from him. She wouldn't dream of it. They need each other, those two. She has always known that. Right from the beginning, she was the odd man out.

She doesn't even grab a jacket. She steps outside onto the front stoop and closes the door behind her, gulping in the painfully cold air that hits her in the face. She stands on the concrete steps and looks out at the dark neighborhood. She takes a breath, then another, and another. It doesn't help. Her body feels restless and agitated, foreign to her. Her breathing is fast, too fast. She walks down the steps, forces herself to move, put one foot in front of the other, push through the excruciating pain that she has felt every day of her life.

She makes it halfway down the path and then she stops. She doesn't know where she's going. What the plan is here. She could leave. Walk the rest of the path and walk away. She could grab her keys and go. She could leave it all behind. She doesn't know how. That's her problem. She has never known how to leave. Everyone else does. They seem to have no problem with it. But not her. Not her. She is the one who stays.

If she could just understand what it is that she did, what it is that she is being punished for with this horrible life of staying and staying and staying, maybe that would make it easier.

Except that -

No.

It wouldn't. Nothing makes this easier.

Her breath is caught in her throat, unable to make it to her lungs and she wilts like a dying flower, bending at the waist, gasping for air. The gasps become sobs, knocking the wind out of her, and then she collapses to the ground. She wants to say that she didn't mean any of it, that it was all a lie, that she was just tired, that she doesn't want to die. But she did. She does. She wants to be burning. She wants to be angry. She wants to sleep. She just doesn't want to be alive anymore. Life is too long and she's so tired of hurting.

People keep telling her it gets better. People have always told her it gets better. People lie. It doesn't get better. It just gets worse.

In April, she will turn twenty-nine and every one of those twenty-nine years will have been agony. Life is just...this. It's just this. It's torture, worse every year. It's meaningless. Why hold on if every year gets worse? Why keep going if everything gets taken from her? What's the point?

She has been on so many antidepressants over the years. She has taken legal and illegal drugs, has lived on Adderall, vodka, and coffee, smoked cigarettes, smoked weed, and drank until she blacked out. She has eaten and not eaten, she has had sex and not had sex, she has done yoga and she runs every morning, and she has thrown herself into her career with a vengeance, a conviction that she only pretends she possesses. She has loved, been married, sacrificed her body and mind to have a baby, bought a lovely home on a quiet street in the suburbs with a garden out back just for her.

None of it has helped.

None of it ever touches her. There is something wrong with her. There has always been something wrong with her. She wants to give up. She wants to leave. She wants to rest.

It's not like she can tell anyone this. She scared her husband. Everyone else will be angry with her. They are always angry with her.

She wants so badly to hate, to be venomous, to be the bad guy her mother thinks she is, to be, finally, heartless, but all she ever feels is pain. At what point is she allowed to say, Enough already, this is too much, I can't take it anymore.

There is nothing left here for her.

The front door opens behind her.

She realizes she has no idea how long she's been sitting here. Her body is shivering violently and she can't feel her undoubtedly colorless lips, but she has no idea how much time has passed. The neighborhood is still calm. It remains still and peaceful, even despite the despair churning inside of her.

''Laurel.''

She squeezes her eyes shut and pretends she hadn't heard him. She doesn't hear him approach her, but she feels when a blanket is draped over her shoulders. She opens her eyes. Tugs the blanket closer.

''Sweetheart,'' Dean sighs out, still, despite what she has done to them, what she has said to him, tender and loving. ''Come inside.'' He holds his hand out to her as an offering - or perhaps a sacrifice.

She looks up at him, silhouetted by the moonlight and the dim glow of the street lights.

''Come on,'' he entices. ''You're cold. Let's get you to bed and get you warm.''

No one else will ever offer her that.

She swallows, throat still aching with something begging to be let out, and then she reaches up and takes his hand.

.

.

.

January, 2017

What they don't tell you about death, about loss and grief and that excruciating ache left behind in the absence, is what comes after.

The silence.

In actuality, you could probably fill a book with all the things they do not tell you about death, that visceral thing, and what follows - the way mourning cries sound different than any other cry you will ever hear, the way the sound of those wails will stay with you forever, often waking you in the middle of the night with cold sweat on your forehead, the unexpected interruption of your basic senses, a sudden lack of color, the way the ground feels under your feet in this harsh new light, this strange new gravity, the bloodthirsty lion that creeps, uninvited, into your bedroom at night and sits on your chest, gnawing at your bones, curling up in your ribcage, filling that brand new empty space with teeth - but the point is that silence.

That horrible, horrible silence.

It is a brand new silence. One you will have never experienced before, but one you will, statistically speaking, experience again. It spreads, this deadly quiet. It covers everything, draping your entire life in a thick blanket. It speaks, as only this silence can, of the brand new hole in the world.

You will live with it, and all the others that will someday follow, for the rest of your life and everyone on the street or in the grocery store will know what it means, even if they have not yet experienced it themselves, and they will no longer look you in the eye.

No one warns us of this silence, but we learn to fear it anyway.

Sometimes, usually in the middle of the night, after she has awoken from yet another nightmare, Laurel will look over at Dean - at his sleeping face, shadowed in the darkness, his body angled toward her - and she will wonder about that night in April when he had to sit in that silence with her body, and tell her...

What did he tell her?

He pleaded. She knows that. He begged. Don't do this. Please don't do this. He said her name over and over again. He held her hand. He did not let go of her hand. Clutched her tightly, as if to keep her from leaving, for hours, until the nurses gently tried to let him know it was time to go. Until Sam and Cas had to physically pry him away from her. How terrible that must have been for him. How cruel. To sit there in that quiet, holding a cooling hand, begging. To have to tell her he loved her, one last time, and then let go. It's the emptiness that often brings her to tears when she thinks about it. The unfairness. He had to say goodbye to a body because he didn't get the chance to say goodbye to her.

Sometimes, during these late night agonies, she can't help but wonder what it would have been like had the situation been reversed. She imagines sitting there, in that silence, holding his hand and she just thinks, I don't think I could have left him.

She would have had to have been dragged from him kicking and screaming. She would have shattered all the windows. She would have wailed that mournful wail. She would have fought anyone, fought everyone to stay by his side. It just seems so unfathomable to her. The idea that she could ever leave him to do the next part all alone. The next bit is the hardest part.

Despite all her catastrophizing, despite all the what if scenarios and dark thoughts, she never actually expected to be given a turn.

And here she is now: alone, sitting in that dreadful silence, holding her dead husband's hand.

She doesn't know what to do. She feels like she can't move, can't breathe, can't even blink. What if she blinks and he fades away from her, disappears altogether, leaving behind nothing but dust and the blood in her mouth?

There is warm wet blood soaking his clothing, staining her hands, and she doesn't know what to do with it all. She knows there are children she needs to get to safety, she knows the Black Canary needs to show up for them, she knows it's her responsibility now, but she can't leave him. She can't leave him here all alone in the muddy gravel. It's cold here, down by the water in the winter weather.

Dean is quiet on the ground and he is very still, but he is still warm for now. His eyes are open, there is so much blood, and he was just here a minute ago. He was right here with her. Now he's just - There's just the silence. It's been moments, less than, and his absence is already spilling into the world like a tsunami, washing everything else away.

They say when you die your whole life flashes before your eyes, but here's Laurel, the one left behind to live another day, and she's the one stuck remembering. Their whole life together plays out in warp speed in her head, going backwards, going nowhere.

Moments ago, when she kissed him goodbye. Earlier today, at the gas station, when she promised him she would listen to his stories when they were old and shriveled. The birth of their daughter. Their wedding day. All the way back to the moment he walked into the restaurant she was working at back in May 2010. She remembers that part so clearly.

It was late and it was a Thursday and, frankly, the place sucked, so it was mostly empty. When she brought him, this handsome stranger she had never seen before, to his table and handed him a menu (even though that was not technically her job because she wasn't the hostess) he smiled at her, distracted, and said, ''Thanks, Dinah.''

She is still not sure what came over her, why she did what she did next, especially considering she had never once before corrected a customer, but she lingered awkwardly and blurted out, ''It's Laurel, actually. Dinah's my - I go by, um, Laurel. They just didn't check with me before they printed my nametag.''

He was not the slightest bit thrown by her nervous fumbling, but it did make him look up for the first time, away from his phone that he seemed glued to and irritated with, constantly ignoring Bobby Singer's phone calls while he tried to hunt down a contact in the area who did not care about his wellbeing and didn't feel the need to ask how he was doing without Sam. He looked at her for a second, blank, and then smiled that wolfish smile and said, ''I'll remember that.''

It was a disaster of a night, hilarious in retrospect but humiliating while it was happening. She spilt coffee on him. Twice. Tripped over her words. Forgot the special. She made another server bring his food over because she was fairly confident she would drop it.

He was never fazed by any of it. He was, she realizes now, working - even though he shouldn't have been, not that soon after losing Sam - but he never lost patience with her or snapped at her. He seemed faintly amused by it all, if not a little bewildered.

When they stood at the front of the restaurant later and she handed him the credit card machine, mortified and unable to look him in the eye, she apologized profusely and blamed her behavior on a long, bad day - which, to be fair, was true.

He assured her it was no trouble, gave her a tip she didn't deserve, and when he left, he paused in the doorway, turning back to give her a wink, a smile, and said, ''You have a good night, Laurel.''

He certainly had an idea of what was going on in her head. He still thinks he knows what it was all about. He thinks it's funny. It's a favorite story of his to tell. How he accidentally and unknowingly swept her off her feet that night.

Except that's not what it was.

He is very handsome, but it's not that she was bowled over by how beautiful he was. It's not that she was overworked or overtired. It had nothing to do with her bad day. She was not bad at her job. It's that when she looked at him, when they locked eyes, it was like a sudden jolt of -

Oh.

There you are.

It was like one of those things you hear about but never expect to experience. One of those I know you moments that you think only exist in movies and songs. He was like a lightning bolt. A tornado. He knocked her off course. And she was in no way, shape, or form ready for that. It wasn't romantic. It was terrifying.

She does not think they were written in the stars. She doesn't believe they were ever a fairytale or a Hallmark movie. She believes too deeply in choice to bother with silly things like fate. But there was something. There is something. She knew him. She looked at him and she knew him. Something in her reached out to something in him and was just like, Hi, I've been waiting for you. Come inside. She would not have made a place for him so easily, so recklessly if it weren't for that.

She has never asked if it was the same for him. She's thought about it, but there's a part of her that doesn't want to know because - what if it wasn't? What if he only fell for her because she was there? What if, for her, it was Yes, please upend my life, please wreck my plans, I'll give you everything I have but for him it was more along the lines of Sure, why not, I've got nothing else to do?

She would have asked him eventually. She was working up to it. She thought they had more time. Everyone always thinks they have more time.

Laurel looks down at the body lying in the dirt. The blood all over her hands. She closes his eyes, her hand lingering on his skin, moving down to cup his cheek. She feels like she should be more hysterical than she is. Her hands are trembling and there are tears trailing down her cheeks, but there is no torrential downpour. She would have expected more wailing. It's shock, maybe. Or denial. Yes. Denial. That seems right.

This isn't happening. It can't possibly be happening. This is wrong. This can't be the way it ends. It doesn't make sense. He's been through too much for it to end in such a sloppy and cruel way. This is wrong. There has to be a loophole. There is always a loophole.

She takes his hand again and holds it close to her chest as if the beating of her heart might be able to revive him, as if her heart could beat for the both of them. She doesn't think she can move. If she moves, life moves with her. If she moves, she will have to get up. If she gets up, she will have to walk. She will have to get the kids to safety. She will have to figure out what to do with the body. She will have to go home without him. She will have to tell Sam, will have to tell Cas and Charlie and Thea. She will have to tell Mary.

She will have to tell Mary.

She will have to sleep in an empty bed and she will have to watch his brother burn his body and then she will have to move on. Accept condolences. Accept flowers and the looks of unbearable pity and the way everyone will treat her like she's made of glass. She will have to go on. Carry this unthinkable weight. Live without him. She will have to keep living. She will have to tell Mary.

And Dean...

Dean will just...fade away.

It will happen slowly at first, but then quicker and quicker with every year that passes. He will become grains of sand slipping through their fingers, unable to hold onto. He will become water, sluicing off their bodies until he's gone. He will just be ashes, dust, gone.

She will grow old and he will become something so long ago that she will barely be able to picture him or hear his voice. She will think of the poem Funeral Blues and remember that one verse -

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong

- and she will not crumble and fall apart, will no longer even remember why she did, who it was she thought of when she thought of those words.

Time will steal him. It's what time does.

Eventually, there will come a time where Sam will have lived longer without his brother than he ever lived with him. Mary will grow and grow and grow and one day she will turn thirty-nine and look in the mirror and think to herself, I am older now than my father ever was.

None of that sounds remotely possible. It sounds absurd. It has to be a mistake. They can't possibly live like this, live through this. None of them can. He was the glue. It all unravels without him.

Beatrice Drake lived just under three years without Richard Drake. That was all she could do. That was as long as she could stay. Even that feels too long right now.

Laurel holds his hand tighter with both of hers and stares at the eerily still body, waiting for him to wake up. Because that's what happens. That's what happens when a Winchester dies. They wake up. They leave and you mourn, but they come back. He always comes back. He has to come back. It's all going to fall apart without him.

''Come back,'' she whispers into his bloodied hand. ''Come on, my love. Wake up. Wake up. Don't do this.''

The sound of footsteps in the gravel has her reluctantly dragging her eyes away from him.

It's Edie, of course it's Edie, approaching them with hesitancy. She looks smaller now, her movements slow and apprehensive. She didn't mean to do what she did. It's written on her face, her wide eyes, the look that might, for a second, be something almost like remorse. She looks different.

Or maybe Laurel's the one who's different now. She is no longer afraid of this woman, regardless of what she does, regardless of the blood they share. What more could she do? Who cares that she possibly didn't mean to do this? Purposeful or not, the outcome doesn't change.

She feels something knotting up in her chest when she lays eyes on her troubled and troublesome cousin. She can feel the burning. The rage. Her words come out sounding heated, voice low, like a weapon. ''Bring him back.''

Edie stops. ''Laurel...''

''Bring him back,'' Laurel repeats, more desperate this time.

Edie looks from Dean to Laurel and back again. She does not look at all satisfied by the mess. ''It's not that simple.''

Bullshit, Laurel wants to spit out. She wants to rage at this witch, this twisted version of something she loved. She wants to hurt her. She imagines fishing out Dean's pocketknife and thrusting it into Edie's throat. She wouldn't expect it. She wouldn't have time to fight back. She does not do any of this. She still can't move. Cannot extricate herself from his side. Cannot let go of his hand.

''I'll - I'll do what you want,'' she says. Her voice is not angry but shaking and stricken, a raw wound bubbling over with blood. ''I'll give you anything,'' she says. ''If you want my soul, I'll give you my soul. If you want my body, I'll give you my body. You can have it. I'll give you the Cry. I'll - I'll give you my bones, my blood, take anything, take everything. I don't care. It doesn't matter.'' There is a sob caught in her throat. There are tears rolling steadily down her cheeks and she is starting to feel that specific and familiar breathlessness that accompanies her panic attacks. None of it means anything to her right now.

She has to be able to fix this for him. She has to be able to fix this for Mary. Dean Winchester doesn't die. Not like this, not so pointlessly, for nothing, leaving behind a four year old the same way his mother left him. The story doesn't end like that. It's not supposed to end like that.

''I promise,'' she says. ''I promise you can have it all. Just bring him back. Please,'' her voice cracks. ''Please, Edie, please. Bring him back and let him go home to our baby. He won't come after you. I swear. None of them will. I'll keep you safe.'' She tries to pull herself together. She tries to look strong and brave, meeting Edie's eyes, but her whole strength is lying there in the dirt. ''Edith, I will keep you safe.''

Edie appears pale and shaken. Maybe it's just the cold light of the winter day. ''Laurel - ''

''I swear I'll do anything you ask,'' Laurel chokes out. ''I'll help you, I'll stay with you, I'll love you. I will love you forever. Okay? Just you. I won't leave you. Not ever. You'll never be alone again. Doesn't that sound good? Just keep Dean and Mary out of this. They didn't...'' She glances at him, at his face, slack and lifeless. ''They didn't do anything wrong.'' She crumples back to him, face twisting up, knocked over by excruciating grief as the shock wears off. ''They don't deserve this,'' she barely manages to get out. ''You know.'' She tries to look back to Edie. ''You know they don't deserve this.''

Edie doesn't move, but she doesn't look like herself either.

''She's never been without him,'' Laurel begs. ''She needs him. He's her whole world. She needs her world. I - I'm nothing. I've always been nothing. I gave birth to her and handed her over to him and that was the best thing I've ever done. It was...'' Her voice gets caught again. ''The very best thing. You have no idea. If you could see them together, you'd know. I gave them each other and that was the most important thing I've ever done. But that was it. That was my role. I've done my part. I can go now.'' It's an odd release. To say that out loud. To confess. ''She doesn't need me like she needs him,'' she says, and it's not just desperation that makes her voice break. It's not just grief. It's honesty. It's the truth and all the stinging, throbbing aches that come along with it.

She loves her child more than she has ever loved anyone or anything on this earth. It's a love she never thought possible. But that does not mean she is always what's best for her. If she dies tomorrow but Dean is allowed to live, to raise their girl, Mary will be just fine. She'll miss her, but she will be fine. She will be loved and cared for, raised with bravery and kindness, with courage and conviction and morals. If Dean dies and Mary is left only with the nitwit mother who can barely take care of herself...

No, that will not be happening.

They would muddle through somehow, scrape by together, but it would not be enough.

''She needs him,'' she says. ''She's four. She just turned four in October.''

''I know when she - ''

''She's so little.'' Laurel is rapidly losing her control, her ability to keep her howling wails at bay. ''She's so little, Edie. Please don't do this to her. Don't make her lose him.''

''I - I'm not making her - ''

''He's her best friend. Please. Please, please... Just fix this. Bring him back.''

Edie doesn't move. She looks peculiar in this pale daylight, fists clenched tightly at her sides. ''I...'' She looks unexpectedly torn. She looks unexpectedly human. It can't be because of Dean, she's made it clear she is not a fan, but there's something. There is a crack in her armor. ''I can't.''

''What do you mean you can't?!'' Laurel's voice is shrill and close to hysterical. She doesn't care that Edie is, for whatever unknowable reason, having some kind of human response. She just cares that Dean is dead and it can't stay this way, they can't stay this way, he can't leave like this. ''You brought me back! If you can do that, you can - ''

''I had an entire coven backing me that night,'' Edie cuts in. ''And it still went wrong. You still came back wrong.'' Her voice seems to harden with each word, like she's building herself back, destroying her softness. ''I can't bring him back. Not the way you want me to.''

''No,'' Laurel moans, shaking her head. She looks back at Dean, at the body, and she can no longer ignore the churning tidal wave inside of her. ''No.'' It tumbles out of her in a wretchedly painful sob. ''No, this can't be happening.'' She curls her fingers into his chest with one hand, grabbing at his shirt, the other still gripping his hand. ''This can't be happening.'' She whips her head up, rage filled eyes finding her dead(ly) cousin. ''This is a trick,'' she spews out harshly. She means to sound accusatory. She mostly just sounds unhinged. ''You - You did something to me. This is you.''

''Laurel,'' Edie's tone of voice is placating. ''Please calm down.''

''No.'' Laurel shakes her head again. ''No. You're just making me see this. This is a trick. This is just another hallucination. I'm dreaming.''

''You're not dreaming.''

''Yes, I am! I am. I have to be. I have to be. This can't be happening.''

Edie looks completely out of her depth, unsure of what she is supposed to do with this stark raving widow and her deranged denial. ''I'm sorry for your loss.''

It's baffling that this is the line in the sand, but when she hears it, when this random bloody chaos has been acknowledged out loud as a loss, Laurel just erupts like a volcano. Something comes tumbling out of her mouth, that primal wail of grief, and she feels like she is hit, full force, all at once, with the realization that this is really happening. There is nothing to hide behind. There is no shock or denial left to cover her up. There's just a body and all this blood and the absence where he used to be, one that will be with her forever.

She collapses, throwing herself on top of him like a cliché straight out of some 90's soap opera. There is nothing left of him to react to her throwing herself on top of him. Nothing left to hold her. His arms do not encircle her, his chest does not rise, does not fall, and there is no voice left for him to tell her, It's okay, pretty bird, it won't be like this forever. He cannot hear her wailing, her begging Come back, come back. He can't feel her holding his hand. He is not thinking of Mary. He was never not thinking of Mary.

Sometimes, Laurel thinks about what it would be like to fall into a black hole. What it would be like to be stretched to the point of splitting apart by the force of the gravity inside of it. What it would be like to be halved, to be in pieces but yet still, incredibly, impossibly, remain alive. When she imagines that, this is the kind of pain she imagines.

This is what it is like to fall into a black hole.

I love you, she wants to tell him, even though he will not hear her. I have always loved you. I will love you until I am dust. I will stay in this dirt with you forever. We will do the hard work of death and we will do it together and then we will become dirt and grass and bones and we will do that together too. Flowers will grow out of our rib cages, something alive blooming out of death, and we will live forever in the trees and the earth and the sea. I will curl around you and never let go and, one day, hundreds of years from now, someone will find our bones and they will not know where you end and I begin. Doesn't that sound lovely? Is that all right with you? If we just stay here? I am already so tired without you and the view here is beautiful. We could stay, couldn't we? We could make a place.

She wants so badly to say these things. She wants to make foolishly bold promises and whimsical declarations, something loud enough to wake the dead. She has never been a praying kind of person, has been, for most of her life, an atheist, but something inside of her is telling her to pray now. It makes sense if it's for him, if it's to him. Love is the only altar she has ever built, the only thing she has ever believed in with her entire body, the bones of her fragile and tenuous faith. Why not pray to him, someone who loved wholly and joyfully, with everything, radiating light and grace with every act of love. Love is a kind of religion, is it not?

On their wedding day, after flipping through the book of sample scripts for wedding vows, searching for something non-religious and to the point, they selected a short and sweet passage that made her feel warm. She was worried one of them would get nervous and forget the words. She was worried she would be too blubbery to get the words out.

Neither of them even faltered.

Even now, years later, she remembers every word.

I take you as you are, loving who you are now and who you are yet to become. I promise to listen to you and learn from you, to support you and accept your support. I will laugh with you, cry with you, grow with you, and create with you. I will love you and have faith in your love for me through all our years and all that life may bring us.

She remembers those words like she's just said them. As if she has been saying them in her head every day since. She wants to remind him of these vows. She wants to recite it like a prayer and hear him whisper it back.

But, of course, she does not say these things out loud and he does not say them back.

''Laurel,'' Edie's voice is gentle in an unintentionally condescending way. ''We need to get you out of here.''

Laurel grudgingly lifts her head from his bloodied body and the second her bleary eyes spot Edie, she feels a jolt, like a sudden electric current. When Edie moves to touch her, she swats her hands away and screams, pathetically hysterical, ''Don't touch me!'' She scrambles back, away from Edie. ''You!'' She points an accusing finger at her. ''You did this!''

''I didn't do anything.''

''You killed him!''

''You killed him.''

''No,'' she mumbles. ''No, no, no.''

''It was your Cry that did it,'' Edie states, blunt, matter-of-fact. ''You made the choice to use it. I had no idea I could do what I did. I didn't even know it was possible. What I did was an accident. You made a choice.''

''I...I didn't...'' Laurel tries to shake her head. She tries to find the right words to tell her to shut up, but the words are stuck in her throat and she thinks she might vomit. ''No.''

''I'm not saying this to hurt you,'' Edie tells her. ''I'm saying this because we need to get you out of here.'' She takes a step closer and when Laurel doesn't attack, she takes another and then another. ''Think about this for a second. Your power killed Dean Winchester. You know what that means. You know what this is. It's an act of war. You're the enemy now. Think about what's going to happen.'' She inches closer until she's right there, crouched down in front of her. ''What are you going to tell Mary? What's she going to think of you? What do you think his brother is going to do to you? These boys have a lot of friends.''

''They wouldn't hurt me,'' Laurel protests, even as she thinks to herself - well, why wouldn't they? Look what she's done to him.

''Why not?'' Edie challenges. ''You hurt him.''

''I...'' Laurel looks at the body, still and silent. There are still tears rolling down her cheeks and blood smeared everywhere from her hands to her chest to her face. She can still hear the sound of him gurgling. She did this. She did this to him. ''I didn't mean to. I didn't - ''

''You're a monster now,'' Edie says, leaning in close. ''Just like me.''

''No.''

''You're just something to hunt.''

''No. No, they wouldn't - ''

''I can protect you,'' Edie promises, cupping Laurel's face in her hands. ''I know what they do to girls like you. Hate me all you want, but I won't let them hurt you.''

''Edie?'' There is barely a second, a pause where Edie starts to stand and turn, and then she is yanked back by her hair and a fist goes flying toward her eye. It's Hanna, standing there hissing in pain and shaking her hand out. Her punch is not enough to do any major damage to Edie's stubborn ass, but it's well formed and seems to pack enough strength to send Edie stumbling back, giving Hanna ample time to place herself in between her and Laurel. Apparently, Dinah has been teaching the young witch a thing or two. ''You really need to shut your mouth.''

Edie takes a moment to recover, trying to shake off the foggy pain but when she does, she looks positively murderous. She moves like she's about to lunge, but stops short. Confusion mars her already blood splattered and bruised face. She tries again, but can't seem to move her feet. It's like she's standing in cement. Her eyes darken and zero in on Hanna.

Laurel feels like she should step in. It feels like the right thing to do. Hanna is a child. She's eighteen, but she's a kid. Laurel is the adult. It's her responsibility to put herself in between the kid and the bloodthirsty witch. She crawls back over to Dean instead. She would have to be coherent, strong, and ready to help Hanna. She is not any of those things right now.

Calmly, still determinedly blank, Hanna pulls a hex bag out of her pocket. She tosses it onto the ground, just out of Edie's reach.

''Don't do this, kid,'' Edie warns. ''I'm a stronger witch.''

''Maybe,'' Hanna says. ''Maybe not. It doesn't matter now.''

''What are you...'' Edie trails off, distracted by the abrupt and unexpected darkening of the sky, the frozen wind that sweeps across the ground, the snowflakes swirling in the air. Her eyes narrow. ''You are not an elemental witch, Hanna.''

''You're right,'' Hanna agrees. ''I'm not.'' The thick blanket of trees behind the house, the ones shielding the property from the rest of the world, sway in the cold wind. It sounds impossibly loud. A grim smile snakes its way across her face. She has not taken her eyes off Edie. ''Neither was Clementine Raymond.''

Edie tries just a bit too hard not to react to that, but can't quite hide the tense straightening of the spine or the way her mouth tightens.

''I know why you're here, Edie,'' Hanna tells her over the roar of the trees. ''I know what drew you here. What you felt. I can feel it too. Every witch can.''

Edie sticks her nose up. ''I don't know what you're - ''

Hanna lifts a hand and without a word, without even the tiniest twist of her wrist, Edie's mouth is stitched together. The stitches pop up, weaving across her face, leaving her eyes wide, her fingers moving up to uselessly scrabble at the stitches. For the first time, a look of honest fear flashes across her face.

The trees keep swaying in the wind noisily and the waters of the canal lap at the stony beach. The wind is so distractingly, bitingly cold that it chills her right down to the bone.

Hanna doesn't even seem to notice.

''Elemental magic is the purest form of witchcraft in existence,'' she says. ''It's a living thing. One of the oldest living things on this earth. Older than you or me or any of the magic we have in our bloodlines. You know that.'' She takes a few steps closer to Edie, emboldened by how trapped the other witch is, a rat stuck in glue. ''To be connected to the earth the way a true elemental is... That is power you and I will never be able to touch.''

Out of the corner of her eye, Laurel notices something. She notices the ivy covering the guest cottage. She notices it moving.

''It can't be borrowed,'' Hanna continues, ''or stolen or even learned. It's a birthright.'' She pauses again and looks over Edie's shoulder, looking at the same thing Laurel is looking at. The ivy on the house is growing and expanding, tumbling off the side of the house and oozing, slithering like a snake in Edie's direction. ''It just wasn't Clementine's.''

There is a small movement over by the porch of the main house and all eyes go to the little boy, seven-year-old Wyatt, standing there with his arms stretched out, palms up. He's bleeding, blood dribbling from his nose, from the two near identical cuts in his palms. And he is looking at Edie. Only Edie.

She looks back to Hanna, torn between panicked and pissed off. She can't even say anything. The ivy continues to crawl its way over to her, just about tripled in volume. The second it wraps itself around her ankle, the second it begins to envelop her, growing like a mold, her eyes widen in real terror.

Laurel looks away from her cousin, about to be consumed by the ivy, and over to Wyatt. He is so young, only seven, and he is standing there, brows furrowed with such determination and confidence. He may but young, but he knows his power. He knows exactly what he is doing.

''It doesn't matter how much magic you steal, Edie,'' Hanna says as the ivy inches up Edie's body. ''That kid is more powerful than you ever will be.''

Edie makes a desperate attempt to do something, throwing her hand out like she's going for Hanna's throat.

Hanna doesn't even flinch. Just takes a step back and watches with dull eyes as the ivy spreads up Edie's chest, leaving no part of her body visible.

The ivy crawls over her extended arm, covers her skin, creeps up her neck, and Edie is powerless to stop it. She can't move. Once the sprawling vines and voluminous leaves have covered her arm, she can't even bring her arm back.

Before she is completely entombed in the greenery, Hanna steps close to her, as close as she can get. ''You're not a witch,'' she says, voice soft but harsh. ''You're just a tourist.''

Edie looks at her for a second, her eyes blazing with fury, and then she looks over at Laurel. There are mere seconds left, the green leaves traveling upward, beginning to cover her chin, her mouth, but she does lock eyes with Laurel one last time before she is gobbled up. She no longer looks afraid. She no longer looks panicked. There is no regret in her eyes. No apology. There is only rage. It's not surprising to see, it's been crystal clear from the start that she has been consumed by her anger and bitterness, but something about it makes Laurel shiver at the sight.

When I get out of here, Edie is telling her. I am going to drag you down with me.

Truth be told, Laurel doesn't care. She doesn't care about Edie's warning or her rage or her cold, dead eyes. She doesn't care about what parts of her might still be alive under all that anger and greed and corrupted stolen power. Dean is still dead, still lying in the dirt, covered in blood. He's still gone. She keeps her eyes on Edie, stoic as the ivy and the leaves devour Edie until there is nothing left of her but a human shaped shrub, arm still outstretched, unnervingly still.

Everything is quiet once the threat is gone, turned to nothing but greenery. The wind dies down, the trees quieting down, but the clouds remain, opening up enough to allow some more snow to fall.

Laurel looks at Hanna and then at Wyatt, still standing all alone on the porch, bleeding. He looks less confident now, less powerful. He just looks like a boy, small and scared, wiping the blood from his nose, teary and pained by the cuts in his hands. She looks back down at Dean. There is nothing more she can do for him. She hesitates because she's human and because she knows this is the last time she will be by his side and then she start to move.

''Laurel!'' Hanna comes sprinting back over to her, looking far less calm than she did when facing off with Edie. ''Laurel,'' her voice is shaky. ''We have to go. We have to get Kaylie.'' She seems to be pointedly trying not to look at Dean's body, though it's clear from her distress that she understands what has happened. ''I - I don't know if anyone else is here.''

Laurel hauls herself to her feet, grimacing in pain as the adrenaline wears off leaving her sore, feeling every single injury from the day. ''Where is she?''

''She's - I put her in her crib, but we need to - I don't know if my uncle's here. If he's here, we need to move.''

''Hanna,'' Laurel says. ''Your uncle - ''

''He's here. He's here, isn't he? I knew it.''

''Hanna - '' Laurel stops, attention unexpectedly taken away from Hanna and over to Wyatt when the boy moves, darting off the porch. He makes a break for it, running straight to Dean. A burst of something - maternal instinct maybe - flows through her and she calls out to him, desperately not wanting him to see.

Hanna seems even more desperate, instantly attempting to run after him, calling out a sharp, frightened, ''Wyatt, don't!''

Wyatt barely even slows down. Just tosses a look over his shoulder and throws his hand out.

A rippling wave of heat knocks both Laurel and Hanna off their feet, lifting them up and depositing them over by the front porch. It's a hard landing, but not quite as hard as being thrown through the window. Laurel moves with difficulty, every muscle in her body screaming in protest as she pushes herself up. She looks at Hanna for a second just to make sure she's okay before her eyes seek out Wyatt.

He is crouched down next to the body, hunched over, hands splayed out on Dean's face.

''Wyatt,'' she calls out, but only gets one step before she stops, her heart leaping into her throat.

''Oh shit,'' Hanna whispers from beside her, kneeling in the gravel, completely unaware of the rocks cutting into her knees.

Wyatt's face is not visible and neither is Dean's, both of them hidden from view, snowflakes floating in the air around them, but Laurel can see, very clearly, the green. There is fresh green grass, healthy and alive, seeping over the gravel, growing from underneath the body. ''Wyatt!'' Hanna's voice is urgent, near terrified as she pulls herself up to her feet. ''This isn't a good idea! You can't just - ''

A frantic gasp pierces the still air and Dean's body, lying in the new grass, jerks.

There is half a second where Laurel thinks she is losing her mind, just seeing things, just wishful thinking, but then he sits up. Bolts upright is more like it, choking and gagging on the blood that's still in his throat, but breathing.

''Oh my god.'' She stands there, frozen in disbelief for a second before she jerks back to life, racing over to them. ''Dean!'' She nearly throws herself down, falling into the new soft grass next to him. ''Dean.''

He is still trying to hack up the blood in his throat, but he still gets out a rasp of her name, one hand reaching out to grasp onto her wrist tightly.

''You're - oh my god.'' She does wait until he's finished spitting up blood before she frantically grabs at his face, meeting his eyes. ''Are you okay?'' She's pretty sure she's already crying. ''Are you - ''

''I'm - What...'' His voice is hoarse. ''What just happened?''

''I - I don't...'' She trails off, moving her eyes to Wyatt. She can't even form words right now, staring in disbelief at the child who just brought her husband back to life.

It's Dean who winds up speaking, still bloody, voice raspy. ''Kid,'' he gets out, staring. ''What did you just do?''

Wyatt, for his part, looks nonplussed. He looks surprised that his hands have done what they have done, but ultimately more pleased with the patches of soft, lush grass he's conjured up out of nothing. He looks at Laurel and then he looks at Dean. He looks at Dean for a long time, as if assessing his handiwork. Then he looks down at his bleeding hands. He frowns. When he looks back to them, his mouth is tightened. He looks nervous. He schools his features into a brave, determined look.

''If we take care of the earth,'' he starts, voice slow, hoarse from disuse, just this shy mumble, ''she'll take care of us.''

It's the first time they've heard his voice.

He places his palms down into the soft new grass. ''Sometimes she takes you.'' He holds his hands still for a minute, sunken into the grass before turning them over, wounds scarred over but healed. ''Sometimes she gives you back.''

.

.

.

April, 2016

Today is April 10th.

A Sunday.

They had plans for today. There is a grocery list on the fridge that reads: cinnamon, nutmeg, check flour, buttermilk, cream cheese, powdered sugar.

He was going to wake up early and make her cinnamon buttermilk pancakes. It was the one thing she asked for. She didn't want a party, too worn out from the stress of the Darhk trial. She didn't want to go out for breakfast, not even to their favorite place with the cinnamon pancakes that had been a near obsession with her for the entire time he knew her.

She just wanted a quiet Sunday at home. Cinnamon pancakes for breakfast - his cinnamon pancakes, she specified, because he made cream cheese icing to go along with it and did a cinnamon swirl in the middle that Mary thought was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen- and time to work on her garden, maybe take Mary for a walk if the weather was nice. Get takeout for dinner. Watch a movie. It was going to be her first birthday without her grandmother and she hadn't been feeling well lately - because, he realizes now, she was pregnant - and Damien Darhk's trial was taking a lot out of her, so she just wanted some time to decompress and be with her family.

He was going to give her that. He was ready to give her that. He would have given her anything. He was going to make her breakfast in bed. Wake up early to make sure that she got her food before Mary woke up so that she could eat without a sticky toddler stealing her food and getting syrup all over the place. He was going to keep Mary out of her hair while she puttered around in her garden. Order some lo mein and crab rangoon and egg rolls and sesame chicken, all her favorites. He wanted to give her one good day.

But that's not what happened, is it? That's not where they are. No, instead they are here.

Mary is at the park with Charlie and Sam, picking flowers. Laurel is all alone, body cold in the basement of some funeral home, embalmed or being embalmed or waiting to be embalmed. And Dean is here, standing in his garage, hand bleeding, waiting.

He made the pancakes, by the way.

He made the cream cheese icing. He did the fancy cinnamon swirl. He made homemade whipped cream and caramel sauce. Bought all kinds of syrup from chocolate to butter flavored to blueberry to some rather expensive Canadian maple. He added some chocolate chips to a few pancakes and fried up some bacon to go along with. He even stopped by Krispy Kreme and picked up a dozen fresh glazed doughnuts. He made a meal. A feast. A terrible, delicious meal loaded with carbs, sugar, and all kinds of fat.

He made an offering. He hopes it will be enough.

''Hello, Dean.''

The voice behind him is, as usual, quiet and calm, steady in an unnatural way.

Dean turns away from the table he has set up full of sugary goodies that can only be loosely defined as ''breakfast foods.'' He looks at the little old man in the long black jacket standing in his garage, staring right back at him with that familiar weary curiosity. There is a split second of that familiar trepidation, that creepy crawly sensation on the back of his neck, and then he says, as casually as he can, ''Howdy. Long time no see. How've you been?''

Death shrugs his bony shoulders. ''Busier and busier every year.''

''Well, that's troubling.''

Death looks around the garage. He eyes the life that Dean Winchester has accumulated in the years since they have last seen each other. For a second, he almost looks like he's smiling. ''It has been awhile, hasn't it?'' He turns his attention back to Dean. ''Here we are again, my boy.''

''Right.'' Dean snaps out of it, hurrying to grab the cleanest cloth he can find to press to his bleeding hand. He grabs a drink off the table, presenting it to the old man who is not really an old man with a flourish. ''Uh,'' he clears his throat. ''So I thought I'd start you off with a mocha Frappuccino. Or - '' He frowns down at the frankenfrap he got the barista to make. ''A bastardized version of it anyway.''

Death reaches out a spindly hand to take it.

''I got them to slather as much chocolate syrup as they could on the cup - and some caramel for good measure. I added the whipped cream myself. It's homemade. It's always better homemade.''

Death sniffs at the drink, curious, a bit like a cat, and then he takes a slurp from the straw. It's probably not the most intimidating he's ever looked. His eyebrows raise at the first taste and he pulls the cup away to examine the frozen coffee drink, eyeing the name scrawled on the side of the cup in black sharpie. In all capitals, with a heart next to it, the cup proudly proclaims, ''DEATH.''

The barista working the counter today was chipper. Didn't even bat an eye when he said the drink was for Death. Zero hesitation, no double take, didn't ask him to repeat himself. Just said okelie dokelie and got to it. He made sure to tip her well. Partly because she didn't ask questions. Mostly because she said okelie dokelie.

Death takes another sip from the straw. ''Refreshing.'' He looks around Dean's shoulder toward the table. ''Is that Krispy Kreme?''

''Yeah,'' Dean ushers Death over to the table. ''Yes.'' He grabs the box off the table and pops it open, holding it out. ''Hot and ready.''

Death looks unnervingly cheerful about the doughnuts, plucking one from the box eagerly.

''And there's more,'' Dean presses on. ''Pancakes as far as the eye can see. Cinnamon buttermilk. Homemade by yours truly. I made them as thick and fluffy as possible. Your choice of toppings. Butter, whipped cream, caramel sauce, a multitude of syrups - including chocolate. I recommend the cream cheese icing. The pancakes on this plate,'' he points to a plate with a short stack, ''have chocolate chips in them.'' He smiles, or at least attempts to. ''Hope you like breakfast food.''

Death surveys the table, the chair, the offering that has been made, the place that has been set for him. He seems satisfied enough. ''Who doesn't like breakfast food?''

Dean waits until Death has seated himself, polished off two doughnuts, and pulled a stack of pancakes over to him before he goes on. ''What about bacon? You like bacon?''

Death, perusing the syrups, doesn't even dignify that with a response - merely a look is tossed in the puny human's direction.

''Right,'' Dean nods. ''Everyone likes bacon.'' He watches Death heap an alarming amount of butter, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream onto his pancakes. He completely bypasses the cream cheese icing. Rude, honestly. ''Got a plate full of bacon in the kitchen,'' he declares. ''Extra crispy. Still warm.'' He sure hopes he doesn't look as nervous as he feels. ''I just need one thing from you first.''

The deceptively frail old man looking otherworldly being sitting at the table does not look at all surprised by the hostage situation he has found himself in. He doesn't even look particularly annoyed today. He looks like he has been anticipating this. He even smiles faintly, cutting up his pancakes. ''Bargaining,'' he states. ''Of course.'' He lifts his fork to his mouth but pauses before he takes a bite. ''Go on then,'' he urges. ''Give me your pitch.''

...Okay.

Wasn't expecting it to be that easy.

Dean is silent for a moment, watching Death eat pancakes in his garage, struggling to come up with the right words. He's been doing that a lot lately. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what he's supposed to tell Mary. How to make her understand what's happened. How to make it easier. Every night, he lies in an empty bed and he thinks about the things he should be saying, the words his poor kid needs, all the things his father did not say, and he's got nothing.

He just keeps thinking about Laurel, lying all alone, cold, in the most vulnerable state anyone can ever be in, on that table in some funeral home while they swap her blood for harsh chemical preservatives.

He left her to that.

He staggered out of that hospital without her. Left her to do the rest all on her own. He thinks about that every day. Death is hard work. No one tells you that, but it is. No one should have to do it alone.

A hunter's funeral pyre may seem like an act of convenience, something done in the shadows under the table, and maybe that's part of it, but it is also an act of love. You prepare the body. You wash the body. You take whatever remnants you want - a lock of hair, a wedding ring, a patch of clothing. You wrap it, you tie it, you pour the gasoline, you strike the match, and you stay. You stay until they are gone.

Countless other religions and cultures understand the importance of death. The work of it. The love. Hunters have their own religion. Their own rules. Their own acts of devotion.

He could have brought her home. He could have washed her, dressed her, and cut off a lock of her hair or whatever. He could have prepared her. These two hands couldn't save her, but they could have done this. He could have done this. One last love song. One last act of devotion.

But he didn't.

He left her there. All by herself. She had to do it alone. While he was off attempting to pester a crossroads demon into one last deal, her body was released to her parents and they sent her off to some fucking funeral home and now she's... She's on that slab, without him, while they take her out and put something else in. There are strangers touching her and washing her and pouring her down and drain and putting her in fucking freezer drawers. That's his fault. That's another failure.

None of that will matter if he can bring her back. If he can bring her back the way he brought Sam back, the way Winchesters always come back, then they can move on. Life goes back to normal. Everything will be fine and no one has to think about failures and preservatives and how lonely and cold death is.

He just has to do this one thing.

''My - My wife,'' he says haltingly. ''Laurel Lance. Dinah Laurel Lance.'' He brings a hand up to his wedding ring without even realizing he's doing it. ''She - ''

''I know,'' Death cuts him off.

''You...''

''I was there.''

Dean falters. ''You were there?'' Oh. Oh. ''You took her.''

''I took her hand,'' Death says. ''I led her. I thought it best to do this one myself.'' He looks up from the pancakes. He stares at Dean with his beady, endless eyes. Then he takes another doughnut. ''You have my condolences.'' It's weird how genuine that sounds.

''I need her back,'' Dean declares, straightening up. ''I need you to bring her back.''

Death, once again, does not look surprised. ''Ah, yes,'' he says mildly. ''You and your boundless devotion.'' He smiles placidly. ''Who would you be without it?'' He spoons some whipped cream onto his doughnut and makes a grab for the chocolate syrup.

''I know you have a job to do,'' says Dean. ''I know it's important. People die. I don't want to upset any balances. But she...'' His throat feels uncomfortably tight. ''That shouldn't have happened. That was a mistake. I need to fix that. I'm offering you a trade.''

Death licks whipped cream and chocolate syrup off his finger. ''A trade.''

''Me for her.''

Death brings another bite of pancakes to his mouth. He ponders the suggestion for a few more bites after that. ''You believe it's that simple?''

''I know it's not simple,'' Dean says. ''I get that. Death is natural, you're very old, you've seen it all, I'm just a flea - ''

''Less than.''

''But this is Laurel we're talking about.'' He says it as if Death knows her personally. Like he knows all about her joys, her sorrows, the way she likes her coffee, how she scrunches up her nose when she's confused, what her favorite hot sauce is, the way her hair looks in the summer when she's standing on the back porch in the fading light and the glow hits her just right. How she looked in her wedding dress and the hastily made flower crown Iris put on her head for ''good luck.'' The look on her face when Mary, slippery wet and screaming at the top of her gurgly little lungs, was placed on her chest and all she could get out through her tears was, ''I know you. I know you.''

Death doesn't know these things.

How could he?

Dean wants to tell him. He wants to unleash all of it, tell the whole story, and not leave a thing out. He wants him to know who she was, how amazing she was, how much she deserves to be here. They don't have that kind of time. ''She's been through too much,'' he says, ignoring the way his voice is on the verge of breaking. ''It can't just end like that. Did - Did you know today is her birthday?''

Death doesn't answer, still sitting there, all chill and hungry, watching this Winchester come untethered in front of him like it's dinner theatre.

''She would've been thirty-one,'' Dean says. She flickers in his mind, a bright lit up flash of her smiling back at him as she walked out the door that last night. ''She didn't even make it to thirty-one.'' He has never said that out loud before. It feels like a bulldozer is crunching through his chest. ''She worked so hard to get better and stay here with us. She deserved to... How is this fair?''

''Fair has nothing to do with it,'' Death says. ''You know that.''

What he knows is that this is bullshit. ''We have a daughter.'' He tries to straighten up, make himself tall, but he knows that doesn't matter. ''We have a little girl. Did you know that?''

''I did.''

''She's three.'' Dean clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. He thinks of Mary at the park, picking flowers for Mommy's birthday because she does not yet understand that dead means gone. ''She looks like her.''

''You look like your mother,'' Death comments, and Dean, momentarily, cannot breathe.

''She needs her,'' he says. ''She can't just not have a mom. Kids need their moms.'' He tries to square his shoulders. ''I've lived. I've lived longer than I ever thought I would. She never even had a chance to.'' He has to blink. ''She suffered, you know. She suffered her entire life. That's all there was.''

At that, Death stops eating the pancakes. He pauses with a forkful halfway to his mouth. He looks at Dean with something resembling a curious frown. He puts the fork down. ''You know as well as I do that isn't true. That is not all there was,'' he says, voice even. ''There was also you.''

''She was ripped from me,'' Dean spits, throat constricting, pressure building behind his eyes. ''She was torn. She was in pain. But she still fought. She fought so hard. There can't just be nothing to show for that. She can't just be gone.''

''No one is ever truly gone,'' Death says. ''Bodies die, souls move on, but what remains remains.''

''And what is that?''

''Love.'' He plucks a paper towel from the roll that has been oh so kindly provided for him. He wipes his mouth. ''A truly remarkable thing. Safe even from me.'' He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He picks up the mocha frap and slurps away, studying Dean the whole time with those ancient, penetrating eyes. ''Do you think,'' he begins after a few seconds, ''she was the first person to die at an inconvenient time?''

Dean is almost relieved by the burst of frustration that sweeps over the grief trying to consume him. ''No, that's not what I'm - ''

''You think of me as a punishment, don't you?''

He doesn't know how to answer the question. Yes. Yes, he does. How can he not? Death takes. It takes and takes until there's nothing left. It steals. What is that if not a punishment?

''I'm offended, Dean,'' Death throws out. ''I thought you knew me better than that.'' A reproachful smile. ''All the time we've spent together and you still see me as some petty wound. How human. How arrogant.''

''Okay, I get it. I'm - ''

''I am not a punishment.'' It is said louder, more forceful, with intention, conviction. ''I am merely a result.'' Death looks at Dean as if looking at a child, a silly, tantruming, snot nosed kid who can't see over his own selfishness. ''I happen,'' he says plainly. ''I happen to everyone. Your parents, your friends, your brother, your wife. Even your daughter will know me one day.''

''Don't.''

Death ignores the useless little growl. He forges right on, looking right at Dean like he can see through him. ''And, one day,'' he goes on, as if there had never been any interruption at all, ''I will happen to you. Did you think you and yours could escape me just because you've pulled the curtain back? Because you believe you know me?'' He looks amused at the mere thought. ''No. Not a chance,'' he states, an assurance, a promise, a threat. ''I happen,'' he says once more, quieter this time, somehow more menacing. ''Do you know why?'' He does not wait for the answer that will never come, but he does lean forward. ''Because I am needed.'' He says this last part so unexpectedly gently, an abrupt shift in tone. ''I am not a cruelty. I am not something to fear. I am the natural progression of a life lived. Regardless of how much it irks you, I am instrumental in keeping your fragile rock spinning.'' He takes another drink of the mocha that he really does appear to be enjoying.

Dean is not thinking much about that. He is thinking about Laurel. It's her. It's always her. He sits down across the table from Death at the rickety table he's set up in his garage. This is it. He's not sure he's gotten that point across. This is his last chance. This is the last tool in his arsenal. The last ditch effort of the last ditch efforts. And it is not going the way he wanted it to.

''You believe I exist only in pain,'' Death says, continuing on. ''That's understandable, if not unbearably naive. I was here before you. I was here before the fields, before the grass, before hummingbirds and the orca whales and the rose bushes. Before skyscrapers and automobiles, juicy cheeseburgers and smart phones and the insufferable stock market. Long before vaccinations and antibiotics. I predate all the cozy creature comforts of modern life. I was here before the very ground on which you stand. Before Man. I was there at the beginning and I will be there at the end.'' He puts the drink down and leans back, steepling his hands, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a thoughtful therapist. ''I am in everything,'' he says. ''I am everywhere. Love, pain, art, sex, taxes, reality television. From the honeybees to the dust bunnies under your bed. I am where I have always been. Where I will always be. I walk with you every day. I know you, I know them, your friends, your family, your next door neighbors, the barista who smiled at you this morning. I am a part of you. I was a part of your wife. And that, my dear boy, is the way it should be. The way it has to be. All of this would be meaningless without me.''

He holds Dean's gaze for a moment, looking entirely calm, and then he goes back to his pancakes. The pancakes that were supposed to be Laurel's birthday breakfast.

And Dean has to sit there with a slow growing nausea in the pit of his stomach and realize -

''You're not going to bring her back, are you?''

Death looks up, but only briefly. ''No.''

Dean has to swallow, afraid he might vomit, the image of her in that hospital bed, body slack and lifeless, eyes and mouth open flashing through his mind. That can't be the last image he has of her. That can't be where they leave each other. ''Why?'' He tries to muster up anger. He is usually so good at that. He only manages to sound like a lost little boy. ''Why her? Can you answer me that? Why her?''

Death takes one last bite, finishing off his plate. He puts his cutlery down and wipes his mouth with the paper towel. ''Why not her?''

Since it doesn't seem like a good idea to throttle Death, Dean decides it's best to stand up and take a few steps away, turning his back on the old man behind him. He tries to make it seem like he is just getting something to replace the blood soaked cloth pressed against his bleeding hand, but his chest feels like it's caving in and he's sure it's noticeable that he's struggling just to breathe.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't think he will ever understand. All these deaths he's lived through, all the times he's pulled Sam back - why is it just them? Why is it him and not her? They have taken her blood. He thought he could give it back. He was sure of it. That's how it works. That's how it's supposed to work. He loses someone and he turns himself inside out to get them back and he thinks, This is the blood I've bled for you and this is the hole you've made in the world and this is the part where you come back.

This is the part where you come back.

And they come back.

Why is it so different this time?

''You don't look well, Dean,'' the all-powerful being says from behind him. ''Have you been sleeping?''

He opens his eyes. A burst of red hot anger punches through him and he whirls around. ''Why does everyone keep asking me that?!''

Death merely raises an eyebrow at the outburst.

''I can do this,'' Dean insists. ''I can do this for her. I can. Just take me. Please just make the trade. Bring her back and take me. I'm good enough to die.''

Death does not look like he's considering the proposal, but he does look like he's thinking about something. He looks far away for a second. He's looking at Dean like he's looking right through him. ''One day, you and I will have a lot to discuss,'' he says. ''But, for today, there will be no trades.'' He eyes the slumped posture and utter defeat in the sloppy, needy human standing in front of him. ''Loss is part of the human condition,'' he says wisely. ''You can't wiggle your way out of that.'' He crumples the paper towel and puts it on the empty plate before rising to his feet. ''I do appreciate the Krispy Kreme,'' he says, fixing his coat before plucking another doughnut - his fifth - from the box. ''I haven't had one of these since 1969.'' He devours the whole thing in about four bites. ''You'll have to owe me the bacon.''

Dean is not there yet. He is not at the neat and tidy stage where he is able to accept the loss and move on. He is still lost, floating somewhere outside of his body, stuck in the shock and the anger and the fear. He is still in that room with her body and there are no doors. Not until she wakes up and they can leave that place together. He made a vow. He doesn't know how to break it.

''What was the point?'' He blurts it out angrily, every part of him burning with grief. ''What was the point of all the shit she went through? What was the point of putting her through that if she was just going to die? What was the lesson? That nothing matters? You suffer and you suffer and you suffer and then you die? Don't bother to try because you're gonna die screaming anyway? Fuck!'' He throws his hands up. ''Maybe I should've just let her kill herself! Maybe that would've been better, huh? Maybe that would've been easier to live with. At least then she would've gone out on her own terms. Was that it? Was that the lesson? Is this all there is? Was it going to end this way no matter what? Was she doomed from the start? What was I here for? Just to watch? What am I here for if I can't save her?''

Death cannot answer the questions of the living. He just stands there, staring, watching while Dean splinters apart. He is being oddly patient today.

''What am I supposed to do?'' Dean just keeps going. He doesn't think he can stop now. ''What happens next? I go out and buy a copy of The Year of Magical Thinking, box up her things, and let it go? Let her go? Is that what happens? I put her away? I watch time move on without her? I leave her behind? Answer me! What's supposed to happen in the aftermath of you? What do I do? What do I do with this?''

What do I do, he is asking, with all this love I have for her? Where do I put it now? If it couldn't save her and it can't bring her back, what good is it? What was the worth of this thing that's still so alive in me, even when she is not?

Death cocks his head to the side. ''You live,'' he says, like that's the grand answer, like that means anything at all.

Dean lets out a ragged breath. ''That's not good enough.''

''No, I imagine it isn't, is it?''

There is nothing else.

Dean has witnessed many absurd miracles before. He has seen the dead rise. He has been risen. He has brought his brother back and watched her bring her sister back. Everyone else gets a miracle. Everyone else gets to be saved. To be dragged out of the holes dug for them. It is entirely incomprehensible that she doesn't get that.

The nerve.

The nerve of this fucking miserable world. The audacity it has to take her and not even give them a trap door.

The last thing she said to him before it all went to shit was I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry for putting you through this.

I don't mind, he replied. Not when it's you.

''Was she scared?''

Now that question seems to get Death's attention. He looks mildly surprised by the inquiry. ''Would it help you? To know?''

...No. Not in the slightest.

''Tell me anyway.''

Death narrows his eyes, giving Dean a rather probing onceover. ''She's at rest now,'' he eventually settles on. ''She's at peace.''

It's almost insulting.

''But was she scared?''

A small, exasperated sigh. Death relents. ''She was brave.'' It is said with such a strange and out of character kindness. Dean can't tell if it's for him or for Laurel. ''She was full of grace and extraordinary light,'' says Death, so seriously, so intently that Dean can't help but listen. ''And from this moment on, every particle of her will be in everything. You will commit her body to the earth and the dirt you place over her will give life to flowers your daughter will water. She will go on. In thunderstorms, in wind, in the stars and the moon and the cosmos. The earth, the sky, the sea. She will be a jellyfish. She will be a grizzly bear. She will be the blackbird you see sitting outside of your window and the leaves blowing through the wind. She will live in the evergreen trees and the mossy tree stumps and the fog that rolls in on winter mornings. She is unending, constant, eternal. She will always be near and she will always be far and every piece of her, every atom, will love you the whole way through.'' He looks at Dean the way one might look at a child. ''Does that bring you no comfort?''

Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out, voice consumed by the rock of grief in his throat, the wetness on his cheeks, the ache in his chest, and the hole in the world that she left behind. He can't bring her back. He can't make this better. He can't fix this. He's lost. He's failed her again. A whole life that they built with their own hands and their own hearts, all their hopes and dreams - gone in an instant.

''No,'' he gets out in a croak. ''Not really.'' He tries halfheartedly to wipe at his eyes, but it doesn't make a difference. ''I don't want particles. I don't want pieces I can't touch. I want her to be whole. I want to hold her.''

Death takes that into consideration. At least pauses long enough to give the impression that he's taking that into consideration. ''You're grieving. You're lost. You're looking for shelter, all humans are, but I can't be that for you.''

''I don't want a shelter,'' Dean refutes, trying to muster up some anger, some heat, anything other than this. ''I want answers. You're supposed to have answers.''

''The questions that exist between the living and the dead are not for me to answer,'' Death says simply, unbothered by the raw nerve in front of him. ''I couldn't if I tried. I've given you all I can give you.''

Dean wants to argue. He wants to call bullshit. Tell him, Of course you have the answers, this is your job, you took her, why did you take her, why her and not me? He wants to rage and burn and have that mean something. He wants this to matter enough to bring her back. But, all at once, he has been struck by the insanity of this situation. The absurdity, the obscenity of it all.

His wife is dead and today is her birthday and he made pancakes for Death and stood in a Starbucks listening to the college aged barista flirt with him while someone, somewhere, cut open his pretty bird's body and took out her organs and put them in a trash bag. His wife is dead and he is standing in a garage with a little old man who was never going to rewrite the world for one person. His wife is dead and their daughter is at the park picking flowers and she doesn't understand any of it.

He has not properly lost it since she left, but he is very tired and this seems impossible to live through let alone carry for the rest of his life and now here he is; losing it, lost. In front of Death no less.

''I need her back,'' he begs. He doesn't think he has managed to convey that properly. He doesn't think he could. How does he list all the ways he needs her? How do you put that into words? ''Please. Please. I need her back. I don't know how to do this without her. I don't know how to...'' There is too much to say and not enough time to say it. Mary will be home from the park soon and there will be no Mommy here to accept the flowers. ''I can't do this,'' he says. ''I can't.''

Death is, surprisingly, not unsympathetic, but he is, ultimately not swayed. ''But you will,'' he assures him, voice soft. ''You'll learn.'' He gives him the last thing he has left - a small, peculiar smile. ''That is, after all, what living is for.''

.

.

.

January, 2017

Here is the truth at the center of this, here is the core of this planet made of desperation, the gospel truth about his learned obedience, his defiant and unwavering loyalty, and his ingrained and bloody altruism:

He has always known he would die for love.

Was there any other way for this to end?

No.

Never.

People die for less every day. All over the world they burn their lives down in the name of hate and ignorance, take stories of need against need against need and turn them into tales of unfathomable selfishness and cruelty, their lives amounting to nothing but a lack of basic humanity, a zero sum game at the end of the day.

That was never going to be him.

He has never had a religion, but he has never been faithless. There was always love, the heart of the matter, the light seeping in through the cracks. What a worthy thing to die for.

Sometimes he tells himself that this is what his mother taught him before she died. Instilled it in him from the day he was born until the day she died. How to love with your very bones. Sometimes he wonders if it's more something to do with his father. If perhaps his love is an act of defiance.

Neither of these things are true.

He was born for this. There was never any other way for him to go.

Even still, he has to admit...

This is not what he had been expecting.

An accident? That's it? This is all he gets? An accident? What would his father say about this? What will Mary say? What will she think? Who will she blame?

In this heart that he calls home, there is a house, two houses, one in Kansas where his mother burned, one in Washington where his daughter sleeps, and he carries them with him wherever he goes. They are often the first things he thinks about when he wakes up in the morning and the last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep at night.

And they were with him in the dirt while he bled out.

He kept trying to think about Sammy, kept trying to focus on Laurel, listen to the sound of her voice so it could be the last thing he heard because he wanted it to be the last thing he heard. He kept worrying about how they would go on, how they would heal, but then he kept falling back to his mother and his daughter. Which seems perfectly rational now - why wouldn't he think about his child in his last moments, why wouldn't he think about his mother - but at the time, he felt irrationally guilty that he couldn't show up for his wife one last time when it was her hands pressed to his throat, that he was failing Sammy by leaving him here all alone without him.

He just couldn't stop thinking about Mary. She was like gravity. The night she was born. The first time he saw her face. The first time he held her in his arms. The little noises she used to make in her sleep when she was a baby. The way she held his hand on the first day of preschool. How soft and warm her skin was. How tightly she held on. He could still feel her holding on.

She took her first steps on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon. She walked toward him. Just like Sammy. She has her mother's eyes, but she has his smile. Which is also his mother's smile. Which is also her mother's smile. And then he thought -

Mom, is this what it was like? Were you as scared as I am? Mom, Mommy -

I don't want to die.

He heard her voice, clearer than it had been since he was four years old, chirping out, Hello, my little lovebug. Are you ready to go?

Then he heard nothing at all.

His father used to get drunk and compare him to his mother. You look like her, he would say. You have her eyes. In the winter, near Christmas, during the cold and empty days surrounding her birthday, Dad would drink and drink and look at Dean out of the corner of his eye, bitter, resentful, and full of grief he didn't know what to do with. You nag like her, he would snap or moan or rage. You're too much like her. I can't even look at you.

Dean has always been fine with living in her shadow, really, it's fine, that shadow is the only place he can find her, but he never expected the comparison to become so...

Literal.

Maybe he should have. Maybe he should have known from the moment Mary was born that he would leave her the way his mother left him. Maybe it was only a matter of time.

Winchesters may ride on, but Campbells die young.

He has always been his mother's son.

Whatever.

This is a problem for another day. No use crying over spilt milk - or blood. There is an excessive amount of shit to do right now. He's going to taste blood for the rest of his life, the same way he still tastes ashes, but he's fine. Thanks to Wyatt. He's just got a lot on his mind. There are two kids to take care of now, one of them a very tiny, very hungry, and very pissed off infant, and someone needs to get in touch with the rest of the Marlowe family, all those scattered siblings out there, living their lives, unaware of the tragedy that has struck their family back in Washington.

Laurel seems to be switched off right now, numb and in shock, unable to do more than helplessly hold and shush the baby and occasionally stare at him like he's the Grand Canyon. Hanna won't even look at him. He's not sure what that's about, but it doesn't bode well. Everyone's fucking covered in blood. And he feels like he's forgetting something. Something important. It is a persistent heaviness that nags at him the whole way home.

They stop at a Walmart in Seattle and send Hanna - the least bloody - inside with her father's credit card to get baby supplies and he stands at the edge of the parking lot, calls Marissa Marlowe and tells her that half of her family is dead and listens to her scream and he thinks, Did I leave the oven on?

He and Laurel bicker and snipe at each other while they try to change the wriggly baby's diaper in the backseat, panicky and stressed out as if they are first time parents who have never done this before and he thinks, Maybe I forgot to run the dishwasher last night.

He stands in his living room, sticky with dried blood, and gives Wyatt some leftover nutella shortbread sandwich cookies that he and Mary made on his birthday and it doesn't feel like enough, he feels like he should have more to offer this child who pulled him back from oblivion, and the boy takes one and stares up at him and he thinks, When you brought me back, what did you leave behind?

There is no time to think about these things. No time to sit here and wonder if he's whole, wonder what he's lost because it's been a fucking day and baby Kaylie is not having any of it.

''She has to tire herself out at some point.'' Hanna says, grimace twisted onto her face. ''Like, she can't cry forever, right? At some point she has to stop.''

''She's hungry,'' he says, fruitlessly bouncing the baby, pacing back and forth, a familiar headache forming behind his left eye.

''If she's hungry, why won't she take the bottle?''

He resists the urge to snap at her. None of this is her fault. ''She's probably exclusively breastfed,'' he says. ''She's not used to the bottle.'' She is also, let's be real, fucking traumatized. Went down for a nap and woke up to a whole new world. No Mom, no Dad, just a couple bloody strangers with tension radiating off them in waves. Poor kid. ''She'll get there,'' he says, frowning down at the screaming red-faced baby.

Hanna mutters something else under her breath that he can't hear. He elects to ignore it. He shifts Kaylie to one arm to pull out his phone, intending to send Sam another SOS, this one telling him to hurry the fuck up. There are three missed texts, all responses to his earlier one.

Why do you need me to get baby stuff out of storage? Is Laurel pregnant? Then, rather annoyingly, Do you think now is the best time to be having another kid? Thankfully, Sam's last text is just a simple, I'm on my way, but -

Damn, dude. Maybe dial back the condescension.

''Do you think I should get Dinah over here?''

He slips his phone back into his pocket and turns to Hanna. ''What? Why?''

''Well. I don't know if you know this, but... '' Hanna stares at the baby. ''...She was a mom.''

''She told you about - '' He stops, cut off by Kaylie's loud screeching. ''Shit.'' He bounces her in one arm, rubbing her belly with the other. Unlike Mary, she does not seem to appreciate it. ''Honey, I know you're hungry.'' He looks at Hanna for a second, too distracted to care that she is still refusing to look at him directly. ''No. That's...not a good idea.'' For so many reasons.

''What about a spell? I could put her to sleep.''

''No!'' It's harsher than intended. ''No,'' he says again, deliberately softer. ''That is the last thing we need to be doing right now. She just needs to eat.'' He throws his attention over to Wyatt. He considers asking him if he knows anything about Kaylie's schedule but that seems like a long shot. Kid's got enough on his shoulders anyway. He doesn't need any added weight.

Over on the couch, Wyatt is still sitting quietly, munching on a cookie, too distracted by his own grief and fear to even register much of Kaylie's crying. He has been trying so hard to be strong, but he is seven years old. His bravery is not infinite and it shouldn't need to be. Children should be children. Dean would really like a moment or two to take the poor boy aside for a chat. Not just because he has questions about what the hell happened today, but also because he wants Wyatt to know that it's safe here to be sad.

There's just so much else to think about right now. He's not even sure Wyatt would be receptive to that kind of talk right now. He hasn't said a word to them since they left Seabeck. He talked to Marissa on the phone briefly, but that was mostly whispered and shaky one word answers and then she started crying, which made him start crying and it's been silence ever since. He hasn't been signing either. They can get him to nod or shake his head, but he is too thoroughly terrified to do anything else.

He has lost everything. His mother was all he knew. That house was his home. His family was in that basement. His entire world has just been shattered. In some ways, Dean can relate. He stopped talking after his mother died too.

He tears his eyes away from Wyatt and looks down at the fussy baby in his arms. Both of these kids have been unfairly fucked over. He is angrier about that than about dying. He can't even tell them that the monster's dead and they don't have to worry about it anymore. Sure, Ricky Moretti's brains are splattered on Clementine's bathroom mirror, but Edie will get out of her leafy cage sooner or later. Then what? Is she going to come after Wyatt? Try to finish what she started?

The kitchen door squeaks open and he turns, watching Laurel hurry over with a bottle in one hand and a washcloth in the other. She doesn't say anything to him. Hell, she barely even looks at him. Just hands him the bottle as she whizzes past him. He stares after her as she takes a seat on the coffee table in front of Wyatt. She says something to him in a low gentle tone and leans in to wipe away the dried blood from under his nose with the washcloth.

Dean shakes off the blow and looks down at Kaylie. ''All right, kiddo. Let's see how you like this one.'' She fusses and tries to fight the bottle, which is not unexpected, but it is frustrating. And concerning. She needs to eat. It's so easy to see. She is frantically sucking at her fists, rooting around, squirming in distress because her little belly is hurting from hunger. But she won't just take the damn bottle. He doesn't know what else to do.

He has no idea how long she has gone without food. It's been at least three or four hours by now, possibly longer, and babies her age need to eat. She has to be starving. He wonders if she's scared and just too little to understand that she's scared. At her age, her entire universe is Mom and Dad. There is nothing else. And there is no Mom and Dad anymore. Mom and Dad are lying on that basement floor. He expects her to cry. He expects her to be affected by the loss. More than that, he expects her to be affected by being thrown off her normal routine. He can handle that. Babies are work, but he's a father. He'll do the work. He's done it before.

However, he doesn't know what to do if she won't eat.

Even at their worst, the babies he has raised always ate.

''Come on, Kaylie,'' he whispers. ''You must be starving.'' He pulls the bottle away for a minute and then tries again. It takes about three tries and several angry whacks from the girl, but then, finally, she takes the bottle. ...For like a second and a half. Then she spits it out and he knows she's not capable of it but he swears she gives him the most withering glare he's ever seen. If she could talk, she would be saying something like, Thanks for nothing, you stupid fuck.

''All right, I get it,'' he tries, doing his best to stay as calm as he can. ''I do. This isn't what you're used to. You don't understand where your mom is. But I know you're hungry, baby. Just give it a try. It's not that bad. Haven't you ever heard of fed is best?'' He gives it a minute, bouncing her gently until she is at least a little calmer than she was. He keeps it up for a few more minutes until she is, miraculously, chilled out, and then he tries again. Gently, he pops the nipple of the bottle into her mouth.

She looks a little alarmed at first and she makes a weak attempt to fuss, wriggling in his hold, but then she takes a tentative gulp. And then another. And another. And then she finally decides that this bottle and the formula in it are acceptable enough to give up the fight.

Well, okay - he turns the bottle to get a look at the brand - Comotomo Silicone baby bottle. We see you.

Fucking stupid expensive - you can get five Dr. Brown's bottles for the same price as two of these fancy ass suckers - but at least this kid is finally eating.

''See, there you go,'' he says, giving her the softest smile possible. ''That's good, isn't it?''

She stares up at him with her wide baby eyes, still eerily intense even as she greedily suckles at the bottle, making those familiar gulping noises he remembers from when his own kid was this little. Babies are a lot smarter than people give them credit for. They're intuitive, rely on primal, instinctual feelings. She knows something is wrong. She knows something in her life has changed. She can feel the tension in the air, the wrongness.

Although, even with that, she is still just a baby. She won't remember this awful day when she grows up. She won't remember her mother tucking her into the bathtub. She won't remember snoozing away while her parents, grandparents, and teenage aunt were brutally murdered downstairs. She won't remember her parents either. What they looked like, what their voices sounded like. How much they loved her. And they did love her. That's an absolute.

He stood in that bedroom, trying to get Kaylie to stop crying while Laurel packed as much as she could into a few bags. He saw the crib with her name above it, the baby monitor on Dad's side of the bed, the supplements for breastfeeding on Mom's, the open baby book on the dresser with the last entry that said, in scribbled, hurried handwriting, I know it was probably just gas but she smiled at me!

Everything in that room spoke of one thing: devotion.

Every story is about devotion.

She will never know that. She will never know the man who died, presumably fighting to protect her and the rest of her family. She will never know the woman who used her last ounce of strength, her last breath to say, I loved being her mom. She will never know them at all. That is an injustice that is almost too much to bear.

It's easier to think about that, to be righteously angry for this family than it is to think about how close he came to being just like them. If there hadn't been some shockingly powerful second grader around, he and Mary would have ended up just like Penelope and Kaylie. Stolen and stole from, mourned and in mourning.

What would Mary have remembered about him if he had died in that dirt, if he had stayed gone? Would she have remembered the devotion and the unconditional love? The potty training songs and the smoothies on PT days and the nutella shortbread cookies? That he loved being her dad? Or would he have become just a foggy face in the back of her mind, a blurred flicker of a smile, a dim memory of warm eyes?

He likes to think he remembers his mother, but the truth is that he is not always certain if the mother he remembers is - or was - real or if she is just a creation he made up to fill a tragically empty space. We create false memories in our heads when we want something enough. He remembers his mother in white and soft colored dresses even though he knows from the few pictures of her that he has that she preferred blue jeans and t-shirts. The ghost of his mother flamed in and flamed out ten years ago in Lawrence and the only thing he can remember thinking when he saw her, when she spoke was, Your voice sounds different than I remember. He remembers the nightgown was white. It was pink.

There are ghosts in the world, but most of them are the ones we create for ourselves.

When she is older, Kaylie will want to remember what it felt like to be held by her mother so badly that she will conjure it up in her head and think about it every night before she goes to sleep.

What memory would Mary have created? What kind of ghost would he have been?

''Um. So.'' Hanna's uncertain voice pulls his attention back to her. ''Dean?'' She is sidled up right next to him. She is looking at him for the first time since he got back, but she looks nervous about it, squinting like she's trying to look at a bright light. ''Do you want me to take her?''

He blinks a few times, staring at her, and then finally grasps what she is saying. ''What?'' He looks down at Kaylie, contentedly sucking down her lunch. ''Why?''

''I just thought - '' Hanna stops, eyes skittering over to Laurel. ''Maybe you might want to get cleaned up?''

He almost doesn't realize what she's talking about then he remembers - oh, right. Blood. Lots of it. Today he learned that when you bleed out from your carotid artery, it makes an awful mess. ''Oh.'' He looks back to Kaylie. She's not his kid, he knows she's not his kid, but he is still, for whatever reason, extremely reluctant to allow her to be anywhere but his arms right now. She's not his child, but she is his responsibility. At least for now. But...

This is a lot of blood. And he's not the only one covered in it. He looks at Laurel, still sitting there talking to Wyatt. Her voice is soft and warm, but when she looks over her shoulder at him, meeting his eyes, all he sees is grief. He may not have stayed dead, but she is still...

He is growing increasingly worried about her.

She looks away, back to Wyatt, and Dean looks back to Kaylie. ''Yeah,'' he says. ''Yeah, I guess I should go change clothes.'' Hesitantly, he allows Hanna to shuffle closer, transferring the baby and her fancy bottle into the arms of the young witch. Despite his initial reluctance to let her go, he doesn't put up much of a fight. He's unsure about leaving Hanna alone with these kids when she's only a kid herself, but he would like a minute alone with his wife. Just a minute.

That minute never comes.

Just as Hanna is getting Kaylie settled in her arms, the door opens and he hears Sam's voice. ''I got the stuff you asked for out of storage, but why do you - '' He stops. ''Is that a baby? Did you guys have a baby? How long was I gone?''

Dean turns around without thinking. He forgets, for a second, about the blood. He just hears his little brother's voice and it's like something primal is triggered in him. He is struck by the need to see the kid's face. He'll make a joke, an inappropriate one, about that I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant show and Sam will huff and roll his eyes the way he does and all will be right with the world. That's the plan.

Things never go according to plan. Dean turns and Sam sees the dried blood his brother is covered head to toe in and his face goes pale and slack. He doesn't even make it all the way in the house, hovering frozen in the doorway. ''Dean...'' His horrified eyes move from Dean to Laurel, also covered in blood and on her feet in front of the coffee table. ''What the hell?''

Dean - who is usually much better in a crisis, he would like that noted - just...panics. He sees the look on Sammy's face and it's like he's thrown right back into that terrifying and painful moment of death and the disorienting, hasty resurrection that followed. Then, quite frankly, he just feels inexplicably angry at everyone and everything. He wants to throw rocks at the sky and yell at stupid, stupid God for letting this stupid shit happen again. ''Well!'' He throws his arms out in exhausted exasperation, sounding ever so slightly hysterical. ''IT HAPPENED AGAIN!''

Sam is still staring at him, moving his gaze up and down, taking in the blood, visibly disturbed. ''What...happened again?''

''There was...an incident. I died. A little bit.''

''An inci - You...'' Sam blinks a few times, like he is trying to blink himself out of this moment. ''What.''

''I died,'' Dean repeats. ''For a few minutes.''

''You...'' Sam takes a few more seconds to stand there blinking like an owl and then, all at once, his shock morphs into indignation. ''You didn't put that in the text, you jerk!''

''You wanted me to notify you of my death via text?'' Dean levels a flat look at him. ''I dunno, man. Seems callous.''

''You can't just - '' Sam breaks off in one of those pissy little sighs of his. He steps into the house and closes the door behind him. ''How?''

''Because generally you don't notify next of kin through text. It's not – ''

''No, I mean how did this – How did you…?''

''An accident,'' Dean says and hopes, irrationally, that will be the end of it.

No such luck.

''An accident?'' Sam looks incredibly incredulous.

''I did it,'' Laurel's voice is quiet from off to the side. ''I killed him.''

''No.'' Dean turns to look at her. ''No, Laurel, it was an accident. It was Edie.''

''It wasn't Edie.''

''Yes, it was!'' It comes out much louder than he expected it to, startling a cry out of Kaylie and an unintentional flinch from Laurel. ''If she hadn't been there, none of that would have happened. She put it into motion, she pushed you, she - ''

''Okay.'' Sam clamps down on Dean's shoulder, stepping in between them. ''Okay, just - what happened? Edie found you in Seabeck?'' His eyes darken. ''Did that coven set you up?''

''No,'' Laurel objects hastily. ''No, they had nothing to do with it. They were victims too.''

''It's not - It doesn't matter,'' Dean says.

''How does it not matter, Dean?'' Sam's voice raises. ''You guys got back from California less than a week ago and Laurel's already killed you!''

An abrupt and seriously awkward silence follows the outburst.

Dean's immediate reaction is to look to Laurel, but she's already turned away, body jerking as she flees from the room, making a beeline down the hall. The bathroom door slams shut and he sighs, clenching his jaw.

Sam at least looks equal parts regretful and frustrated. ''I didn't mean - ''

''Look.'' Dean holds his hands up. ''It's not a big deal,'' he says, deceptively calm. ''Like I said, there was an incident. Laurel tried to use her Canary Cry, Edie somehow sent it back at us, we went through a window, and I landed wrong. I barely felt anything,'' he lies. ''It happened fast. It was just bad luck. It wasn't Laurel's fault. And I'm fine now.'' He tries to plaster on his best cocky and carefree grin. He has a feeling he doesn't do a good job of it. ''Thanks to Wyatt.'' He gestures to the boy on the couch. ''This is Wyatt, by the way. He's an elemental witch. He brought me back to life through the power of Mother Nature. Say hi.''

Almost automatically, albeit still a bit thrown, Sam raises a hand in a halfhearted wave and says, dutifully, ''Hi, Wyatt.''

Wyatt, looking confused, raises his hand in a half wave.

''Great!'' Dean claps his hands together. ''Now let's all move on. It's over and done with, I'm fine, it's not a big deal.''

''I don't know,'' Hanna says from where she is curled up in the armchair with Kaylie. ''Seems like it might be a big deal to your wife - currently puking her guts out because she accidentally committed murder today.''

''Involuntary manslaughter,'' Dean corrects. ''If anything.''

''You should go.'' Sam clears his throat. ''Help her or - or whatever. Seriously, Hanna can fill me in on the rest. We've got this covered for now. You should - '' He looks Dean up and down, not critically but like he is trying to hold back a shudder, unable to pretend the blood isn't there. ''Go clean yourself up. Take a shower. Take care of Laurel.''

''He's right,'' says Hanna. ''We're okay out here for now. I've got Kaylie. Sam can make Wyatt a sandwich. Hey, Wy,'' she looks over at the boy with a determined grin, ''you hungry?''

He shrugs.

''Well, we'll get you a sandwich anyway. Maybe even some string cheese.''

''Dean,'' Sam says, keeping his voice low, like he's about to tell a secret. ''Mary's coming home from school soon, right? She can't see you like this.''

That's what does it.

''All right.'' Dean checks his watch. Fuck. ''I'll go. Just...'' He eyes Hanna apprehensively. ''Don't forget to burp her.'' He stalls for a minute or two, getting Hanna a burping cloth from the diaper bag and giving her a quick lesson on what to do. He assures Wyatt that he won't be long and then he leaves.

He's been busy. That's the thing. Busy and...partially in shock. He hasn't had a minute to stop and think about the horror of it all. The trauma of what happened and the way it happened and the knowledge that he will have to live with this. Then he opens the bathroom door and he sees her standing by the sink.

It would be easier if she was just puking her guts out, but she's not. She is standing at the sink in the dark bathroom, frantically washing her hands. She looks ghostly pale and clammy, her breath coming in short pants, and she won't stop scrubbing at her hands. There is no blood on her hands. With a baby to take care of, that was the first thing they did. Before they even left Seabeck, they made sure their hands were clean. But here she is scrubbing her hands until they're raw. She's not even using soap. She's just scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing.

He steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flicking on the light. ''Laur.'' She doesn't notice the way the light floods into the shadowed room. Doesn't even seem to hear his voice, loud in the silence. He approaches her like one would approach a bomb, inching his way over to her and slowly extending a hand to turn the tap off.

She jumps, finally realizing he's there, and lifts her eyes to the mirror. She looks horrified by her reflection, her pale skin streaked with blood, flinching at the sight.

He worries for a second, that she's going to start weeping, but that's not what happens. Her whole body tenses up, the horrified expression on her face morphing into something terribly lost and stricken. Her breathing speeds up. He would recognize that anywhere. ''Shit. Laurel.'' He latches onto her wrist, a reflex, and when she turns to him, he steps into her space. ''Hey.'' He moves his hands to her face. ''Stay with me, okay?''

''I'm not – I'm fine,'' she says, but seems to realize that's not a lie he's going to believe anytime soon. She squeezes her eyes shut, visibly struggling against the looming panic attack. ''I'm trying.'' Her fingers curl around his shirt.

''I know. I know you are,'' he murmurs, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. ''It's you and me. We can do this,'' he promises. ''We can do this. I'm okay. We're all okay. We're all in one piece. Just keep breathing with me. Don't go anywhere.'' He moves her still damp hand up to his chest where she can feel his heart beating steadily under her hand. ''Stay here with me, baby.''

She struggles, hovering in the beginning stages of a panic attack, but she rallies, managing to get her breathing evened out before the worst can hit. She still looks awful, haunted, like she's about to burst into sobs at any given moment. She doesn't pull away from him and he can't bring himself to pull away from her, so he lets a minute or two go by.

They stand there in the quiet, still bathroom, pressed together, breathing together, safe in their home, and he tries not to go back to Seabeck, the glass, the moment he realized he was going to die, the way she told him to be brave. He tries not to remember whatever it is that he's forgetting. Whatever it is that happened after. It doesn't matter. It's not important.

Laurel exhales shakily, winding her hands up to his face, then his hair, and she doesn't say anything, but he knows.

''You're going to take this with you, aren't you?'' He doesn't need to ask. ''You're going to force yourself to carry this one.'' He draws away from her, trying to meet her eyes. ''You don't have to do this,'' he nearly begs. ''I'm telling you you don't have to do this.''

She makes a noise somewhere between a bitter laugh and a feeble sob. ''You can't tell me this wasn't me. You can't take this one away.''

''Laurel, it wasn't you - ''

''Yes, it was!'' She pulls away from him, jaw clenching. ''It was my fault, Dean. I killed you.''

''You didn't.''

''I did.'' She takes a breath, looking ill. ''I killed you. I made a choice - ''

''Because you were backed into a corner.''

'' - And you died.''

''Honey, what other choice was there? She had us cornered.''

''There's always another choice! We could've figured it out! I didn't have to - ''

''I came back!'' He cuts off her frenzied self-recrimination, his own frustration mounting. He can't tell if his increasing irritation is just due to the massively stressful day or if he's aggravated because of her. It's an either or situation right now. He gets that what she had to see and what she had to go through was horrific. But - fuck. He's the one who bit it. Maybe he gets to have a goddamn opinion here. She doesn't get to own all the guilt just because she wants to torture herself. ''I came back,'' he repeats. ''Look at me.''

She does look at him, albeit grudgingly.

''I'm right here,'' he tells her. ''I came back. I always come back. I'm not dead. I'm right here.''

Something shifts in her expression when he says that, but he can't put his finger on what. He can't slot the look in her eyes into place. ''I told you I was dangerous,'' she says lowly.

''Laurel.''

''I told you,'' she repeats, voice stronger. ''I told you I wasn't safe to be around.''

''No.'' His own expression closes off. ''No, we're not doing that stupid shit again.''

''But I was right!'' She throws her arms out. ''I was right! I told you she was going to come for me and she did. I told you I was a ticking time bomb and I went off. But we - we just shrugged it off. We let it go.'' She sniffles, wiping at her face with the back of her hand, looking increasingly teary and frantic in a worryingly familiar way. ''She's going to come at me through you and Mary. She's going to keep coming. It's the only play she has left now and it's only a matter of time until she uses it.''

''Except now we can stop her!'' Dean tries his best to keep his tone even and calm, but fails immediately. ''We know about the astral projection, we know her way in, we can stop her. She has a weakness. We can flip the script.''

''No. No.''

''Yes. We can do this. It's you and me.''

''No,'' she snaps. ''It's not enough. It's not - '' She breaks off and he can't tell if the noise that gets trapped in her throat is a sob or a scream. She looks listless and out of control, raking both hands through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut. ''Listen to me. This isn't safe. I am not safe.''

He is unable to keep the nervousness from his face. He knows the woman he married. He knows the stages of her illness when a break is coming. How could he not? If she's anxious and frenzied, pulling at her hair because she's all riled up, full of terror and anger then she's still Laurel. She can be talked down. It's what happens after this that worries him. When she becomes dulled down, exhausted and low. When she can't get out of bed and can't see the light. He worries that is where they're headed.

This seems like a situation that would get them there. Just based off, you know, how fucked up things are right now. If it keeps going like this, one of them is going to have a breakdown. It seems inevitable.

Edie coming for Laurel is a minimal worry. Edie is a hollowed out shell of a fifteen year old girl who never left the scene of the accident. She's just a ghost that kept on living. The fear isn't that Edie will take Laurel. The fear is that Laurel will find something, real or imagined, that her currently unmedicated depression will grab onto and use as a reason to surrender. To hand herself over and let the chips fall where they may.

He's concerned that today might've been that something. He's petrified he is going to be the reason she lets Edie take her. ''All right,'' he says, rubbing his mouth anxiously before. ''Can I - I know I'm going to piss you off here, but can I make a suggestion?'' When she doesn't try to shut him up, he forges ahead. ''I think we need to seriously talk about bringing you back to life. You know, from a legal standpoint.''

She looks confused. ''What does that have to do with - ''

''It would mean we could get you back in with your doctor,'' he says. ''Your psychiatrist. It would mean - '' He pauses, inhaling and then exhaling sharply. ''Laur, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I think it's time to start thinking about getting you started on some meds.''

''Dean - ''

''I know it freaks you out,'' he cuts in, ''but I'm not talking about benzos. We're not talking about a rescue med, we're talking about strictly a maintenance medication. An SSRI or something. You'd be under a doctor's supervision the whole time, I'll help you, Thea will help you, whatever you need, but I think this is something we need to talk about. You have major depressive disorder. That doesn't go away.''

She perches on the edge of the tub, wrapping her arms around herself. He can tell by the lifelessness in her body language that he's hit a nerve.

''With everything you've been through...'' He thinks about inching closer to her, touching her, but he doesn't. ''It's been trauma after trauma lately. You died. Anyone would need some extra help right now. I know you were nervous about the idea of medication last year so we tabled it but last year...was different. You were doing a lot of other things then. You had work, you were eating clean, exercising, you went to all your appointments, two AA meetings a week, you were sober. You were stable then. You're not stable now. No one would be. I just think...'' He works hard not to make his next words sound like an accusation. ''You might need help evening out. I can see you shutting down. I don't want you to run again.''

''I'm not,'' she protests weakly.

He doesn't believe her. ''We both know we've been here before.''

She looks up at him with sharp, venomous eyes. ''So is this how it's going to be now?'' She doesn't actually phrase it as a question she wants an answer to. ''I tell you something you don't want to hear and you gaslight me into thinking I'm wrong and too mentally ill to see it?''

He recoils as if she has physically slapped him. Fucking might as well have. ''I wasn't trying to - ''

''Taking a page right out of Oliver's book, aren't you?''

That's it. That's the limit. ''What do you think you're doing right now?'' He manages to reign in about 48% of his bitterness and hurt. ''I piss you off, say something you don't want me to say, and you turn it around on me and compare me to your - and let's finally call a fucking spade a spade here - abusive ex just to make me feel like shit. Just to make me wrong so you get to keep being the victim. Is that how it is? Does that make you feel better? Is that how we're doing things now?'' ...Okay, maybe less than 48%.

She looks both defiant and contrite at the same time. ''I wasn't...'' To her credit, she stops, blinking a few times like she's pushing back tears before she looks back at him. ''I'm sorry.''

''Let me tell you something,'' he says. ''You've got a shitty poker face, sweetheart. I know you too well to fall for it.''

''Dean - ''

''I'm the one who died,'' he snaps, unable to keep it in any longer. ''I died in that dirt. That was my sticky end, not yours. It happened to me. I get a say in this. I get to decide how I feel about what went down.''

''I - I wasn't trying to control how you feel.''

''Bullshit,'' he fires back harshly, too harsh.

Her mouth twitches, eyes darkening at the blow.

Momentarily overwhelmed by the vicious and unrelenting stress, he doesn't even care. ''You want me to make you the bad guy so you can call yourself the bad guy and moan about your guilt,'' he accuses. ''You want me to give you permission to keep hating yourself. I'm not doing that. That's not fair. You're not using me as your latest weapon of self-destruction. Fuck that.'' He doesn't entirely know where this anger is coming from, red hot and visceral, spilling out of him uncontrollably. He's just...not having a great day. His nerves are shot, he's trying to reserve his patience for the kids, he just fucking died again, and there's -

Something is buzzing.

There's a fly in here or something.

''I bled.'' He puts a hand to his chest, tight with something he can't name. ''This is my blood we're covered in. I get a say in this - and I say it was an accident.''

Laurel peers up at him silently. There is something growing in her eyes, something sad and dark and unnamable. ''You're right,'' she says eventually. Her voice is dulled a little, hoarse but perfectly even. ''What happened to you was worse. What you went through was - I don't mean to make you feel like it was nothing. But death isn't something we do alone.'' She rises to her feet, slowly moving over to him. ''You know that.''

He wants to shut this down. He wants so badly for her to stop talking because he does not want to add those seven months to this already remarkably awful day.

''How did it feel to live in my absence for half a year?'' She asks the question, but she doesn't really want an answer. ''I made the hole in the world, but you had to live in it. How was that? How did it feel?'' She stares right through him with her bloodshot eyes, close enough to touch, but, curiously, not touching. ''You died, but I lost you. It wasn't worse than what you went through, but that pain means something too. I won't do it again.'' She grasps his chin with one hand, keeping his eyes on her, fingers pressing into his cheeks. ''I won't do it again.'' It's close to a hiss. He can't tell if it's a promise or a warning.

There is something darkly possessive and wildly overprotective about the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, like she's perfectly willing to shed blood, hers or others, to make sure he doesn't, to keep what's hers.

It's almost Dinah-like.

Actually, if we're shooting for honesty here, it's kinda hot.

Which is neither here nor there. Worth mentioning, though.

''All right.'' He tries to pull himself out of his pathetic stupor. ''All right, look.'' He pulls her hand away from his face, but doesn't let go of it. ''This is - We had a bad day,'' he says. ''We had a really bad day. We don't need to do this. We don't need to turn on each other. This isn't us. We don't do this bullshit.''

''I know,'' she whispers, but drops her gaze and won't look up.

''Hey.'' He grabs her other hand, tightening his hold on her. ''Listen to me. Listen.'' He squeezes her hands and she looks back up at him. ''I love you,'' he says. It gets easier and easier to say with every year that passes, taking him farther and farther away from his father. ''I just felt like I needed to say that.''

She has gone soft under his touch, more like herself now, even with the guilt still clear as day in her eyes. ''I like when you say that.''

''Pretty bird.'' He looks at her in the cold light of the bathroom. He sees the blood on her face. Not all of it is his. He might have died, but at least he wound up healed in the end. She still looks bruised and battered. He doesn't comment on it, because he doesn't want to hear her say she deserves it, but he does grimace lightly, letting go of one of her hands to gently push her hair out of her face to get a look at her. ''Quite a day,'' is all he says. Automatically, just because it's what he does, what he's used to doing, he lifts her hand up and presses a kiss to her wrist, the pulse point.

She promptly bursts into tears.

In retrospect, it's probably something he should have seen coming.

They're both holding on by a thread right now. He folds her into his arms, trying to keep her safe, keep her together, like that will make it all better. She clings to him like she's afraid he'll disappear and he lets her. What else can he do? It's not like there's something he can say here. He can't take it back. ''If you need forgiveness - ''

''I don't,'' she cuts him off, sharp but shaky, pulling away to look at him. ''I just need you to stay alive.''

''I will,'' he says. ''I promise.''

''You can't promise that.''

''I just did.''

She smiles, fond, brings a hand to his cheek. Her fingers move past the blood on his face, grazing down his bloodstained throat to the place where the glass went in. ''I love you too.''

''I know.'' He tries to smirk, but it's a feeble attempt. ''I got that from your sudden possessive streak.''

She blushes lightly, coughing out a small, fleeting laugh.

He leans in to kiss her forehead, hands brushing her waist. ''Let's get out of these clothes and get washed up before Mary comes home.'' He steps back over to the door, tugging his hand out of her grasp even as she makes a noise of protest and tries to hold on tighter. ''I'm just going to grab some towels,'' he says. ''I'll be right back.'' He's got his hand on the doorknob when she says his name quietly, in a tone of voice that makes him stop in his tracks.

''I'm not asking for forgiveness,'' she tells him. ''Because I'm not ready to accept it. And I know you think I don't need to say this, but I - I do need to say it.''

He turns back around to look at her and, in that moment, he realizes that something has changed between them. It doesn't matter if he forgives her, it doesn't matter what he says or how he says it. What happened today happened. It cannot be taken back. There is no going back. He can see it in her eyes. There is a space between them that he cannot fill on his own and she is too scared to do anything but let it grow.

''I'm sorry,'' she says, eyes darkened with guilt. ''I'm so sorry.''

There is nothing he can say to make that better. ''I know you are.'' He watches her shoulders slump, but can't tell if it's in relief or pain. ''We're going to be fine, Laurel,'' he says. ''Everything's going to be fine.'' He doesn't know if he's saying that for her or for himself, but he knows neither one of them believes it.

.

.

.

When he was a kid, he used to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and chase the fragments of his mother that only existed, however tenuously, in his own reflection.

It was more obvious when he was younger, when he looked softer, more delicate. When he was...prettier.

(Too pretty, is what the good ol' boys in smoky dive bars used to cackle, slinging the mocking insult at him with sneers and jeers as if they could hide their own dark perversions behind their remarks if they just laughed loud enough, if they just made sure to look at him when no one else was looking.)

But, even now, years later, ten years older than she ever got to be, and settled into his skin, Mom is still easy to find. He has been John Winchester's dead wife just as long as she has. He could say he hasn't thought about that in years, but that would be a lie. He thinks about it all the time. Even now. Even today. It stings less now, the stabbing pain has dulled, but it is still there. Still present in every move he makes. He has learned to tiptoe through the minefield that is his mother and his father and November 1982 and the single most defining moment of his life.

Today, on this bloody day, he can't seem to stop thinking about her. What she left behind for him. What he became in her absence. And what could have happened to his Mary. What he almost left for her. What she could have become.

He has spent so long terrified of becoming his father that he never stopped to think he might become his mother. And not the version of her that lives in his head, soft and diluted, smelling of lilac and cutting the crusts off his sandwich, but the smoke that has lingered in his lungs since he was four.

Today felt like a warning.

When he was a child, he stood in that bright sunny kitchen in Lawrence, peering up at his mother, his world, and his world smiled back and said, One day, this will all be yours. He thinks she was talking about her mother's recipe book, the one that ended up burning, but maybe she was talking about something else.

How is he supposed to protect Mary from a world that seems intent on brutalizing and destroying her family at every turn? How is he supposed to lead her, to show her the way when he doesn't know the way himself? How can he protect her from pain when the pain never stops? Is this all there is? What is he supposed to do if he can't stop history from repeating itself? Retire? He retired. His mother retired. What good did that do? Run? There's nowhere to run. Fight? How do you fight generational trauma?

If he is not careful, all he will ever be is the smoke in his daughter's lungs, the unbearable weight on her shoulders, the smile she sees in the mirror, and the voice in the back of her head that keeps whispering, You have your mother's eyes. You have your father's smile. One day, this will all be yours.

How does he protect her from that ending? How does he protect any of them? He couldn't protect his wife from it. He couldn't even protect himself.

The shower, in the end, takes longer than expected. Dried blood is harder to wash off than you think. They linger even longer in the bedroom, pulling on clothes in slow motion because there is still so much left to say to each other, but neither one of them knows how to say it.

He washes her hair for her. There's no reason for it other than he wants to touch her and she wants him to touch her and this is the most tender way he can think of to show that. He keeps thinking if he can prove his love somehow, if she can feel it then maybe she will be able to understand that he's never going to hold what happened today against her.

It doesn't work.

Truthfully, he could have done anything, poured all the tenderness and all the love into the way he slid his fingers through her hair and she still would have emerged with that look in her eyes that he can never heal. He may have been the one who died, but she's the one far away.

It occurs to him, as he is tugging on a clean shirt, that the last time he washed her hair for her was the night she came home. He's beginning to wonder if they've somehow become doomed to an endless loop of that; one of them coming home, the other leaving.

Laurel ducks out of the bedroom once she's dressed, mumbling something about getting back to the kids. Dean tries to focus, but he's having a hard time with that. There is an edge to him right now, a feeling of simmering panic at the growing distance between them, and there is still a buzzing in his ears. He has enough distractions - there is laundry to do, kids to look after, and Mary should be home from school any time – but his skin is still crawling. He trudges back to the bathroom with an empty laundry basket to bundle up the bloody clothes, moving on autopilot He puts the clothes in the basket. He passes by the bathroom mirror on the way to the door.

He stops.

All the blood in his body has run cold, face draining of color, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, unable to even gasp out a breath. He stands there for a second, a crawling sensation creeping up the back of his neck. Slowly, reluctantly, he steps back over to the mirror.

His mother's reflection stares back at him.

In this light, you can even tell her nightgown is pink.

He doesn't even startle, staring right back at her, waiting. He doesn't think the buzzing in his head is a fly trapped in this house. Hanna Moretti will not look him in the eye. He has his mother's smile. He thinks he might have her fate too. He closes his eyes and thinks, One day, this will all be yours.

When he opens his eyes again, his mother's face has been replaced by his own. For the first time, now that his throat is free of blood, he notices that there is now a small scar there, right above his carotid artery. It is the only tangible piece that remains of what happened.

Numbly, he continues moving through his life, even though it feels like he's trying to stay afloat in a pool of pudding. He gets the laundry going. He checks on Wyatt, sitting at the dining room table, eating a sandwich.

Hanna still will not look at him.

Laurel, pacing in the living room, humming to the baby in her arms, doesn't either.

Everything is very quiet and morose. But then he goes into the kitchen and -

''Dude, what the hell?!''

Sam all but fucking tackles him, ambushing him as soon as he walks into the kitchen, sending him recoiling, spitting out an expletive.

The kid doesn't even look sorry. ''What the fuck is going on?!''

Dean, who just about fucking died - for the second time in one day, if anyone's keeping count - of a heart attack, scowls. ''I don't want to talk about it, Sam.''

''Dean - ''

''Nope.'' He holds up a hand, shaking his head. ''Sorry. It's not on the list.''

''The - ''

''The list,'' Dean nods firmly. He throws a look over his shoulder toward the door when he hears Kaylie start crying, but successfully convinces himself that Laurel's got it handled. At least until he can get a fresh pot of coffee brewing. ''The list of approved topics of conversation for the rest of the day is as follows: A spirited discussion about candy corn and why it sucks, followed by a Q&A where all the Qs will be directed at my lovely wife - whose favorite Halloween candy is candy corn - and will consist of one single Q and that Q will be Sweetie, are you a sociopath?''

Sam stares at him with a look on his face like he thinks his poor dead-not-dead brother is cracking up. For about a minute. Then he decides to humor him. ''That's the entire list of talking points?''

''No,'' Dean says, moving on autopilot to get the coffee ready, turning on the faucet, searching for a filter without even paying attention to what he's doing. ''There's also the why did Altoids discontinue the tangerine sours discussion - because, really, when you think about it why did they do that? Do they hate making money? Also, is a hot dog a sandwich? Consequently, is cereal soup? And, finally, monster truck rallies. What's up with those?'' He clicks the button on the coffee maker and turns back to Sam. ''There you go. That's the list. Take your pick. What is not on the list is my wife accidentally killing me and a seven year old boy harnessing the power of the earth to save my useless hide.''

Sam crosses his arms. He says, curiously, nothing, which is unlike him. Looking thoughtful, he leans back against the counter. ''I like candy corn.''

''I'm not saying I won't eat it if it's in front of me,'' Dean says. ''But who seeks it out? Who actively chooses candy corn when there are other options?''

Right on cue, the door swings open and Laurel enters.

Dean, without missing a beat, points at her and says, ''That's who.''

She looks up from the baby in her arms. ''Who what?''

''A regular agent of chaos,'' he says.

Laurel, the aforementioned agent of chaos, the women who eats the same breakfast every day and can't tolerate horror movies, the woman who used to eat meals of cereal or literally just plain white rice during college and still wears Ugg boots like it's 2008, blinks up at him, bewildered. ''Me?''

''Sweetie,'' he says, unable to extricate the fondness from his voice to deliver this with the sarcasm he's going for. ''Are you a sociopath?''

She stares at him for another second, still confused, and then she winkles her nose. ''Did you just call me sweetie?''

Sam frowns. ''That's the part you're stuck on?''

''Well, he never calls me sweetie.'' Seemingly brushing it off, she thrusts the thing she has draped over her shoulder at Dean and says, ''Help me with this.''

He looks down at the item - the Boba sling wrap that was rarely used - and has instant war flashbacks. He and Mary both fucking hated this thing. It was so uncomfortable. He's surprised to see Laurel's dug it out of the closet. It does seem like a good option for Kaylie, who is frightened and in need of snuggles and a warm body, but babies have been a sore point for Laurel lately. It's like John and Lyla announced they were having another kid and it triggered a tsunami of unresolved issues for her. ''Are you sure?''

''She's not in the mood to be put down,'' she says. ''I can't blame her.'' She looks down at Kaylie, her thumb brushing against Kaylie's soft cheek tenderly. She looks up. ''Wait.'' Her tone abruptly shifts. ''Did you call me a sociopath because of the candy corn thing? Again?''

''Yes, it's about the candy corn. It's always about the candy corn! It's your most baffling personality trait. I don't understand it.''

''Let it go, babe.''

''But why? Why candy corn?'' Gently, he plucks Kaylie from her arms and hands her over to the suddenly wide-eyed and slightly panicked looking Sam without a word. ''Do you seriously like the taste or are you just trying to be esoteric?''

Off to the side, Sam makes a sputtering noise. Dean can't tell if it's because he doesn't know what to do with the baby or because he doesn't know what to do with the fact that his dumb oaf of a brother just confidently used the word esoteric in a sentence.

Either way, Dean throws him a shit eating grin before going back to helping Laurel get the Boba wrap in place.

''Says the man who purposefully seeks out unpopular candy just to be contrary,'' she mutters.

''I do not - ''

''Good & Plenty.''

''That's not me making a statement. I like those.''

''Tootsie Rolls.''

''They were my mom's favorite.''

''Sixlets, Bit-O-Honey, Turkish Delight - ''

''Plenty of people like Turkish Delight! You want to talk about weird candy opinions? You don't like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. That's weird.''

''Uh,'' Sam pipes up. ''You guys. Is this conversation important?''

Dean and Laurel both look up from their struggle with the Boba. ''Nobody said it was important,'' he says.

''I was having a good time,'' Laurel comments. ''We're married. We like each other. We enjoy conversing. It's a thing we do.''

''We have a witty repartee,'' Dean says. He steps back from Laurel to admire his handiwork, but his smile fades pretty much immediately. ''Aw, fuck.''

Laurel, physically twisting herself up into a pretzel trying to examine the wrap, frowns. ''Is this backwards?''

''Shit. Start over. See, this is why this was a rarely used item. PSA to first time parents: Skip the Boba, get the Moby. Better yet, just go for the Bjorn.''

''Okay, well, I'll write that down and pass it along.''

''You know,'' he can't help but say, once they have gotten the sling on properly. ''Sam likes Circus Peanuts.''

Laurel gasps in mock offense. ''Really, Sam? Really?''

''I...'' He looks a little red around the ears. ''I think they're kinda nice. It's like eating an entire bag of the marshmallow bits from Lucky Charms. It's - Hold on.'' He shakes his head. ''Why are we even talking about this?''

''We don't have to talk about this,'' Dean says easily. ''Let's move on. Is a hot dog a sandwich?''

Laurel audibly groans. ''As I have told you a million times, that is a weak debate. The question is not whether or not a hot dog is a sandwich. It's whether or not a hot dog is a taco.''

''And as I have said a million times,'' he starts. ''I'm not even going to dignify that with a response because it's madness. I can't be married to someone who thinks a hot dog is a taco. What's next? Do you consider Pop Tarts ravioli? You gonna start putting pineapple on your pizza? Sucking down oysters like they're some kind of delicacy and not just the snot of the sea?'' He pulls back from her just in time to see her lips curl up into an unapologetic grin.

''Hate to break it to you,'' she says, ''but I do like pineapple on my pizza.''

''Oh my god.'' He scoffs in disgust. ''This is the worst thing that's happened to me today.''

It gets a laugh out of her.

It does not get a laugh out of Sam.

''Have you two lost your minds?'' He sounds like he's struggling not to raise his voice. He look seriously boggled. ''How are you just - What the,'' he drops his voice down to a scandalized whisper, ''fuck is going on?''

''All right, calm down,'' Dean tosses out lazily. ''Don't have an aneurysm.'' He moves to take Kaylie out of Sam's arms and, much to his surprise, the baby protests. ''Really? This dude? He's holding you like a loaf of bread.'' He side eyes Sam. ''Are you wearing cologne? Maybe you smell like her dad or something.''

''Maybe she just likes me better,'' Sam says, smug, forgetting for a second to be annoyed.

''That can't be it.''

He looks offended.

''Aww,'' Laurel says. ''I think you hurt his feelings.''

''I'm not saying - I'm a dad,'' Dean says. ''I have practice. I know what I'm doing.''

''Well, maybe she prefers an amateur,'' Sam says.

''That doesn't even make sense,'' Dean retorts, scooping the baby up and bringing her back to Laurel.

Sam, to his credit, waits patiently for them to get Kaylie into the wrap, which is...more of an ordeal than it needs to be. It shouldn't take two people just to get her tucked into the thing, but this wrap is the work of the fucking devil.

Other than a few coos, Kaylie doesn't fuss at all as the two strangers get her cozied up against Laurel's chest, talking over each other about getting her legs in the 'm' position and making sure she can breathe properly. She looks mystified by it all and, when they've gotten her situated and left her alone, she just accepts her fate and burrows into Laurel's chest. It's cute.

He finds himself momentarily distracted and enraptured by the sight of his wife with a tiny baby snuggled up to her chest. It's like being thrown into the past. It doesn't feel like it was that long ago. It feels like just yesterday Mary was this small, perfectly happy to just chill out and snuggle. She was such an easy baby...as long as she was never put down. Now she's a whole person with her own thoughts and feelings. She's very opinionated. Yesterday, someone cut them off on the way home from school and she yelped out a ''hey, that guy's a douchebag'' from the backseat.

...That might've been his fault.

They did not tell Mom about that one.

As soon as Dean steps back from Laurel, Sam takes that as his cue. ''Dean.''

''Quit saying my name like that.''

''Dean,'' Sam hisses again, unwilling to give him even a minute. ''You died. You died today. You were dead.''

''I know, buddy. I was there.''

''And we're just...over that?'' Sam asks incredulously. ''We're just going to stand here talking about candy corn and sea snot?''

''Maybe you're right. I'm not really thinking about sea snot. You know what I'm thinking about?'' He pauses, just for a second, and then grins. ''Mr. T Cereal.''

Sam looks too flabbergasted by that deep cut to even be mad about it.

Dean's pretty proud of it. ''Was that real or did I hallucinate it?''

''It was real,'' Laurel pipes up helpfully.

Sam asks, voice flat, ''Are you serious?''

''Yeah, it was popular in the eighties.''

''No, I meant - ''

''Yes, Sam,'' Dean snaps, butting in. ''I'm serious. I said I didn't want to talk about it. I wasn't just saying that for kicks. I don't want to talk about it. If you want to talk about the Marlowe coven - ''

''But you can't just decide you don't want to - ''

''Yes,'' Laurel interrupts, voice cutting. ''He can. He doesn't owe you a detailed break down of his trauma.'' She noticeably tries to brighten up, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder and say, cheerfully, ''Grow up a little, Sam.''

He looks perturbed. ''I was - ''

''Just trying to help,'' she finishes for him. ''Yeah, no, you were picking. You always pick. You think you're doing it for his own good, but that's not really why you do it. You do it because you think you're entitled to anything you want from him. You're not.'' She is remarkably calm as she says this, even kind. The tone she's using is the same tone she uses when she tells Mary why she can't climb onto the dining room table and lie down or swing from the curtains. ''This is something that happened to him. It didn't happen to you. You weren't even there. If he's not ready to talk about it then he's not ready. He gets to decide when and if he wants to talk to you about it. You don't get a vote.''

Despite the rather gentle tone she's using, Dean has to resist the urge to sigh. As much as he appreciates the back up, he just doesn't have the energy for this. It's been a goddamn fucking day and he doesn't need a stand off between these two right now. It's not something that happens often, but when it does, it always happens like this, and he's never sure whose side he's supposed to be on.

''That's great, Laurel,'' Sam bites out, impatient, louder than necessary, eliciting a little noise from the baby. ''You did the whole protective wife thing, but - ''

''Will you two knock it off?'' Dean intends for that to sound irritated, but he mostly just ends up sounding tired. ''I'm not in the mood to listen to you snipe at each other like you're doing scenes from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? And neither is she,'' he points at Kaylie. ''Just sit down. On opposite sides of the table. Take a breath.''

Laurel backs off, looking stuck somewhere between concerned and weary.

Sam still looks frantic and unwilling to leave Dean's side, but he does seat himself at the kitchen table.

This should be the part where Dean comforts the both of them. Assures them that he's fine, that he's not going anywhere, and then cracks a stupid joke to lighten the mood. Except he's all out of jokes and he's not fine and he doesn't think either one of them would believe him if he tried to say he was. He goes back to making coffee instead. That's simple. He can handle that. He listens to the sound of Laurel talking to Kaylie. Tries to focus on her voice instead of that persistent buzzing in his head. He makes the coffee. He pours three cups when it's ready, puts in Laurel's disgustingly sweet creamer and Sam's fucking oat milk, and he does not sit down at the table with them. Not even when Laurel slips into the nook, across the table from Sam.

He puts the coffee cups in front of them and pauses to look at them. His wife and his brother. Laurel is still looking down at Kaylie, calmer now that she's eaten but still wide awake, blinking up at her with her milk drunk and dreamy eyes, trying to work out who this new but cuddly woman is.

Laurel's expression is harder to read, something soft but sad, not quite longing, not quite grief, but something close to both.

Sam is only looking at Dean.

Dean avoids Sam's gaze and turns away to make his own coffee. He is not typically a cream and sugar kind of person but he needs something to do with his hands. He feels agitated. Restless in his own skin. This kitchen feels too small. He wonders if this is what Laurel feels when a panic attack starts blooming in her chest.

It's the buzzing. It's the small details bubbling up inside of him. The little things. He has told Laurel repeatedly that he has no memory of what happened when he died. Specifically what happened after. Where he went. Whether or not he saw what happened between her and Edie. It was not a lie when he said it. It might be a lie if he said it now.

He remembers a chill in the air. He remembers the unbearable weight of being caught in the in between. He remembers Tessa. There's always Tessa. The buzzing, sticky and cloying, persists. There is something else he is trying to remember. There is something else he is trying to get to but he doesn't know where to look. He doesn't know what he's lost.

He takes a sip of his coffee, full of too much cream and too much sugar, grimacing. He thinks he remembers Tessa smiling at him, sorrow in her eyes. He thinks he remembers there was someone else there too. Someone who he had nothing to offer to this time.

''Did you talk to Marissa?''

He looks at Laurel, attention moved from Kaylie back to him. He nods, leaning back against the counter. ''I did.'' He glances at Sam. ''Marissa - ''

''I know who she is,'' he says. ''Hanna told me.''

''She's still freaking out,'' Dean says. ''She said she broke the news to the rest of her siblings.'' He takes another sip of coffee. ''They didn't take it well. They're all trying to get back home to Seabeck.''

''Do they need anything?'' Laurel asks. ''Is there anything we can do to help?''

''Uh, no.'' He tries to push back a wince. ''She said...'' He's not sure how to say the next part without upsetting her. ''Some of them are pissed. They're grieving. They need someone to blame. She said it's best to stay out of their way for now.''

He breaks away from the conversation for a minute to poke his head out of the kitchen, checking on Wyatt and Hanna. They're both seated at the dining room table, with Wyatt eagerly devouring his sandwich and potato chips while Hanna tries to engage him in conversation. They both turn to look at him when he appears. ''You guys doing okay out here?'' He puts on his best smile. ''You need anything?''

Wyatt shrugs. He does that a lot.

''I think we're good,'' Hanna interprets, although she doesn't look entirely sure of her interpretation.

''We won't be much longer,'' Dean assures them - mostly Wyatt. ''If you need anything, come get me, okay?''

Wyatt nods and goes back to his sandwich.

Dean watches him for a second and then ducks back into the kitchen. Maybe he'll spring for ice cream after dinner tonight. Whatever Wyatt wants. He just feels like he should be doing something more for him. He owes him. He owes him everything. ''I feel like we should be paying for that kid's college,'' he says, grabbing his coffee from the counter. ''At least his inevitable therapy.''

''We're broke,'' Laurel reminds him as he takes a seat next to her.

He hums in acknowledgment, leaning in to look at the baby curled up in the sling, totally chill, a far cry from before. ''Marissa wants us to keep the kids until she and her husband can get back to the states. They're in Costa Rica with his family. They're scrambling right now. It might be a few days.''

She looks surprised. ''She trusts us to watch the kids? She doesn't even know us.''

''She's not one of the ones pissed at us,'' he says. ''She said she trusts our ability to protect them if something should happen. Besides,'' he adds, watching her steal his coffee to drink rather than the cup he prepared for her. ''She said Wyatt asked to stay with us. That was enough for her.''

''What about the rest of the siblings?''

''She said they have to prepare the bodies. I don't know. They're not all witches, but they were raised in a coven. There are traditions they have to follow, I guess. With burials and things like that. Which reminds me...'' He turns to Sam. ''She said we could go back to Seabeck to get more of the kids' things if we think it's safe to go back, but it would be best to do that before the family gets there. Do you think maybe you and Cas could - ''

''We can handle that,'' Sam cuts in with a nod, eager to help. ''No problem.''

''Just don't touch the bodies and stay out of the basement. She also asked if we could salt the doors and windows.''

''Done.''

''So, we're - we're just supposed to leave them?'' Laurel looks back and forth between them with a familiar guilt ridden and anguished look in her eyes. ''We can't - Penny's just lying there. We're supposed to...'' She trails off, looking lost. She looks down at Kaylie, lips trembling.

''Well.'' Dean considers his next words carefully. ''They're not going anywhere.''

''Death is...'' Sam pauses. ''A family matter. We don't have the right to move them if the family doesn't want us to.''

''It just feels wrong,'' she says, pushing Dean's coffee back over to him. ''Leaving them all alone in a dark basement.'' She strokes Kaylie's baby soft cheek and the baby girl blinks blearily at her, completely comfortable and relaxed, snuggled up against Laurel's chest, belly full, unable to comprehend what has been taken from her and the price she will have to pay for the rest of her life. ''We got them killed, we stole their kids, and now we're just leaving them in the cold. It feels cruel.''

Dean moves his hand to the back of her neck, an automatic reaction, but Sam's the one who starts talking. ''You didn't get them killed, Laurel,'' he tells her, firm but still soft. ''That's on Edie.''

''He's right,'' Dean tells her. ''Edie thought Clementine was an elemental witch. That's why she went there. It wasn't about you.'' He doesn't mention whatever it was that Clementine may or may not have known about Edie. ''Now that we know how powerful an elemental is, I'd bet money that her plan was to take Clementine and use her as a battery. We know she needs to steal power. We know the witch community is locking down tight because of her. She needs a power source. She just went after the wrong witch.''

''Doesn't bode well for Clementine, does it?'' Laurel looks up. ''If you're right and Edie took her, or had her Dolls take her, because she thought she was the elemental then she knows she was wrong now. That means Clementine is useless to her. Which means - ''

''If she's not dead, she's a Doll,'' Dean finishes, taking a swig of his coffee.

''Either way,'' Sam's tone is reluctant. ''What does this mean for Wyatt? Is he her next target? He's all alone now.''

Dean catches Laurel's eye. ''He's not alone.''

She tries to smile back at him, but he can still see the guilt lurking in her eyes. No chance to squash is, though, because in the next breath, the kitchen door is slamming open and Cas is bursting in like the fucking Kool-Aid man.

Dean startles not only at the over the top entrance but the frantic look on his friend's face and the way he's breathing heavily. ''Cas,'' he greets, looking him up and down. ''Dude, did you run here?''

''DID YOU DIE?!''

It's the most animated he has ever sounded.

Normally Dean would combat that by making a bad joke or some kind of witty comment, but today is not normal and he's just too tired and in too bad of a mood to rehash it all. He slings a look at Sam, who slumps a little, looking guilty, pulling his coffee mug up to his mouth to hide his face. Dean sighs. ''It's a long story,'' he says, rising back to his feet. ''They'll tell you all about it. I'm going to check on the laundry.'' He tries his best not to make it look like an escape, moving slowly instead of just booking it, but it's probably obvious. He heads into the dining room, hangs around Wyatt and Hanna until the fake smile frozen on his lips starts to actually hurt his face, and then he makes a break for the laundry room.

There is not, truthfully, anything to check on. It's not like he can make the washing machine wash faster by staring at it, but he steps into the stillness of the laundry room anyway, shutting the door behind him. He stands there for a second, feeling strangely aware of all those little things that mean you're alive: breathing, blinking, the way air feels against his skin, the way his mouth moves when he licks his lips, the energy it takes to move. You don't think about these things until you're gone. Until you come back.

He's been here before. He has stood in the sun before, above his own grave, smelling of dirt and rot, half aware and traumatized yet still awestruck by the enormity of being alive. The feeling of cool September air on his skin. The sudden, startling beauty of being alive. It's only when you die that you realize how much you want to live.

There is no grave this time. No suffocation, no burning lungs, no overwhelming feeling of terror. He did not have to choke on the dirt they put him in. All that remains is a small scar and nothing else. Doesn't make it any less disorienting.

In the years since Hell, he has spent every day burned or about to burn or still on fire. Now, without warning, he feels...extinguished. He feels cold. He didn't realize he had gotten so used to the warmth of the flames.

Suppose that's another thing he has in common with his dead mother.

He sags against the closed door, rubbing at his face with his hands, feeling disproportionately drained. He exhales shakily and closes his eyes, absently bringing a hand up to rub at the new scar on his throat.

''Dean.'' His eyes snap open and his body jerks, startled straight by the sound of the disembodied voice. The room is empty and all he can hear is the thumping of the washing machine, but he knows what he heard. He would know that voice anywhere. He just doesn't know if what he heard was a voice or the memory of one.

''Tessa?''

He scans the tiny room, but there is no one there. Not even a cold spot. But if he closes his eyes, he swears he can see her, standing in the light of day, dark eyes softened with sympathy, one hand reaching out as if to touch his face. He touches the scar. The image of her hand, outstretched, fades like smoke.

Distantly, he hears the front door open, almost immediately followed by what can only be described as an extremely territorial shriek of, ''WHOSE BABY IS THAT?!''

Which is then followed by the sound of Kaylie crying.

He manages to get out a laugh at the sound of Mary's voice, the pressure on his chest easing. He gives himself a minute to shake it off, rolling his shoulders, pushing the buzzing to the back of his head, and then he goes back to his life. He is perfectly fine. Until he steps out into the hall and catches sight of her.

Mary is struggling into her bedroom, dragging her backpack and her pink puffy winter coat with her, screeching, ''Betty! Betty!''

The second he sees her, it's like all his resolve crumbles and he is suddenly filled to the brim with a desperate need to see his little girl. The little girl he almost left. He wouldn't have seen this. He wouldn't be watching her try and fail to lift both her coat and backpack onto her bed. Would have missed her tripping over the arm of her coat and falling forward down onto her backpack, letting out a tiny squeak and an ''oof'' noise. She picks herself right back up, shaking her head like she's shaking off the fall. ''Oopsie,'' she giggles, and he could cry, he could fucking cry right now.

He would have missed this. He never would have heard her laugh ever again. He has never heard anything better. He almost lost that. He would have only gotten four years of her. That's not enough time. Someone else would have gotten her entire future. They were almost taken away from each other. What could be worse?

Dean hovers in the doorway, watching her pick herself up. ''Mary.''

She turns around with a bright smile, his smile, his mother's smile. She looks happy to see him. ''Hi, Daddy!''

Without another word, genuinely afraid he'll start crying if he tries to speak, he strides into the room and lifts her up into his arms, enveloping her in a bear hug. She laughs and throws her arms around his neck, joyful as ever, if not a bit taken aback. He closes his eyes, buries his face in her hair, and tries not to think about all the things he could have lost and what his girl's day would be like right now if he had stayed dead.

''Daddy.'' Her little hands push at him after a minute. ''Daddy, you're hugging too tight.''

''Sorry.'' He loosens his grip and she pulls back to look at him. ''I'm sorry,'' he says. ''I'm just real happy to see you, sweetheart.''

She grins, bashful, head tilted to the side. ''You missed me?''

He smiles at her ''I missed you, my girl.''

She doesn't seem to notice the melancholy in the sound of his voice or his smile. She grins at the compliment and throws her arms out with a cheerful declaration of, ''Here I am!''

''Here you are.'' He puts her back down on the ground, watching her plop down on the floor and pull her backpack over to her. ''Did you have a good day at school?''

''I drewed Betty a picture!''

''Drew.''

''That's what I said.'' She produces a piece of paper from her backpack with a flourish. ''See?'' Proudly, she holds up the drawing to show him. ''This is Betty,'' she says, pointing at a greenish scrawl. '''That's me,'' she goes on, pointing out every indecipherable scribble. ''That's you and Mommy and Mommy's garden. And that's Skye from Paw Patrol.''

Dean listens to her with rapt attention. It's a terrible drawing, but he could listen to her talk about it forever. He points to a dark blob in the corner. ''What's that?''

''Oh.'' She waves it off. ''That's just my shoe.''

''Sure,'' he nods seriously. ''Because every good drawing needs a shoe. But only one.''

''Yeah, only one.''

''It's a beautiful picture. You wanna sell it on eBay?''

Mary doesn't get the joke, but she laughs anyway. ''Daddy,'' she admonishes. ''No, silly, it's for Betty.''

''Okay, but when you're a famous artist, this'll be worth a lot of money you know. Think of all the mealworms and crickets we could buy Betty.'' He looks down at the drawing and then flips it around. ''Very reminiscent of a Klimt, don't you think? Maybe a Jackson Pollock? Picasso's whole cubism thing?''

She stares at him blankly, nodding her head even though she obviously understands none of it. ''I don't wanna be an artist,'' she finally says. ''I wanna be a nurse.''

''Oh, right, right. I forgot we've got everything all planned out now.''

''Yeah, I'm gonna work with Nurse Fatima,'' she reminds him. ''And!'' She lifts a finger. ''And a mommy!''

''You're going to work with Mommy?''

''No, no, I'm gonna be a mommy.''

''Really?''

''Yeah!''

''So you and I are not going to pull a Grey Gardens then?''

''Of course I'm gonna have a garden, Daddy,'' she exclaims, offended by the idea that he could dare to suggest something different. ''Just like Mommy's!''

''That's not what I - ''

''And I'm gonna have a lot of puppies!''

''I have no doubt.''

''And I'm gonna sell shoes!''

''You...'' Dean trails off. ''All right...'' He can't say he had been expecting her to say that. That's a new one. Half the time she doesn't even like wearing shoes. ''Interesting side hustle,'' he says. ''But it's always good to make a few extra bucks, right? Especially with all those kids and puppies.''

''Yes,'' she says with a sage nod. ''And for bills.''

''Ew.'' He pulls an exaggerated face. ''What's a bill?''

''I dunno.'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''Mommy talks about them.'' She scrambles back to her feet and starts to reach out, presumably to take her drawing back, but then she stops. Her eyes have fallen from his face to his throat, bright eyed expression softening to one of concern. ''Oh no, Daddy,'' her voice is hushed as she rushes over to him, little fingers reaching up. ''You got a owie!''

His hand automatically moves to the fresh pink scar on his throat. ''I did. But I'm okay.'' He forces a smile for her. ''You don't need to worry about me, Mary.'' However, she is having none of that, all lit up with determination. She always looks the most like Laurel when she's determined.

''No, we gotta put a band aid on it!'' She turns back to her backpack, crouching down to fish out one of the many loose band aids that she begs Auntie Thea for every morning. ''Okay, okay.'' She turns, waving the band aid at him. ''Daddy, it's okay, I got a band aid.'' She rips it open with skilled practice and approaches him with a small smile. ''It won't hurt.''

He could convince her that he's fine and she doesn't need to waste one of her precious band aids - these ones are Disney Princess themed – on him but he doesn't even try. ''You promise it won't hurt?''

''Yes, yes,'' she says, like a busy, harried mother. ''I promise. Don't be scared. I'm right here.'' She crooks her finger at him, beckoning him closer and he dutifully leans down so she can oh-so-carefully put the Cinderella band aid on his throat. As soon as she's finished, she pulls back with a big grin and yelps, ''All done! Good job, Daddy.'' She pats his knee. ''You were really brave.''

''You were a really good nurse, honeybee,'' he tells her. ''I wasn't nervous at all.''

She seems pleased by this, but, now that her job is done, she moves on. ''Oh!'' She snatches up her drawing. ''I gotta show Betty my picture!'' And that's the end of playing nurse for the day. He watches her skip over to the terrarium, proudly holding up her picture. ''Betty! Betty, hi! I'm home!'' Her hand twitches at her side and he thinks for sure he's going to have to remind her not to tap on the glass, but she refrains. ''I drew you a picture,'' she declares, even deliberately lowering her voice. ''Look,'' she murmurs. ''Betttttty...''

There is no movement from the chunky lizard.

''Betty,'' she whispers, leaning in close. ''Betty!''

Nothing.

Mary stands there, ready to squirm out of her impatient skin. She lasts less than thirty seconds and then she turns back to Dean. ''Daddy, she's not looking,'' she whines. She shakes her head, looking rather downtrodden. ''She doesn't like my picture.''

''Sure, she does,'' he says, hurrying over to the terrarium. Which...is awfully still. Too still. He bites back a grimace. Aw, shit. They just got this thing. He leans in to tap at the glass gently. No movement. He taps a little harder -

- and an ugly little head pops out from behind the small rock sculpture.

Oh, thank god.

Betty, bleary eyed and annoyed, glares at him.

''She's just tired,'' he says brightly, turning back to Mary. ''I woke her up last night.''

Mary gasps, positively scandalized. ''Daddy!''

''I know, I know, it was so inconsiderate of me.''

''She needs her sleep!''

''She does,'' he agrees, tossing one last look at the diabolical lizard. ''Sorry about that, Betty. Come on.'' He turns Mary around, steering her back over to her backpack. ''Let's let her get some sleep and you can show her your picture later.''

''Okay.'' She puts her drawing on her bedside table. ''Daddy?''

''Hmm?''

''Did you have a good day?''

He almost laughs, but she wouldn't get the joke. He's not sure what the best answer is here. He considers lying. It would be easier to lie. He doesn't. ''No.''

She does not look like she had been expecting that answer. ''No?''

''No,'' he confirms. ''I didn't.''

''You had a bad day?''

''I had a bad day.''

She looks at him for a second with this intensely concerned, older than her years look on her face, and then she drops to her knees and starts digging around in her backpack. ''Do you...'' She pulls out a small rock, thrusting it at him. ''Do you want my rock? It's really smooth on top. I found it.'' Her eyes widen in wonder, voice dropping down to this awed murmur. ''In the - In the parking lot.''

Dean attempts, for maybe a second, to refrain from laughing. It is a failed endeavor. ''No, honey, you can keep that.''

Undeterred, she places her parking lot treasure on the floor and fishes out her little plastic bento box that Auntie Thea got for her snacks, holding it out to him. ''I got carrots.''

''How about a hug?''

''Oh yeah!'' She tosses the bento box aside. ''A hug!'' She pops up to her feet and launches herself at him like a coiled spring. He catches her easily and allows her to ''tackle'' him back onto the bed. Her wild shriek of laughter is definitely the best thing he has heard all day. She doesn't let go of him, not even when they fall back on the bed, curling her arms around his neck even tighter and declaring in her high pitched voice, ''I'm gonna give you the biggest hug ever!'' She squeezes him as tight as she can, then plants a sloppy kiss on his check, and pulls away. ''Do you feel better?''

''So much better.''

''Good!'' She starts to draw back away from him, patting his cheek. ''Tomorrow will be a happy day for you.''

''Thanks, fortune cookie,'' he chuckles. ''I sure hope so.''

She rolls away from him, crawling over to her large pile of stuffed animals. ''Here!'' She picks a stuffed elephant out of the depths of the pile. ''You can have Susan for today.''

He accepts the stuffed elephant and all he can think is -

Who the fuck is Susan?

No, seriously. Where did this thing come from? He has no recollection of this stuffed animal. It's wearing glasses and a floral print cardigan and holding a little fabric book. It's like a tiny stuffed librarian. You'd think he would remember it. ''Did you get this for Christmas?''

''Uh-huh.''

''From who?''

''Grandma.''

Oh.

Yeah, that makes sense.

Dinah has given up on trying to call her kids over the past couple months, seemingly accepting the freeze out, but she had sent a big gift bundle for the holidays. Mostly what he remembers about it is the way Laurel choked out a bitter laugh when she put on the expensive cashmere sweater her mother got her and it was two sizes too big. (Sara's, of course, fit perfectly.)

That, and the robot.

Along with a bunch of Paw Patrol toys and a shitload of candy - and this elephant with an astigmatism - a small toy robot was also included in Dinah's guilt ridden box of gifts. It lit up. It walked, it talked, it sang. It made a horrific alarm like noise for some reason. It was awful. Mary loved the annoying headache-inducing thing. She was obsessed. For about two days. It wound up coming with them to Malibu where she promptly proceeded to forget it existed and when they left, Mom and Dad ''forgot'' to pack it.

She still hasn't noticed.

Susan, though. He can get on board with Susan. She seems nice and quiet.

''Why Susan?''

Mary just says, ''She looks like a Susan.''

Dean rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, examining the elephant. You know what's weird? She does look like a Susan. Not sure why, but... He puts her down next to a comically lumpy stuffed cat - whose name, he knows, is Conrad - and watches Mary rifle through her pile of friends, eventually pulling out Sharkie.

She greets Sharkie with enthusiasm, a squeal of delight and a big hug. She pulls the well-loved shark into her lap and then sets about fussing over the rest of her brood, making sure they're comfortable, greeting each one by name, asking how their way was. She's still very concerned about Piper the dog who fell in the toilet the other day and had to go in the washing machine.

He thinks he could sit here all day and watch her do this. It would be a good day.

Sometimes he thinks about his younger self. That cocksure, obnoxious, lonely twenty six year old drifter who showed up on his baby brother's doorstep and pulled him back into their dangerous family mess. What would that boy think of the life Dean has built here? He lives in the same four walls every day. His car, with its seatbelt-less backseat and nowhere to put a car seat, spends most days still, engine quiet, only leaving the cover of the garage on date nights or solo errands. He makes his wife the same breakfast every morning. He mows the lawn. He changes diapers, cooks healthy meals, sings songs about potty training and bath time, and knows every character from Paw Patrol and Octonauts and Bubble Guppies and Doc McStuffins. He knows all the moms from the nearby park. He has in-laws. He follows mommy blogs. He may or may not have a Pinterest. He lives a normal life.

Some days, it is almost boring.

And he has never been more at peace. He has been so happy here. Every piece of the monotony has been worth it. If he could go back, if he could tell the boy he was just one thing, he would tell him to keep going. It's worth it, he would say. All of it. It's going to suck more than you can ever imagine, but it's what gets you to her and that's where you need to be.

He looks at his daughter, her beaming smile, her enthusiasm, the way it bleeds into her whole body, from her piercing Ellard green eyes to her twitchy fingers. ''Hey, Mary.''

She pulls her attention away from her toys and back over to him.

''I love you,'' he says to her. ''You know that, right?'' He brushes hair out of her face, hand cupping her cheek. ''I love you so much.''

''I love you too,'' she chirps out cheerfully. ''This much!'' She spreads her arms out as wide as she can. ''But bigger!''

''Wow.'' He swallows the rock in his throat and grins. ''That's a lot.''

''It is.''

''I just want to make sure you know how much I love you and how much I love being your dad.''

''I know.'' She looks at him a bit like she's thinking he might be cracking up - which, to be fair, he might be - but then she moves on. Because she's four and that's what four year olds do. ''Daddy,'' she says, settling on the bed. ''I gotta tell you something.'' She glances at the door nervously, and then looks back to him, eyes wide. ''There are strangers in the house.''

''There - Oh. Yeah.'' He sits back against the headboard, pulling an errant giraffe out from behind his lower back. ''That's Wyatt and Kaylie. They're friends of ours.''

''Mommy was holding a baby.''

''Yep, that's Kaylie.''

''She's your friend?''

''She and Wyatt are my friends, yes. They could be your friends too.''

Mary remains unsatisfied with the explanation. ''But the baby didn't come out of Mommy's tummy?''

He raises an eyebrow. ''No.''

She points a finger at him, narrowing her eyes warningly. ''Truth?''

''Truth.''

''Are you sure?''

''Pretty sure,'' he says. ''I feel like I'd know if your mother had a baby. We're basically together all the time now. I don't know when she'd have the time to deliver a baby without me knowing. It's kind of an ordeal.''

''The baby's not my sister?''

''She's not.''

She looks at him for a minute, eyes still narrowed, scrutinizing him closely, and then she accepts it. ''Good. I don't want a sister.''

''You don't?''

''No.''

''What about a brother?''

''Nope.''

''Really? I thought you said you wanted to be a big sister. You put it on your Christmas list and everything.''

''I want to be a big sister.'' She crawls over to him, leaning in close to whisper. ''But I don't want people to be in my house.''

Dean cannot help but burst into laughter. It's not that he's not expecting it or that it catches him off guard. It's that it is such a Mary thing to say. She is not a good hostess. She's a shy kid. She likes people, but only a select few, and she does not like noise. They have never been able to work out if that's because the noise easily overwhelms her because she only has hearing in one ear or if she just doesn't like it, but she hates noise.

The irony of two charming and largely extroverted people from two rowdy families making a shy introverted child who gets grumpy and cries in a crowded restaurant has never been lost on them.

On Laurel's 30th birthday, Dean threw her a surprise party. It was a Friday and he wanted to give her a birthday bash. Something to show how many people loved her. He made it as big as possible, planned it months in advance with Joanna. His family, her family, neighbors, friends - it was an event. Everyone was there. Laurel had a great time. That was the objective and he made sure to follow through.

Mary did not have a good time.

She was easy to distract for most of the party, but as the hours dragged on, she grew tired of it. Kept telling him there were ''too many peoples and too many talkings.'' People stayed until long after dark, there was a bonfire, a lot of laughing, a lot of voices, and she did not take it well. Even though she was all the way inside the house, seemingly far away from the action, she still kept waking up and coming to get him, horrified that there were still people in her house even though it was past her bedtime. Wound up having an overtired meltdown, sobbing into his shoulder, telling him, ''They don't live here! I live here!''

So, yeah, not at all surprising that she is not into the idea of sharing with a sibling. It took her months just to get used to Thea.

''I want it to be just me,'' she declares. ''Jemima Westlake has a little sister and she has to share her cookies with her. I do not want to share my cookies.''

''Well,'' he gets out, still laughing. ''Maybe we should work on that.''

She doesn't look particularly receptive to that idea. She pushes herself up onto her knees, moves her hand to the back of his neck, and just yanks his head down to her. ''Daddy,'' she says softly, pressing her forehead to his. ''Do you feel better now?''

''I always feel better when you're here.''

''Always?''

''Always.'' He draws away, but only to press a kiss to her forehead. ''You make every day better, honeybee.''

In response to his heartfelt and moving declaration, she leans in and says, matter-of-factly, ''We should have cereal for dinner.''

He snorts out another laugh. ''Cereal for dinner, huh?'' He lets her pull away from him, flopping down on her back to stare pensively up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. ''You are your mother's daughter, aren't you?''

''I want Froot Loops! Let's have Froot Loops!''

''You don't like Froot Loops.''

She looks offended by the slander, which, by the way, is merely an observation. He has seen her attempt to eat Froot Loops before. It did not end well. ''Yes, I do! I do,'' she insists. ''They're my favorite!''

''Really? They're your favorite?''

''Uh-huh.''

''Because I seem to remember that when your mom bought some while we were in California, you chewed them up, spit them back into the bowl - which was not yours, by the way - and then licked me to get the taste out of your mouth.''

''Maybe I don't like them in California,'' she says. ''I only like them at home.''

''Oh, I didn't realize Froot Loops were location dependent.''

''Uh-huh, they are.'' She sits up, scooting to the end of the bed. ''Dylan and Ethan Boland say they eat Froot Loops for dinner every night,'' she says, hopping off the bed.

''Dylan and Ethan Boland also say their house is on the moon.''

''Their house is on the moon.''

''I know for a fact it's not,'' he says, rolling off the bed and onto his feet. ''I've been there. It's in Orchid Bay.'' Their house, which is actually a fancy ass condo, in addition to not being on the moon, has no swimming pool in the backyard, something they had boasted about to him. It doesn't even have a backyard. No pet dolphin either. When he went there to pick up Tina for that one ill-fated coffee date they had in September, both boys were insistent that there had been a pet dolphin.

''You just missed him,'' Ethan said.

''He was in the bathtub,'' Dylan added. ''But he had to go back home to Mars.''

''That's where our Dad is,'' said Ethan. ''He's a Guardian of the Galaxy.''

Their father was a security guard. He died during Slade Wilson's siege. Grief does mysterious things to us.

Mary does not consider this. She stops what she's doing, hand jammed into her backpack, looking up at him with a look of pure betrayal splashed across her face. ''You mean they lied?''

''They're storytellers,'' Dean says, picking up Mary's forgotten jacket. ''They like to make people laugh. But, yeah, they lied.''

''Do they have Froot Loops for dinner?''

''Probably not every night.''

''What about Rice Krispies?''

''Do they like Rice - ''

''No, no, no.'' She pulls her special rock out of her backpack. ''Rice Krispies for dinner.''

''I hate to stomp on your dreams,'' he says as he's hanging her coat up in her closet. ''But cereal is not a meal.''

Mary makes a disappointed noise, but is too distracted with finding a place for her rock to kick up a fuss. She skips back over to her BFF Betty, thrusting the rock out. ''Look, Betty, I got a rock,'' she whispers reverently.

Betty has no response to this because - well, why would she?

Mary takes it less personally this time, turning back to Dean with a newly determined look on her face. ''Is McDonalds a meal?''

''It...technically is. I guess. Not a healthy meal but - ''

''I have an idea!'' She skips over to him, tugging at his shirt. ''I have an idea! Let's have McDonalds for dinner!''

''No, Mary,'' he smooths her hair out of her face. ''We're having...'' Then he stops. Well. ...One night couldn't hurt. What's the difference between the frozen chicken nuggets he was going to feed her and the ones she would get in a happy meal? One option has dino shapes and one has a cheap plastic toy? He died today. He shouldn't be expected to make dinner. ''Actually, you know what? Let's have McDonalds for dinner.''

She stares up at him, eyes widening. She seems stunned that she won that round. ''Really?''

''On one condition,'' he says, holding up a finger.

''Okay! Okay!'' She starts bouncing up and down, pulling at him like a ravenous little creature. ''One condition! Okay!''

''The boy in the living room,'' he says. ''That's Wyatt. He's had a really, really bad day. Worse than me. I need you to be nice to him.''

She stops bouncing, stull tugging at him incessantly. ''Why did he have a bad day?''

He pauses, considering how much to tell her. ''He lost his mom, Mary.''

She pulls away from him, stricken. ''He lost his mommy?''

''He did.''

''Where did she go?''

''...We're not sure.''

''Is she coming back?''

He hesitates again, and then relents. ''I don't think so.''

''You have to find her,'' she says, matter-of-factly, punctuating her point with a firm nod. ''I'll be nice. You and Mommy find his mommy, okay? Yes? Say yes.''

''Yes,'' he says. ''We'll find his mom.''

''And we can - we can get him an apple pie from McDonalds,'' she says brightly. ''And a toy! And we can watch a movie and I'll even let him pick!''

''I think that sounds like a great idea.'' He bends down to press a kiss to her cheek. ''You're a good kid, pumpkin.''

She nods, beaming up at him brilliantly. ''Mommy says be good.'' Before he can respond to that, she gasps, throwing her arms up. ''Mommy! I gotta tell her we're getting happy meals!''

''Wait a minute.'' He whistles sharply to get her attention, stopping her before she can leave the room. He grabs her abandoned bento box from the ground, the few lonely carrots rolling around. ''Take this to the kitchen for me. And hey,'' he tightens his hold on the box for a second, preventing her from snatching it up and running. ''Can you do one more thing for me? Can you go give your mom a big giant hug? I think she needs one.''

''Mommy had a bad day too?''

''She did.''

''Oh my gosh!'' She clutches a hand to her heart, somewhat dramatically. ''Everybody had a bad day!'' She thinks over this new information for maybe a second and then gets this determined and uniquely Mary look on her face. ''It's okay,'' she says, holding up both hands. ''Okay. It's okay. I'll make it better.'' She takes the box from him, spins on her heel, wobbles on her feet from the spin, and then scampers off, shrieking, ''Mommy!''

Dean follows her, ostensibly to call after her with a warning to be careful of the baby, but mostly just to watch her.

''Mommy!'' She's calling. ''Come into my room! I need to hug you! I got a rock!''

His lips curl into a smile. He watches her until she's gone and then ducks back into her bedroom, picking up her backpack off the ground. It's mostly because he's trying to avoid people, but also because Mary once smuggled a slug home in her backpack. So. Now they check. He clears the backpack of any creepy crawly friends, hangs it off the back of the desk chair, and checks on Betty, now awake, chomping away on something and eyeing him distrustfully. ''You better pay attention when she shows you that picture, you leftover dinosaur.''

She turns her back on him.

He rolls his eyes, then turns to leave, and promptly runs right into Cas. ''Jesus Christ!''

Cas is, as usual, unaffected. ''Just me, I'm afraid,'' he says mildly. ''I've been told I'm not nearly as fun at parties.''

Dean is too busy trying to regain his composure to take that in. ''Do you remember when I had that bell around the neck idea?''

''Which time?''

''I'm just saying it might be something to look into.''

''I'll make a note of it,'' Cas says, a note of sarcasm present in his voice. He greets Betty fondly, like an old friend, and she seems far more receptive to his presence. Not once does she glare at him. It's kind of insulting. ''I just wanted to check on you,'' he says. ''See how you're doing.'' He seems unaware of the civil war he's walked into between Man and ...Lizard-y thing.

Dean lets out a derisive snort. ''That you talking or Sam?''

''It's me. Believe it or not, you do have more than one person now, Dean.''

''I'm fine.''

''Really? You're fine?''

''Better than fine,'' Dean says, purposefully cheery. ''I'm peachy. We're having McDonalds for dinner.''

''I wasn't aware you were a fan.''

''It's an American staple,'' Dean says flatly. ''Who, among us, isn't McLovin' it on any given day?''

Cas wastes no time. ''Vegans.'' He crosses his arms. ''I've just never known you to gravitate toward traditional fast food. You're more of a diner man.''

Because diners don't have a drive-thru option. He would much rather kill time with dodgy diner burgers and surly servers than have people (Sam, namely) eating greasy food in his car. It's disrespectful to her. ''I just don't want to make dinner,'' he says. ''I think I deserve a night off. And my kid's a chicken nugget fiend. What's that about anyway? Is that a normal developmental milestone or something? Sammy had a nugget phase too and all the moms at the playground talk about dino nuggets like they're life rafts. What is it? Crawling, walking, talking, potty training, chicken nuggets? I don't get it.''

Cas looks at him for a second and then glances both to the right and left. ''Oh, are you asking me?''

Dean, running on little energy at this point, just shakes his head. ''Never mind.'' He makes an escape, ducking out of the bedroom and hurrying toward the laundry room. Again, it's pointless to just stand there. In theory, he has a few more minutes to go help Laurel with the kids but he doesn't. He leans back against the dryer and touches the band aid on his throat, eyes on the floor.

''Are you sure you're fine?''

He looks up at Cas, leaning against the doorway. ''Why wouldn't I be?'' He gestures to the band aid. ''Got a band aid and everything.''

''You did die today.''

''Hardly the first time,'' Dean says, going for flippant. ''Won't be the last.''

Cas looks exasperated by the answer. ''Regardless of your previous experiences with dying, it must have come as quite a shock.''

''A shock?'' Dean actually musters up a laugh at that, crossing his arms over his chest. ''No, not really. There's always a risk. I know that. Shock would've been easier.''

''Than?''

''...It hurts to die,'' he answers after a too long beat of silence.

''I'm sorry,'' Cas says. ''I don't want this for you.'' He says it so genuinely. ''You deserve better.''

Dean clams up at that and, thankfully, the washing machine saves him with the final beep. He turns away and focuses intently on moving the wet clothes to the dryer rather than ruminating on his friend's sincere and heartfelt words. He wants to put as much distance between him and the words of comfort as possible. He's not trying to be an asshole, rarely is he ever trying to be an asshole when it comes to the way he shuts down like this, but he doesn't have the patience needed to accept kindness right now. He wouldn't know what to do with it.

I don't want this for you and you deserve better are two simple statements with less than simple meanings and they're not something anyone has ever truly bothered to tell him before. He does not have the emotional bandwidth for that right now.

He turns the dryer on and turns back to Cas. ''What do you know about elemental witchcraft?''

Cas does not seem at all bothered by sailing past his previous comment. ''Not much,'' he admits. ''It's very...old world. Any witch can practice elemental witchcraft to an extent, but true elementals - the ones who can bend the earth and harness power from it, the ones like Wyatt - are extremely rare. They were once thought to be extinct, if I remember correctly.'' He looks wary. ''They're incredibly powerful.''

''Powerful enough to raise the dead?''

Cas is quiet for a long time. ''Not typically.''

Dean grimaces, even though he's not entirely sure why he's grimacing. This whole thing... None of it felt right. None of it feels right. ''Cas, I don't know what happened. I don't remember what happened after I was gone.''

''That's not unusual.''

''I don't even know how I... Was it actually the kid? Is he really the one who brought me back? He's seven.''

Cas looks at Dean for a long time, unblinking, focused, searching. Then he looks away. ''I suppose,'' he begins. ''It's possible that he could have been...allowed to bring you back.''

''Allowed,'' Dean echoes. ''By who? What does that mean?''

''It was just a suggestion,'' Cas replies, placating. ''But more than likely it was Wyatt. He likely just overextended himself. Tapped into his power more than he should have.'' He waves it off as if it's all suddenly no big deal. ''He was trying to do something good, but he's young. He's still learning. It would be understandable if he doesn't yet understand his limits. There are ramifications to going against nature.''

''If this is going to come back on him or hurt him in any way - ''

''No,'' Cas says sharply, standing straight. He looks alarmed, like he understands immediately what Dean was about to say and he doesn't want him to say it. ''No. He's fine,'' he says it firmly. ''He just needs to understand that this is a one time deal.''

''Kid uses up his one Get Out of Jail Free card for me.'' Dean absently rubs at the band aid on his throat. ''He'll regret that one day.''

''He saved a life,'' says Cas. ''There's nothing to regret.''

Sure, until they find Clementine's body and Wyatt realizes he's wasted his one chance to bring his mom back on some random dude. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, tired. ''What about me?''

''What about you?''

''Am I still me?''

''Who else would you be?''

Good question.

''Hanna won't look at me,'' Dean says. ''She hasn't looked me in the eye since I...got back. It's like I'm a stranger. Like there's something wrong with me.''

''There's nothing wrong with you,'' Cas assures him, lips turning up into a small smile. ''I wouldn't worry about Hanna. You think she sees something monstrous or - or decaying when she looks at you, but I'm willing to bet it's the opposite.'' He moves beside Dean, leaning back against the washing machine. ''When Laurel was brought back, she was essentially restarted. Her return was coated with blood and sickness and dark, dark magic. It was about greed. Don't mistake my criticism as ungratefulness. I prefer this world when she's in it, but her resurrection...'' There is an uncomfortable pause. He seems to be searching for something to say that isn't a straight up condemnation. ''It was a tainted thing,'' he settles on. ''It's why Hanna said she saw rot when she looked at her. But you.'' He looks over at Dean, eyes soft. ''You were brought back by a child's good intentions. There is purity in that. You were remade with one of the most loving forms of magic in existence. You were not restarted. The earth pieced you back together. You were born anew. It's not that Hanna won't look at you. It's that she can't. What she sees when she looks at you might be similar to what I saw when I first pulled you out of Hell.''

''Which is?''

Cas has a small smile on his face that Dean isn't quite sure what to do with. ''Light,'' is the answer. ''You have always been light, Dean.''

Dean thinks he can say with certainty that no one has ever said that to him before. Cas has always had a knack for saying things to him that have never been said before.

''And, if you're wondering,'' Cas goes on. ''Yes. You're still you. I don't have to be an angel or a witch to see that. You are the same person you've always been. You're just... Perhaps a little bruised. Bruises heal.''

This feels like more than a bruise. There is an insatiable buzzing noise haunting him, a nagging feeling of forgetfulness, and Laurel will not stop seeing a monster when she looks in the mirror. A five minute death is going to last a lifetime. But... It's a nice sentiment. That whole light thing. It's a nice idea. ''Good to know my future's so bright I gotta wear shades,'' he quips, forcing a bright grin onto his face. ''I'll break out the aviators. Anyone ever tell you that you could make bank writing the inside of Hallmark cards?''

Cas is unfazed. ''I do write a lot of poetry,'' he says. ''But it's all in Enochian.''

Yep, that tracks.

''All right.'' Dean gulps down a laugh, pushing off the washing machine. ''Well, the number of kids in my house has increased significantly today so I don't have time to switch off. Recently deceased or not. You staying for dinner?''

Cas hums thoughtfully. ''Do I get my own fries?''

''Why would you not get your own fries? You're an adult.''

Cas follows after him as he trails out of the laundry room. ''Are there vegan options at McDonalds?''

''What's with you and veganism all of a sudden? You makin' a lifestyle change? I thought cheese was your soulmate.''

''I have a lot of vegan friends,'' Cas says simply.

Dean stops, throwing a look at him.

''I do have other friends, you know.''

Oh. Right. The farmer's market. It does seem like the kind of place vegans would flock to. ''Are french fries vegan?''

''I think McDonalds fries theirs in beef fat.''

''Hold on. They fry their fries in beef fat?''

''They did at one point. I don't know if they still do.''

''Does Sam know about this? Because he decides he's a vegetarian every six months but he's never given up those fries. Hm.'' He points a finger at Cas. ''You should go break the news to him. See if he pulls one of those bitch faces of his. Or.'' He ducks over to the linen closet, pulling open the door and retrieving a pillow from the bottom shelf. ''Pillow forts.''

''Pillow forts?''

''Pillow forts,'' Dean confirms with a nod. ''Kids love a good pillow fort. Cures all ailments.'' He looks down at the pillow. ''Maybe not a dead mom,'' he allows. ''But it couldn't hurt. Might get his mind off the state of things for an hour or two. Here.'' He plops the pillow into Cas' arms. ''Go get them started. You're bizarrely good at making forts.''

''I am a good pillow and/or blanket fort architect,'' Cas agrees. He looks at the pillow, contemplating something. ''I'll have to consult my assistant about the plans.'' Then he turns his head and calls, ''MARY!'' He doesn't spare Dean a second glance, turning and starting toward the living room.

Dean's lips curve into a fleeting small smile. He starts to close the door to the closet, but then stops, remembering that there are no clean towels in the bathroom. He loaded them all into the washing machine with the bloody clothes. He plucks a few clean towels from the closet and traipses back into the bathroom. He puts the towels away, wipes away a few errant smudges of blood from the porcelain sink.

This is his house.

He lives here.

He does things like this every day. He does the laundry, rotates the towels, cleans, and mends. This is normal life But there is an increasing sense of unease growing in his chest today, at odds with his usual peace inside these four walls. He stands in the bathroom for a second after he has put the towels on the towel rack. He turns his head to look at his reflection in the mirror. The mirror that Hanna insisted on fixing last night, healing, doing away with the mess with witchcraft and magic, all the things he knows he is not supposed to touch but does anyway.

There is nothing wrong with his reflection. There is nothing wrong with the mirror. He is still him. Just like Cas said. There is no one else in this room with him.

But he's not really thinking about his reflection. Or the band aid covering the scar. Or whoever else may or may not have been in this room with him. He is thinking about his daughter's hand in his on her first day of school and what his mother's last thoughts might have been in that nursery on that fateful night in 1983 and the heavy weight of history repeating. He is thinking about how it felt to choke on his own blood and the way the sky looked so bright and white from where he was in the dirt and the gravel.

And the sound of buzzing, which is no longer the sound of buzzing but the sound of a memory, of an old man's voice telling him slowly, quietly, I told you we would have a lot to discuss one day.

Dean turns his body to the mirror and takes a step closer. He looks at his reflection in the mirror that has been patched together with witchcraft the same way his throat has been patched back together. If you look close enough, you can still see the cracks. The same way you can still see the scar.

He leans in closer, then a little closer still, looking at the reflection staring back at him.

The light above the mirror flickers.

.

.

.

As it turns out, it's hard to move past accidentally murdering your spouse. Especially when you actually like said spouse and are not just looking to become the subject of a bizarre Dateline episode.

Which she has already experienced, for the record.

Laurel has spent the day drifting in and out of a numb fog, teetering on the edge of dissociation, waiting for a panic attack that just won't hit. Except she doesn't feel panicked. She just feels...like she's somewhere else. Perhaps like she never left Seabeck.

There has been a lot of trauma and loss in her life. A lot of hurt. She lives in a corruption-warped city of blood and death and yearly terrorist attacks. How could there not be?

But this.

This is something new.

It's the gurgling. She can't get the sound of his gurgling out of her head. The way he kept trying to breathe. The look in his eyes. Hours later, she can still feel his blood on her hands. Can still smell it. This one is going to be hard to get past.

The sheer amount of children in her house has helped to take her mind off her constantly racing heartbeat and the guilt-induced nausea, but even that isn't enough to wipe the slate clean. She keeps looking at Mary and thinking, You have no idea how close you came to losing your whole world because of me.

They would all be having a very different day if it were not for Wyatt. What would have happened then? If Laurel had come back without him? If she'd had to sit Mary down and tell her that her dad was gone? They would all be living in a caved in world of ruins right now. She can't stop thinking about it.

It feels like no one else understands the gravity of what happened. They're all horrified when they're told, but they move on. Accept the gift that Wyatt has given them with immense gratitude, say ''that was too close'' and move on. Laurel can't do that. They weren't in Seabeck. They didn't see what she saw and felt what she felt. They definitely didn't do what she did. Part of her is still in Seabeck with all that blood still on her hands.

It eats away at her well into the night, the guilt and shame, a physical crawling sensation on her skin, a burning in her throat. One look at Dean tells her he is even more adrift than she is - though he might be better at hiding it - but she has no idea what to say to him. I'm sorry doesn't feel like enough. He doesn't want to hear it anyway.

How does a couple move on from involuntary manslaughter?

She spends the rest of the day watching him like a hawk, feeling possessive and overly anxious. She looks after children. She tries to have a discussion with Hanna about what happened, an estimate of how long Edie will be held in her cage of leaves, and a potential way to block any forced astral projection attempts. In between baby snuggles and trying to put a smile on Wyatt's face, she always has one eye on Dean.

She doesn't even like when he's out of her sight right now. He went to pick up dinner and Mary insisted on going with him and Laurel spent the entire time they were gone thinking about car accidents and carjackings and a faulty resurrection that ends in him bleeding out in a McDonalds drive-thru while their four year old screams in the backseat. Which sounds about a million times worse than bleeding out in someone's driveway.

She doesn't think she would be nearly as jittery if she was not herself literally the result of a botched resurrection. Or if someone could just assure her that everything is fine, that the resurrection is totally on the up and up and he's not rotting away inside the way she is or in danger of turning into a puddle of goo at any moment. To be fair, both Cas and Hanna have indeed told her exactly that. Her anxiety just won't allow her to listen. They weren't that convincing anyway.

She chokes down a few mostly tasteless bites of wilted fast food salad and some fries, eats the chicken nugget Mary feeds her when she notices Mom isn't eating and refuses to accept ''Mommy's not hungry'' as an excuse, and then she just sits there at the table, watching her husband effortlessly juggle three small children. He's so good at living in denial and distracting himself from PTSD. In fairness, he has more experience.

He has been a bit quieter today. Not with the kids. He's been great with the kids, but he seems to have, at some point, decide he's uninterested in interacting with the adults in the house. Given that both Laurel and Thea keep looking at him like he's about to drop dead, she can't blame him.

After dinner, Laurel watches Dean in the living room with the kids. He's sitting on the couch with Kaylie in his arms and Mary and Wyatt on either side of him.

Mary, it cannot be overstated, does not like that baby.

As in earlier when Kaylie started crying and Dean had to step away from the game of Uno with the kids to pick her up, Mary watched the exchange, visibly stewing, and then turned to Laurel and said, ''I don't like that baby.''

She does like Wyatt, however.

She's mildly terrified of him because she's mildly terrified of all fellow children, but she's never met another kid who can sign before and it blew her little mind when he signed back to her. It still blows her mind. She deliberately chose to sit across from him at dinner, periodically signing Hi, my name is Mary and absolutely losing it every time he signed back I know.

He was a good sport about it. The age difference between the kids is rather large for small kids, but the sign language is a common thread and they both seem genuinely delighted to have someone else they can communicate with.

But that baby...

Mary is not a fan of the little scene stealer.

Laurel is content to distract her from her brand new feud, but Dean seems intent on trying to sway Mary over to the baby side. Hence him sitting on the couch, letting Mary get up close and personal with Kaylie for the first time. It's not as cute as it sounds. Mary keeps poking her. She doesn't appear to mean any harm by it, she's just marveling at how tiny Kaylie is, but he keeps having to redirect her little pinchers. It's like a Try Not to Cringe challenge video happening in real time.

''Look at her eyes,'' Mary says, reaching in quickly, too quickly, like she is actually going to poke her in the eye.

Dean is just barely able to catch her wrist, though he's gentle enough, keeping his voice light, avoiding any sharp criticism that might make Mary draw back.

''She's so little,'' she says.

''She is,'' he agrees. ''You were this little once.''

Mary finds that idea laughable. ''No, I wasn't,'' she declares, and goes for the nostril.

Wyatt, watching with a wary eye, cringes and loses the challenge.

Even all the way in the dining room, Laurel and Sara both flinch.

Dean effortlessly catches her hand again and says, mildly, ''Sure, you were. We were all babies once.''

Mary takes this in, thinks about it for a minute, and then asks, blunt as ever, ''When's she going home?''

Luckily, that is the moment Thea comes back with a bottle for Kaylie.

Laurel keeps a close eye on the situation, watching Mary settle next to Dean on the couch, Basil the stuffed giraffe tucked under her arm, eyes on her dad. Mom Instinct is giving her a bad feeling about this whole ''trying to get a spoiled four year old to like this brand new random baby sucking up all the attention'' thing. She knows Dean means well and she knows he can handle it, but he only has so many hands.

Thea must be a little nervous too because she keeps one eye on Mary even as she walks away.

Mary watches Kaylie suckle at the bottle for about a minute, innocently fascinated, and then she looks at her dad, spots the soft eyed look on his face, and as she turns her eyes back to Kaylie, her gaze turns into a positively thunderous glare.

''Oh my god,'' Sara whispers. ''It's like watching the birth of the Bette Davis and Joan Crawford feud. Well, except - I guess Joan Crawford was an active participant in the feud and not just some barely sentient Chipotle burrito.''

Thea side eyes her. ''How big are the burritos you're ordering?''

In the living room, Mary has pushed herself up onto her knees and thrown her arms around Dean's neck in a fairly possessive and awkward looking hug. ''Daddy,'' she's saying, laying her head on his shoulder. ''Let's play a game.''

In that moment, Dean appears to realize that he might've made a mistake by trying to force a connection between Mary and this - again - totally random baby suddenly in her space.

Even Wyatt's side eyeing him.

''Hey, Mary.'' Laurel jumps to her feet, instinctively throwing herself into the fray. ''Come help me clear the table please.''

Mary pretends not to hear her.

Laurel knows she's pretending. She can see the little shoulder tic. The goober.

''Fun fact,'' Sara says to Thea. ''Misery Business by Paramore was written about this exact situation.''

Laurel doesn't understand the reference but judging from the way Thea bursts into giggles, she understands it just fine.

Dean, understanding he has gotten himself into a rather sticky situation, attempts to maneuver out of the danger zone. ''As soon as I'm finished giving the baby her dinner, we can play a game.''

Instantly, like flipping a switch, Mary goes into whine mode. ''Nooo, Daddy, we have to play nooow.''

''Mary, I can't right now.''

She pulls back to gape at him in betrayal and shock. When he dares to turn his attention back to Kaylie, even for a second, she melts down. She lets out this little half whimper, half grunt, covers her face with her hands, and then presses her forehead to his shoulder, hiding.

Even without a free hand, he still tries with her, leaning in to murmur something in her ear. Whatever he says does not do the trick because all it gets out of her is another whiny grunt. She jolts off the couch and scampers into the dining room with Basil, giving Laurel a wide berth and ducking under the dining room table to pout. When it doesn't prove to be the impenetrable fortress she's hoping it will be, she pops right back up and hides behind Sara's chair. For added measure, she lets out another whiny ''harumph'' noise and puts her face in her hands, keeping Basil still safely tucked under her arm.

Laurel turns to meet Dean's eyes and neither one of them can hide the fact that they're both impressed by that. Sure, she's acting like a brat but she just did all that skittering around with barely a wobble. Good for her.

Mary is quiet for a second, stewing, and then she mumbles, muffled by her hands, ''I don't like babies.''

Sara doesn't hesitate, twisting in her chair to give an exaggerated stage whisper of, ''Me neither.''

''Sara,'' Laurel admonishes, albeit halfheartedly.

Sara just wrinkles her nose and leans in closer to Mary. ''They smell.''

Mary peeks out from behind her hands, failing to suppress a tiny giggle. ''Yeah. And they're noisy.''

''So noisy.''

Laurel lets it pass, giving the two a minute to lament about babies to each other as she gathers up dirty plates and errant burger wrappers. She deliberately does not touch Mary's small plate with the smears of ketchup and one lone chicken nugget on it. ''Mary, I need you to bring your plate into the kitchen, okay?''

Mary says, ''No.''

Before she even has a chance to get her next protest out, Laurel's picked up the plate and deposited it in her hands as she passes. ''Yep, come on. You're holding it now. It needs to go in the kitchen.''

Mary groans loudly and continues to do so with each step, but she does dutifully follow her mom into the kitchen.

Laurel takes her time setting the dishes on the counter, taking the plate from Mary, sweeping the wrappers into the trash. ''All right.'' She picks Mary up and sits her and Basil on the counter next to the sink. ''Now eat that last nugget for me.''

Mary just groans again. ''I don't want it.''

''Okay. Give it to me then.''

Mary, predictably annoyed by this solution, changes her mind. ''No, I want it, I want it.'' Then, quick like a bunny, she puts Basil down next to her, grabs the nugget, and shoves the entire thing into her mouth.

Laurel blinks. ''Mary,'' she says, biting back a laugh. ''Honey, that was a really big bite.''

Mary chews, chews, chews some more, attempts to say something through her mouthful of nugget, and then it all goes downhill from there. She coughs while she's trying to speak, which then turns into gags, which then leads to Laurel scrambling to grab a paper towel for her to spit into.

Nobody ever tells you about these moments of parenthood.

''Well, you tried, kiddo,'' she says, tossing the slimy half-chewed mess in the trash and pulling a glass down from the cupboard. ''But evidently you do not have as big a mouth as your dad.'' She gets Mary a glass of water and stands there for a second, directing her to take some slow sips and waiting until she does. ''You okay?''

Mary nods her head, blinking her watery eyes, chugging some water and then letting out a breath like she's been through something awful.

Laurel strokes her hair softly. ''You sure?''

Another nod.

''Okay, just sit tight and drink your water.''

Mary, suddenly quiet, obliges. She sits there while Laurel loads up the dishwasher, sipping at her water. She doesn't even spill it. Much. A little splash on her shirt, that's all. She waits patiently until Laurel has flipped the dishwasher closed and then she says, ''Mama?'' She only calls her Mama when something's wrong. ''I don't want the baby in my house.''

Laurel presses her lips together. It's not funny. It's really not funny. But... The phrasing is a little funny. ''I gathered that.''

''But - '' Mary perks up. ''But Wyatt can stay.'' She puts the glass down on the counter. ''He can stay with us 'cause - 'cause he can sign.''

''I know.''

''The baby can't sign.''

''She might one day.''

Mary lets out a great big sigh like she's thinking to herself, That's not the point, Mother.

''Sweetie, listen.'' Laurel moves to stand in front of her, taking both of her tiny hands. ''I know we kind of sprung this on you with no warning - and I know you love Daddy and you don't want anything taking him away from you.'' She pauses, looking down at Mary's small hands. She can't push away the image that she still has in her head of Dean lying in the dirt, covered in blood, eerily still.

''Mommy?''

She jerks her head back up to Mary. ''Oh.'' She forces a smile. ''I'm sorry, Mommy's a little tired.'' She tries to laugh it off. ''Mary.'' She tries her best to steer them back on track here. ''I know you like having your dad to yourself and you think Kaylie's messing with that, but she's only little. She's not doing it on purpose. She's not trying to annoy you. She just needs our help. She can't take care of herself.''

''But he's my daddy.''

''I know, honeybee, and nothing will ever change that, but...'' Laurel licks her lips, trying to figure out how to work this to get Mary on board. ''He's a really, really good daddy, right?''

Mary nods. ''Yeah.''

''Kaylie needs that right now,'' Laurel says gently. ''She doesn't have anyone else. Her mommy and daddy are gone. We have to help her.''

''Why?''

''Because that's what we do. We help people who need help.''

''Why?''

''Because it's the right thing to do.''

''Why?''

''It just is.'' She leans in to press a light kiss to Mary's nose and then pulls away, letting go of her hands. ''Your dad and I have a responsibility.''

Mary sighs again, shoulders slumped, resigned to her fate but not overly happy about it. ''Do I have to help people?''

''Hmm.'' An awfully loaded question for today. Laurel leans back against the counter next to her, crossing her arms. ''Well.'' For several different reasons, she is not entirely sure how to answer that. ''No, you don't. You can be anything you want to be, Mary. I would love it if you choose to help people,'' she admits. ''But you get to make your own choices in life. You can't hurt people, but you don't have to do what your dad and I do. You get a choice. Choice is really, really important.''

Most of that undoubtedly goes over Mary's head because she's, you know, four, but she at least pretends like she's thinking about it.

''Kaylie and Wyatt are not trying to take Daddy away from you,'' Laurel assures her. ''They just need some love right now.''

''But Daddy won't love them more?''

''More than he loves you? Oh, no. No. I promise.''

Mary relaxes, but still seems thoughtful, like she's got something on her mind. ''I want to help people,'' she finally says.

It's best not to put too much stock in that, but Laurel smiles anyway because it's a lovely thing to hear. It's a nice thought. ''You do?''

Mary nods. ''Yeah,'' she says, confident. ''I just don't want them in - in my house.''

''I get that.'' She picks Mary up and sets her back on the floor before snatching Basil off the counter and handing him back. ''You're an introvert. This is your safe space. I understand what it's like to need a safe space.'' She bends down to meet Mary's eyes. ''But, sweetie, this is Mommy and Daddy's house too and Kaylie and Wyatt are our guests. You don't have to like it, but I would appreciate it if you could be kind. You don't have to be their friend if you don't want to be and you can come tell me whenever you're feeling overwhelmed, but you can't be rude. They don't deserve that.'' She squeezes Mary's hand. ''They're only going to be here for a few days.''

''Really?''

''Yes. Two or three sleeps. We can handle that, right?''

Mary contemplates this new information for a moment. She snuggles Basil close to her chest, hugging him tightly, cheek rubbing against the soft fabric. Finally, she relents. ''Okay.''

''Okay?''

''Okay.''

''That's my good girl.'' Laurel brings Mary in for a hug, kissing her cheek. She stops for a moment when she pulls away just to look at her four year old, standing there clutching Basil, still looking thoughtful.

The last time Laurel saw Basil the stuffed giraffe was that night. April 6th. The last image she had of her baby for so long was the image of her asleep on that couch, cuddling that giraffe. It doesn't seem like it was that long ago, but at the same time it feels like it was a whole different lifetime. In a lot of ways, it was. Basil still looks the same. Mary does not. She's taller now. She's wiser. She seems older than she should be, undoubtedly pushed along and forced to mature due to the circumstances of her life. There is so much that she knows now about life - and about death - that other kids her age don't.

She is still innocent, of course, this beautiful girl with the infectious laugh who loves to talk and has an undying adoration for animals, but you can't say nothing has been lost along the way over the past year. It's easy to see the toll all of this never ending turmoil has had on her.

When they were in California, holed up in that Malibu beach house just the three of them, Mary was so happy. She was so happy. They were there for close to a month and she maybe had two tantrums. They have been home for less than a week and she's already had three. At four years old, she has already learned to associate this city with nothing but pain and fear.

Laurel would do anything to give her those last pieces of her innocence back. She would do anything to be able to take away all the hurt and the constant upheaval that never seems to stop. ''Hey, Mary.''

Mary looks up from where she has buried her face in Basil's neck.

''Things have been kinda different lately,'' Laurel says cautiously. ''Haven't they?''

Mary hesitates for a second, as if she doesn't want to acknowledge it, and then nods.

''We've all had a lot thrown at us,'' Laurel acknowledges. ''It's really hard. It sucks.''

A tiny, fleeting smile crosses Mary's face. ''Yeah, it sucks,'' she says, just enthused to be able to say that something sucks without Mom telling her not to say that word.

''I'm so sorry for everything you've been through,'' Laurel says. ''It's not fair you've had to go through so much pain. You didn't deserve any of it.''

Mary stares at her, but says nothing.

''I just wanted you to know that,'' Laurel tells her. ''I also want you to know that things will get better. It won't be like this forever. And I am so proud of you, sweetheart. Just for being you. You're the strongest kid I know.''

''Daddy says I'm brave,'' Mary chirps. ''Like you.''

Laurel is, perhaps naively, thrown by that.

Mary, apparently bored with this conversation, moves past it. ''Mommy, I gotta go tell Daddy I'm gonna be kind to the baby for two or three sleeps, okay?''

Laurel nods mutely, watching as Mary turns and skips out of the kitchen.

Daddy says I'm brave like you, said Mary.

Brave like a Canary, said Sin.

She knows she should be touched by these statements, but really what she's feeling is this wave of pain and, mostly, of self-hatred. They mean well, she knows, but they've got it all wrong. She has never been brave. She has only ever been afraid. Look at what that fear has done to everyone around her. She is the main cause of Mary's suffering, the driving force behind all that upheaval. She thinks of Sin often, alone out there, unloved and scared, but she has no idea how she is supposed to save her, if that is even a possibility. Wyatt and Kaylie have been orphaned because of her.

She killed her husband today. Because she was reckless and foolish and didn't think things through.

Brave.

What a joke.

Laurel goes back to the dishes. Slowly and methodically, she pulls the dirty dishes from throughout the day out of the sink and puts them in the dishwasher. She focuses only on her dishes. Tries to put the self-loathing thoughts and the memory of Dean dead in the dirt away for now. She is so focused that she doesn't even hear the door open.

She's just turned on the faucet, intent on hiding from her feelings while she needlessly hand washes a few dishes, when she happens to glance over toward the door and spot Wyatt standing there. ''Wyatt.'' She turns off the faucet. ''Hey, buddy. You need something?''

He doesn't answer right away, standing over by the door shyly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. After a minute of him visibly struggling to decide whether he should flee or ask for something, he signs, Can I have a glass of water please?

''Of course. One glass of water coming up.'' She gets him the water and he slides into the breakfast nook, sipping at it slowly. She abandons the dishes and sits across from him, keeping the soft smile on her face. She feels like she should have something more to say to him. Some kind of clever, comforting words. But what do you say to a little boy who's lost everything? ''How are you doing, sweetie?''

He puts the glass of water down on the table and shrugs his shoulder.

''Did you eat your apple pie? Mary was very insistent that we get you an apple pie to make your day better. Dean said she was screeching about it so loudly in the backseat at the drive thru that the person taking their order laughed so hard she had to get someone to take over.''

He does crack a smile at that.

''Dean and Mary both think pie solves every problem.''

He looks down, fiddling with his hands. She is not expecting him to say anything, but he does sign something after a second. I like pie, he signs, with a sweet, shy sort of half smile. I like cake better.

''Don't tell them I said this,'' she whispers with a wink, ''but so do I.''

He grins, still shy but more comfortable, a little more relaxed in her company.

''Doughnuts, though,'' she goes on. ''Those are the best dessert. Do like Krispy Kreme?''

He nods eagerly.

''Well, I might have to send Dean out on a doughnut run tomorrow,'' she says. ''I do that a lot. He's used to it.''

He looks happy enough at the prospect of not only having McDonald's for dinner but doughnuts for breakfast too.

She wishes she could give him more than that. ''I'm sorry we weren't able to get more of your things when we left today.'' She broaches the subject carefully, after a moment. ''The good news is that Sam and Cas have the list you gave them and they should be back soon with your stuff so you'll have your pillow and blanket for tonight.''

Wyatt looks thoughtful. And my toothbrush?

''And your toothbrush,'' she confirms. ''And all the books on your list.'' She leans forward, elbow on the table, propping her chin up with her hand. ''Do you like to read?''

He brightens up for a second, but then seems to deliberately squash it, slumping in his seat. He takes his water glass so he has something to do with his hands. She doesn't push. There is a part of her that wants to, wants to assure him that he can talk to her, that he is safe here, but it's not the right thing to do. He needs to be able to come to her on his own time. Which, after a few minutes, he does. My mom doesn't like to watch too much television, he signs. We read a lot.

''Do you have a favorite book?''

His nervous hands play around with his glass of water. He looks deep in thought, teeth sunk into his lower lip. Finally, he takes a breath and makes his decision. ''R - Right now...'' He stops, squirming in his seat. She wants to tell him that he doesn't need to talk if he's not comfortable, that they can move at his pace, but he looks so determined. She doesn't want to spook him. He takes another deep breath. ''Right now,'' he starts slowly. ''I'm reading the Young Readers' Edition of Hidden Figures. It's - It's for science class. 'Cause my mom - my mom's teaching me about space.''

''Hidden Figures,'' she tosses him a soft, encouraging smile. ''That's a good book. My dad got it for me for Christmas.''

''I...I got it for Christmas too,'' Wyatt says. He is still talking slowly, barely above a whisper, but he's speaking. He's talking to her. He's talking to her willingly. ''I got - I got the Magic Tree House box set too,'' he says. ''It has twenty eight books.''

''That's a lot of books. How many have you read since Christmas?''

''Ten.''

''Ten! You must be a fast reader.''

A sly, pleased as punch smile crosses his face. ''One time, I finished two in one day.''

''Two in one day,'' Laurel marvels. ''That's so impressive.''

He looks triumphant. He also looks far more comfortable than he has all day, taking another few sips of water, his tense shoulders relaxing.

''I remember the Magic Tree House books,'' she says. ''My younger cousin loved those books when he was a kid.''

''Penny and Ryan got it for me,'' Wyatt says. ''She said she liked them when she was my age.'' Just like that the mood shifts. It's like all the air goes out of the room. Wyatt's smile evaporates and Laurel is thrown back to the basement of the Marlowe house, holding her sweater to Penny's gut while the young mother bleeds out. ''Penny...'' Wyatt frowns. ''She died, didn't she?''

Laurel chews on her lip. She thinks of tiny baby Kaylie and her tiny onesie smeared with her mother's blood. ''She did.''

''And Ryan too?''

''I'm afraid so.''

''And...'' He doesn't finish. He can't. There are too many to name. He looks down at his hands.

''I'm so sorry, Wyatt.''

''That means Kaylie doesn't have a mom and dad anymore,'' he whispers, still looking down at his hands. ''Who's gonna take care of her?''

''It sounds like she's going to be staying with Marissa and her family for now.''

He looks up at that, wide eyed. ''But Marissa lives in Seattle. Kaylie has to move?'' He looks exponentially troubled by that. ''Do I have to move?''

''I'm not sure, buddy.'' Laurel tries to weave around the subject. ''I know that she's going to be coming to get you in a few days, but I don't think they've figured out...where you guys are going to end up. Everything's up in the air right now.''

It doesn't seem to soothe his worries. He slumps farther in his seat. ''Is...'' He starts to ask something but then stops. It's like his voice just gives out. He signs it instead. Is my mom dead?

It's a reasonable and expected thing for him to ask. He loves his mother very much. Of course he would ask. She was just hoping he wouldn't. There is no good answer. There is no answer at all. I don't know, she signs back. I'm sorry.

Did they take her?

She chews on her lip. I don't know.

These are not the answers he had been chasing. He sits there, stoic, braver than he should have to be, processing the immeasurable loss, and then it's like she can see him start to crumble into pieces. The weight of all that fear and all that grief bears down on him like a speeding car, a boulder on his back, and he can't hold it up. He shrinks back into his seat and curls his hands into fists, bringing them up to cover his eyes when he starts to cry. He is only seven years old. He is too young to be expected to shoulder something this big and heavy.

Laurel, practically choking on her guilt, is held in place by that nasty voice in her head whispering, You did this. You caused this hurt. ''Wyatt.'' She hurries out of her seat and over to him. ''Honey, come here.'' She pulls him into her arms and he clutches at her. ''I'm sorry,'' she tells him. ''I'm so sorry for all of this. You were so brave today. You saved us. But you shouldn't have had to. I'm sorry you were put in that position. You didn't deserve any of it. None of you did.''

He doesn't say anything, but doesn't pull away either. She's fine with that. She'll hold him for as long as he needs. A hug is literally the least she can do. After a minute or two, he draws away from her with a determined look on his tear-streaked face. ''You...'' His voice is shaky. ''You have to keep looking for my mom.''

''We will,'' Laurel says right away. ''We're not going to stop until we find her.''

''You promise?''

''I promise.''

He rubs at his eyes again, sniffling. He still looks so small and so lost, lips trembling, trying desperately to stop himself from crying.

''You know.'' She takes his hand. ''I think your mom would be proud of you for what you did today.''

It does not have the desired effect. He seems somewhat soothed for a second, but then he cracks and starts sobbing. ''But I'm not supposed to hurt people with my powers,'' he cries, ''and I hurt that lady. And I'm not supposed to play God and I did. She would be mad at me.'' He struggles to catch his breath, choking on his sobs. ''I'm supposed to be good.''

''Wyatt.'' She gently takes his face in her hands. ''Wyatt, look at me. You are good. I really need you to hear me when I say that. You are good. Your mom - She's right. It's not a good idea to hurt people. But there are exceptions to that rule. That lady... She was hurting people. She was going to keep hurting people. You stopped her. You saved us. That's good. You did a very, very good thing.'' She leans in to smile at him, hoping it's at least a little comforting. ''You were the hero today.'' She brushes a tear off his cheek with her thumb. ''And what you did for Dean...'' She pauses there, wondering if there's a way to say what she wants to say without it sounding irrevocably selfish. There is not. ''I know it's selfish of me,'' she starts, pulling away to grab him a paper towel to mop up his tears. ''But I am really glad you brought him back. I love him and Mary loves him and you made sure he got to come home to her. I can't thank you enough for that.''

He keeps his eyes downcast.

''I know what it feels like to have something powerful inside of you that you can't control,'' she tells him softly. ''Something hungry. It's a...great burden sometimes, isn't it? It's a tough responsibility.''

Without looking up, he nods.

''Today you used the power inside of you to protect and heal. Even though you were scared, you chose to help people who needed help. That is the bravest thing anyone can ever do.''

He looks up at her. ''You think?''

''I know,'' she winks. ''I can't pretend to know how your mom would feel, but I do know that I am so proud of you for what you did. It wasn't just good. It was extraordinary.''

He thinks about that for a minute, unsure, and then he gives her a small, wobbly smile. He crumples the paper towel in his hand and picks at it nervously. He looks like he's thinking about something, but she doesn't want to push him. She's content to sit in the silence until he's ready. It doesn't take long. ''Laurel?''

''Hm?''

''That lady,'' he begins, voice slow, fearful. ''The witch. My... My mom wanted to tell you something about her.''

She tries not to look too eager. ''She did,'' she says. ''Do you know what she wanted to tell me?''

He nods, but still looks unsure. ''The witch is sick.''

Record scratch.

''Sick,'' Laurel repeats. ''What - What do you mean sick?''

''I don't know,'' he says. ''That's what my mom said. The witch is sick. She doesn't want to be. She wants to get better.''

Holy shit.

Edie thinks the Cry can heal her?

''This is - Thank you.'' Laurel forces a smile. ''Thank you for telling me, Wyatt.''

He smiles back at her. Sort of.

She has a lot of questions but before she can even attempt to figure out how to ask them, the door swings open and Dean pops his head in. ''Hey, Wyatt, if you had to pick between Finding Nemo and Howl's Moving Castle, what would you pick? We're at a stalemate out here and you're the guest so you get to pick.''

Instantly, it's like something shifts in Wyatt and he looks like any other seven year old kid excited about movie night. He still seems reluctant to talk to Dean, not quite comfortable enough to open up so he whispers his answer in Laurel's ear.

''Howl's Moving Castle,'' she declares, while he nods excitedly.

That's my favorite movie ever, he signs.

Dean looks victorious. ''See, I knew that,'' he says, even though there's no way he could have known that. ''That's why I voted for it. You ready to come out here and watch it with us or do you need a couple minutes?''

I'm ready, Wyatt signs, scooting out of the seat after Laurel. He pauses before he follows after Dean, turning back to her.

She gives him an encouraging grin. ''Go on,'' she urges. ''I think we could all use a relaxing movie night.''

He still hesitates, twisting at his hands. He looks, for a moment, a less excited, brows pinched together, something worried and sad in his eyes. ''I...'' His frown deepens. ''I hope they didn't put her in the water,'' he says, his voice soft and glum. ''My mom's afraid of the water.''

He doesn't stick around to look at the stricken look on her face. He leaves her standing there, drowning miserably in his words, thinking only of all those people who have died or been violated because of her ridiculous family drama. Laurel presses her lips together and tries to blink away the moisture in her eyes to no avail. Clementine Raymond. The Marlowe coven. Bernadette Weber and Mattie Moretti. Every vulnerable person Edie has stolen from the Glades to be her Dolls.

And Dean.

That is so many lives ruined or ended because of her blood. That is so much hurt. People have been traumatized. Children have been orphaned. Entire families are dead or dying or grieving. She hasn't stopped any of it. Not a damn thing.

She goes back to the sink and turns on the faucet, intending to go back to the dishes, but she can't move. She became the Black Canary to help people. Her entire life, that's all she's ever wanted to do. What good is she if she can't do that? What is the point of this fluke second chance at life if she's just going to lose everyone she tries to save? She looks at the running water and all she can hear is an orphan saying I hope they didn't put her in the water and her husband gurgling and choking on his own blood.

She turns off the faucet. She grabs the dishtowel to dry her hands, but when she looks down at her hands, all she sees is red. It's blood, all over her hands, all over the dish towel. Her hands are slick with it. She drops the towel, fingers numb and tingling. Her breathing quickens and her vision blurs and she feels too exposed here, the lights too bright, the air around her thin.

She does everything in her power to pull herself together long enough to get out of the kitchen. Lucky for her, everyone is too busy getting settled in for the movie when she makes her hasty escape down the hall. She knows she can hear Sara cheerfully calling out to her, asking her if she's going to watch the movie with them, but that also happens to be the moment the front door opens and Sam and Cas pile in.

She makes her getaway without any trouble, slipping outside to the back porch. She takes in a few gulping breaths of the cold air, hoping that the chill in the air will work as a shock to her system, but it doesn't. She can feel a panic attack rising in her chest and throat. She can feel the break happening.

But the attack never comes.

At least not the way she's used to.

Instead, she just starts weeping. It is a visceral kind of sobbing, vicious and desperate. It makes her stomach hurt. It makes her chest hurt. There is no long any blood staining her hands by the time she collapses in one of the slightly damp chairs on the porch. There is no sign there ever was. But there are all these images floating around in her head.

Dean, with all that blood gushing out of his throat, choking on it, the way tears were slipping out of his eyes. The way he didn't want to go.

Penelope Marlowe and her fading eyes, her blood warm and thick on their hands, the rest of her slaughtered family, her baby all alone in the bathtub.

A fifteen year old girl executed in her own home.

Wyatt, bloody and terrified in that bathroom, stuck there for who knows how long, and later, sobbing into Laurel's stomach because he doesn't know where his mom is.

Laurel buries her face in her hands, her whole body shuddering with sobs. She became the Black Canary to protect her family. To protect anyone she could. She did it to make the world a better place for her daughter. For everyone. Instead, look where they are.

Look at all of her bloody, violent failures.

Edie is going to keep coming. That's a fact. Everyone knows it. She is going to keep coming after what she believes she needs. And if she's sick...

Desperate people do desperate things. Laurel knows this. She was a desperate person once. She turned it inward, gnawed on her own bones instead of someone else's, destroyed herself instead of others, and it still caused irreparable harm to her loved ones. Edie chooses to take it out on others. The damage that she could do is unimaginable.

What if it's Mary who gets caught in the crossfire next? Or Thea? Or Sara? They got lucky this time, but Wyatt will not always be there to save the victims of the Ellard family curse. The truth is, as long as Edie is around, Laurel is a dangerous thing. She is a ticking time bomb. She is a murder weapon. She is the bad thing happening to her family.

Part of her has known from the moment she woke up in that grave, has known that she cannot be who she was again. Not ever. She has been selfish. She has been naive. Overly optimistic and idealistic. All the things everyone used to say about her.

She thought she could just come back and pick up where she left off. She wanted. She wanted so badly. Ever since she came back, she's kept this list in her head of things to do once this witch mess has been cleaned up and they're all free to resume normal life.

She wants to move. She loves this city and it will always be her home, but she can't live here anymore. It's too much like living in her own grave. She was thinking Seattle, if at all financially possible. Possibly one of the cheaper surrounding area - maybe Olympia, maybe Connell or Lakewood. If they want to go down the cabin in the woods route, she could see Spokane or Spokane Valley being a good place to set up shop. She would even be willing to move out of state if it's financially feasible - maybe Oregon, Kansas if Dean wants to go home, California if they win the lottery. Just anywhere but here.

She needs a job. Ideally, she would like one where Laurel Lance and Black Canary can peacefully co-exist. She's been thinking maybe private security. It's a broad spectrum. A label that could fit her where she is now. No idea where she would get the money to start her own business, but that seems like the most reasonable career path to take now.

She wants to have a baby. It's something she was against for so long, bound and determined to be one and done, too terrified to go through pregnancy again, but over the past year, she... Well, she changed her mind. As is her right. She would like to have a second child. It took a long time for her to come around and she was still a little freaked out by the idea when she and Dean tentatively agreed they wanted another last year, but when she got pregnant it was like something switched inside of her and she was finally able to wholeheartedly admit, Oh, okay, I do want this.

She was excited. She really wanted that baby. She didn't even realize how much until it was taken away from her. Even now, months since coming home, she is still struggling to come to terms with the loss, grappling with grief and guilt every day. She wants to expand her family. She wants to watch her girl become a big sister. She wants to give Dean another child.

More than anything, she just wants to be with them. She wants to be with her husband and daughter. She has missed out on so much of Mary's life. It's not just the half a year she was dead, it's everything that came before that. Her job, her illness, her addiction, her mask. She's an okay mom when she's around, she's not too insecure to admit that, but there is no denying that she hasn't been as present as she should have been, too busy devoting herself to everyone else, leaving little room for Dean and Mary, too busy trying to save the world.

She wanted to fix that. She wanted to be better, to prove that she could love them without leaving, without interruption, to prove that she could stay. She loves them both so much and she wanted them to know that. She wanted it to be the three of them against the world, the way it was in Malibu, the way it always should have been.

She thought she could have that.

She thought if they could just make it through this, they could go back and start again. Pick up where they left off. Move forward together.

She wanted her life back.

But we don't always get what we want.

Life is imperfect, flawed, unfair, unforgiving. So is death. How foolish of her to expect things would be different for her just because she wanted them to be. How arrogant. How ridiculous she was, pretending they could go back. There is no going back. We live here now.

She's dead.

What's dead should stay dead.

She can't keep pretending to be alive. Making plans for the future, dreaming of a life that stopped being an option a long time ago. All it has done and all it will continue to do is put her family in unspeakable danger. Is she supposed to keep doing that just to protect her delusion of normalcy?

No.

That's not right. That's not fair.

Laurel wipes at her eyes and looks out at her backyard, her breath hanging in the cold air. The morning after she crawled out of her own grave, she stood in this backyard, confused and disoriented, looking out at her dead garden, at the morning light peeking through the branches of the apple tree and she thought, I was here before. I can be here again.

She was wrong.

Being here is the problem. She is what has gone wrong in everyone's lives. She is the dead thing haunting them. There is no way back from that.

She closes her eyes and thinks of the way Dean paused in the doorway of the restaurant the night they met, the way he looked back at her even though he didn't have to. She thinks of Seattle. How she kissed him first in that motel room, the both of them soaked through with rain, just because she wanted to. She thinks of the night Mary was born, how all of that pain and all of that fear gave way to love the moment she saw her face, how the first thing she ever said to her was, I know you.

She runs her fingertips over the tattoo of the three blackbirds soaring together on her hand. History and magic tie her and Oliver together forever like a red string of fate. She and Thea have a sisterhood that was forged in the hottest fire, the rules of the lost and found melding them together. The bonds of blood between her and Sara and her and her father are unbreakable, sometimes frayed, sometimes strong like steel, but always present, always there.

It's different with Dean and Mary. It's the most powerful love she's ever experienced. She chose them. She chooses them. Every day she chooses them. They are, the both of them, the most wonderful things that have ever happened to her. They gave her everything. Love, joy, family. They gave her a home.

How can she ever leave them?

But how can she stay?

She sniffles and wipes at her eyes again, willing herself to stop crying. She needs to get it together. She can't just sit here bawling. She has decisions to make. She squeezes her eyes shut again, mentally shoving the grief down. She'll deal with that later. She gives herself a few minutes to pull herself together, scrubbing at her face with her hands and trying to relax her breathing, and then she gets up.

She's not entirely sure what she's going to do or where she's going to start, but then she walks into the bedroom and sees Dean and all chances of her rationally figuring out her next steps go out the window. He's not doing anything special. He's moving things around, trying to find a good place to put Mary's old bassinet. She steps into the room and closes the door behind her, leaning back against it. ''Hey.''

He throws a look over his shoulder, greeting her with a smile. ''Hey, babe.'' He's too distracted to notice her shimmering eyes or the way her lips tremble when he calls her babe. ''So, Sam and Cas went down the list we made and got as much as they could but I think we're still going to have to pick up a few things tomorrow.''

''Right.''

''I still don't know what to do about the sleeping arrangements,'' he says. ''We can put her in the bassinet but if Mary's sleeping with us too she's gonna be fucking pissed that the interloper's in her old bed.'' He shakes his head, hands propped up on his hips. ''It might be a long night.''

Laurel tries to smile. ''I don't think there's anything we can do to change that.''

''No. Probably not.'' He gets the bassinet settled on her side of the bed but then pauses, head cocked to the side. Then he moves the bassinet over to his side of the bed.

There's logic in that considering she's the one who has violent nightmares and a witch in her head, but he's lucky she's feeling so many complex emotions right now or else she would be insulted.

''You know where Sam was earlier when I called him to get the baby stuff out of the Kirkland storage?'' He's busy moving things around so he barely looks at her. ''Anacortes.'' He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. ''As in where they're keeping Demon Me.'' He unzips one of the two bags that have been dropped on the bed, presumably stuffed with Wyatt and Kaylie's things. ''I don't want to kinkshame the kid but he's got a real problem. It's like he sees a demon and just goes hey, this is mine now.'' He pulls out a few tiny onesies. ''Startin' to worry me.'' He pulls something else out and his face screws up comically. ''What the hell?''

It's a nursing bra.

''Do they think you can just turn it on like a tap? I'm concerned about their grasp of basic anatomy.'' When he receives no response to that, he seems to realize that she's been silent during his entire rant. He looks over at her and she instinctively ducks her head down, trying to hide her watery eyes. ''Where were you?''

''I - I was, um, outside. I just...'' She clears her throat. ''Needed a minute.''

She can hear his concern creaking into place. ''Laurel.'' His voice is softer now. ''What's wrong?''

''Nothing.''

''You're crying.''

''I'm not,'' she lies.

He doesn't push her to say more. He never pushes her. He just looks at her for a moment, watching at her wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to get rid of the evidence, and then he holds out his hand to her. She knows she shouldn't take it, not if she's just going to leave, but she has never had the best self-control when it comes to Dean Winchester.

She pushes off the door and takes his hand, allowing him to tug her over to him and envelop her in his arms. He doesn't say anything. He just hugs her, dipping his face down into the crook of her neck. She can't move at first, frozen in his arms, overwhelmed by this crushing wave of emotions she doesn't know what to do with. It doesn't take long for her to give in. She forces down the lump in her throat and wraps her arms around him, eyes closing, entire body melting into the embrace.

She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to be here, struggling to come to terms with the fact that walking away from her family, from her marriage, her child, abandoning them the way her mother abandoned her, might be the only way to keep them safe. She never wanted to be here. This isn't how things were supposed to go. She was supposed to be better than her mother. Mary was supposed to have more. A few tears slip out, trailing down her cheeks.

When he pulls away, he makes no mention of it, brushing a tear away with the pad of his thumb. ''We should take a vacation when all of this is over.''

''We literally just took a vacation.''

''Eh, wasn't far enough away. We need more distance. You know where we should go?'' He asks it like he's setting up a joke, big grin and all. She's not surprised when he answers his own question. ''The Canary Islands.''

''Oh my god.'' It still makes her laugh. ''How long you been waiting with that one?''

''About a year.''

''You're so cheesy.''

''Part of my charm.'' He looks pleased with himself, leaning down to kiss her, catching her mid laugh.

She kisses him back, even with the elephant sitting on her chest, and thinks, just for a second, that she doesn't want to leave this moment. This moment right here where it's just the two of them and everything is still and they're both alive and safe in their home. The moment, like everything, ends too soon. She brings a hand up to his face when the kiss ends, thumb rubbing against his skin softly. ''Do you know how much I love you?''

He is entirely unprepared for that question, pulling back from her. ''What?''

''I asked you that,'' she says, voice hushed, calmer than she feels. ''But I never got to tell you.''

''You don't have to - ''

''You,'' she cuts him off, voice still soft, still calm, but still firm, ''are the most alive person I have ever met. You know that?'' She grabs for his left hand, holding it in both of hers. ''Even at your worst, at your lowest, you were always electric.'' She pulls her lips into the brightest smile she can muster. ''You're a spark.''

He looks, as he usually does when someone says nice things to him, a little lost. ''Laur...''

''I am so in awe of the way you love life,'' she says. ''I always have been. The strength you have...'' Her thumb brushes across his wedding ring. ''It's unbelievable. Your love is the brightest, most beautiful light I have ever seen. It's not just that you know how to love. It's that you are love. You're all of it. Everything about you. You are the very bones of love. It just radiates from you.'' She squeezes his hand. ''I've never met anyone like you before.''

He scoffs at that, drawing away from her, ready to roll his eyes, make some dumb joke, and shut down.

''I mean it,'' she insists, stubbornly keeping a hold of his hand. ''You are lightning in a bottle, Dean. I have never met anyone who holds as much love and light inside of them before. I know I don't. I've never been...'' She trails off, smile becoming a momentary wince. ''But then you came along. You lit it all up for me. I feel like…I haven't thanked you for that enough. I have loved every second of our life together.''

That is the moment something seems to click for him. ''Okay, that's - '' He wrenches free of her grip and brings both hands to her arms. ''Laurel. Sweetheart.'' His hands slide up to her shoulders. ''What's going on here? What are you doing?''

''I just want you to know,'' she says shakily. ''I want you to know I love you. I have always loved you. So much.''

''Uh, okay? Well. I know,'' he says. ''Hey.'' He cups her face for a second, meeting her eyes, searching. ''I know. You don't have to - ''

''No, but - '' She grasps onto his wrists lightly, mostly because she wants to keep touching him. ''I need to say it. I need to say it because I don't want you thinking...'' She feebly attempts to push away the tears filling her eyes to no avail. ''I don't want you thinking that there was ever a moment where I didn't.''

''What are you - '' His hands fall away. ''What are you talking about?''

''Because I did. I do. I love everything about you. I love your dumb jokes and your weird quirks. I love the crinkles around your eyes that you've gotten from smiling. God, I love your smile. I love how often I get to see it. Nobody would blame you if you didn't show that but even with everything you've been through, you still know how to smile. I love that. I love the things that make you laugh just because they make you laugh. I love the way you kiss my hand and I love coming home to the smell of your cooking. I love coming home.'' She says that part strongly, with conviction she knows he needs to hear. ''I know it feels like I'm always leaving, like there's nothing else, but I need you to know that coming home to you and Mary is the best part of my life. I come home and I see you two and I know everything is right with the world. There's nothing better. I've never loved anything the way I love you two. I'm so lucky I get to watch you with her. You're such an amazing dad. I hope you know that. You're incredible. You're better than your father ever was.''

''You - '' He looks uncomfortable with the praise, averting his eyes. ''You don't have to say all this.''

''And you loved me back,'' she goes on, completely ignoring that. ''That's the unbelievable part. That's the miracle. You love me back. I don't know why, but you do. You have loved every scrap of me. Through everything. Even when I didn't deserve it.'' Her smile trembles, but doesn't falter. ''Especially when I didn't deserve it. When things get tough, when I get...the way I get, you just love me harder. You make it look so easy. I've never understood how you can do that.''

''Easiest thing in the world,'' he says.

It makes her want to both laugh and cry. ''See, there you go again.'' She looks at him, tilting her head to the side slightly. Nothing she says will ever be enough. There is no way to adequately put how she feels about him into words. How grateful she is to him for everything he has given her, for sticking with her, making this home, this family with her. He could have had anyone he wanted and he still went with moody, clingy, insecure her. How could she not count that as something of a miracle? ''You're in every song now, you know,'' she tells him. ''You're in every poem. I hear a joke and I want to tell it to you so I can hear you laugh. I see something beautiful and I want to take you there. You hold this whole thing together. Do you know that? Do you know that you're the glue? It's you. It's always been you.'' She wants to touch him again, but she's afraid if she does, she won't know how to let go. ''You have no idea how happy I am that our daughter gets to grow up with you as her dad.'' She tries to ignore the pit in her stomach, the hollowness of grief that is overtaking her body. ''How lucky we both are.'' The small smile on her face falters. ''I almost took that away. I almost took you away from her.''

''You didn't,'' he says instantly. ''You - ''

''She would have forgotten you,'' Laurel cuts in.

His face visibly falls at that, although he's trying so hard not to.

''She's four,'' she croaks out. ''She's only four and - and she would have grown up and you would have been taken from her. You would have been washed away. I can't think of anything worse than her not having you. Me? I'm negligible. But you. You're everything. She needs you.''

''And she's got me,'' Dean says. He sounds calm but there is an undercurrent of fear there, a desperation in his eyes as he steps over to her. ''Pretty bird. I'm here. I'm right here. We're both here. We're both okay.''

''But I felt you go.'' Her voice is barely choked out through her tears and guilt. ''I saw the look in your eyes. I know how scared you were. I know you didn't want to go.''

''Neither did you,'' he says. ''Right? You didn't want to go. But you did and I - I watched that happen. We're here now. We're alive.''

''It's not - '' It's not the same, she doesn't say. True, maybe, but an unfair thing to say. ''My hands felt you leave,'' she says. ''I did that. I killed you.''

''Edie killed me.''

''You keep saying that, but you were there. You know what happened. I was the weapon. I was the knife. I'm not even in her hands yet and I still...'' She can't even say it. ''You deserve better than this. You deserve a softer life. I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.''

''I've never been safe.''

''Maybe,'' she allows, ''but you're in more danger than ever as long as I'm around. Mary is in danger. That was never supposed to happen. You were supposed to be free of that life.''

He chuckles at that, though it is halfhearted at best and bitter. ''No one is ever free of that life.''

''But this is different! This isn't - I - I've tried to tell you - I tried to warn you.''

''No.'' He wrenches it out of his chest pleadingly. It makes her feel so much worse. ''We are not doing this again,'' he snaps. ''I'm not doing this. Look.'' He takes a breath. She can see him forming his argument. ''We've been through worse than this. We can get through this. We've been here before.''

She wants to smile, she wants to provide him with some kind of comfort, but it comes out sad. ''We've never been here before.''

''Just - Just hold on a second.''

''I knew how this could go. Part of me knew the moment I woke up there. In that place. But I was selfish. I love you and I love Mary and I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay so badly. I would've done anything.'' A few tears track down her cheeks. ''I wanted to be here. I wanted the time that I have left to be with you. I didn't want to die alone.''

''You're not going to die.'' Dean latches onto her wrist like he's trying to pull her out of rough waters. ''And you are not going to be alone.''

''Dean.''

''No,'' he says again, this time pulling her over to him. ''I am not having this discussion.''

''I can't be here,'' she insists. ''Not while Edie's around. I'm putting you in danger. What happened today cannot happen again.''

''It won't.'' His hands grasp at her hips. He's trying not to come across as frantic or panicked, but she knows him too well. ''It won't. We can - We'll figure this out, but we have to do it together. You can't just...'' He can't finish, hands falling away from her. He meets her eyes. She's not sure what he sees in her face, but whatever it is, it scares him. ''Don't do this,'' he begs. ''Please don't do this. Please don't do this, Laurel.''

It's the same thing he whispered to her body in April. She remembers that, standing there with Death, watching the man she loves beg and plead for her not to leave him. She remembers his pain almost better than she remembers her own. Too mentally and physically wrung out to even sob, she slumps onto the edge of the bed. ''I don't know what else to do. I have to do something. I have to protect you.''

Dean, meanwhile, is edging over to anger, leaving despair behind. ''And what about you? Who's going to protect you?''

''I don't need protection.''

''Like hell you don't need protection,'' he sneers. ''Where would you even go?'' He crosses his arms, jaw ticking. ''How would you get there? You have no money, no ID, no credit card. You'd be on foot. Where would you go?''

''I don't - ''

''What about Mary? What the hell am I supposed to tell her? Sorry, kiddo, Mom left again. She just couldn't stand to be around us.''

''That is not why I - ''

''You can't keep doing this.'' All at once, he sounds ragged. Just as tired as her. ''You can't keep leaving us here. It's all you do.''

She can't even look him in the eye. ''I'm sorry.''

''Forget about me for a second,'' he says. ''Think about Mary. That little girl loves you no matter what. You think of yourself as inconsequential, but you're not. You never have been. She thinks you hung the moon. You can do no wrong in her eyes. How many times are you going to take advantage of that?''

She flinches at the low blow.

''I can't keep explaining to her why you're not here. Sooner or later, she's going to start wondering why she wasn't good enough for you. Why her own mother couldn't just pick her for once. I'm sure you can relate.''

She can't not react to that, inhaling sharply, wounded. ''This is me picking her. I'm doing this for her own good.''

''Yeah,'' he smirks hollowly. ''I'm sure your mother thought the same thing.''

''This isn't the same thing! I am not my mother!''

''You think you can do this alone,'' he says. ''But you can't. No one could. This is a fight, and no one should have to fight alone.'' Normally, this is the part where he would move toward her but right now he seems intent on staying as far away from her as possible. ''You want to talk about my strength? That comes from family. All that crap I survived, I survived because I was never alone. I had a family. I had a home. I loved. I was loved. None of it was perfect, but it got me through. And you. You want to wade into a war with a witch who thinks she's some kind of low budget comic book villain all by yourself and frame it as a sacrifice you're making for love?'' He shakes his head. ''That's not love. That's fear.''

''Of course it's fear.'' Laurel rakes both hands through her hair, lifting her head to look at him. ''I'm afraid all the time.'' There is a silence between them, too long, full of pain and longing and anger, and neither one of them are sure what to do about the widening space between them, the irrevocable split. ''I can't keep watching the people I love die for me.'' To her, it really is that simple.

It's not for him.

He stands there, searching her face, chasing her gaze, and looks disappointed with what he finds. ''You know what?'' He straightens up, shoulders squared. ''You do what you need to do, Laurel. I can't stop you. I can't force you to stay with us. I never could.'' He smiles ruefully. ''If we're in your way, we're in your way. If you believe you need to leave then - '' he gestures to the door '' - there's the door. But you need to think long and hard about the consequences here. You've got this thought in your head about what could happen to us if you stay, but I need you to think about what's going to happen to us if you leave.''

There is so much more she wants to tell him and she knows he is waiting for her to say something, but she can't. It's not like anything she says could ease the sting.

He still seems disappointed by her silence. ''I'm gonna go watch a movie with the kids. You have some choices to make.'' The worst part is that he doesn't even sound angry anymore. Just defeated. He turns to leave her, pulls open the door, but then pauses. ''I love you,'' he says, without turning around. ''I want to be with you. I don't want you to be alone.'' He turns his head to look at her, but only for a second. ''That doesn't make me selfish. It doesn't make you selfish either.'' He closes the door behind him as he walks away, leaving her alone in the quiet stillness of the bedroom.

She doesn't even cry. She keeps waiting for the breakdown to happen, but it doesn't. There's nothing. She's just numb.

That went about as well as she expected it to.

Laurel rises back up to her shaky feet and stumbles over to her vanity, collapsing into the chair, avoiding the mirror. She digs around in the bottom drawer for a second, eventually fishing out a yellow legal pad and a pen.

Then she looks at her reflection. There are no spooky hallucinations tonight. No decaying flesh, no cracking glass, no Siobhan Sweeney lurking over her shoulder, and no Edie. Just her. She doesn't look like a dead woman walking. She sits back, watching herself in the mirror.

Dean is very good with words. He is an honest man with an honest heart. A good heart. Too good for this. He means what he says and he says what he means. She believes there will be consequences to leaving. But her decision was made before she even walked into the bedroom.

She looks down at the yellow legal pad, the pen in her hand, and then she begins to write.

.

.

.

In the end, it happens under the cover of darkness. So many of the most defining moments of her life have happened in the darkness.

She waits until the house is quiet, until everyone is asleep, safe and cozy in bed, and then she makes her move. She lied to Dean earlier. After their fight, she went out into the living room and watched the movie with her family and she and Dean barely even looked at each other. Later, during the bedtime chaos, she took him aside and told him she would shelve the idea of leaving at least until Kaylie and Wyatt were handed back over to their family.

That was a lie.

It's a dick move, what she's doing here. It's beyond a dick move. It's slimy and manipulative and cunning and she feels like the biggest bitch in the world, but that's kind of the point. She knows him. She knows how he operates. Right now, she needs him angry. She needs him furious. Too mad to chase her when she runs. Too hurt and full of rage and terrible love, abandoned love to come for her.

Because he will come for her.

Always.

She knows this because she knows she would do the same if the situations were reversed. There is nowhere he could go, nowhere anyone could take him, where she would not find him. Same goes for him. Precisely what she is trying to avoid.

So she looks him in the eye and she lies to him. She tells him she's sorry. She tells him she's not going to leave. She feels like an asshole and she understands the consequences here will be dire - especially for her marriage. She knows what she's doing. The hurt she's going to cause. Thing is, she has measured the consequences. The benefits outweigh the risks.

The fact of the matter is that her body, full of dark twisted magic, is like a neon sign asking for danger. It is her responsibility to lead that danger away from her family. Just like it was Faye's responsibility when she gave up her children, walked into the woods, and never came back. Just like it was Dinah Ellard's when she weighed her pockets down with stones, waded into the sea, and let it take her.

Laurel realizes now what she didn't before.

It was silly to think she could have it all. She believed all the pieces of her could co-exist, the mother, the wife, the Canary, the inheritance, but she was wrong to believe that. That's not how this works. She should have known that. She should have known better.

Mary is restless tonight, clingy and unable to settle.

Wyatt, tucked into Mary's bed with his own blankets and pillow and all of his books, falls asleep quickly, exhausted from the day's events and the weight of his new grief.

Even Kaylie goes down easily.

Poor Mary has a hard time. She has never been a great sleeper, but tonight seems different. She's usually happy when she gets to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed with them, but she's overtired and overly stressed out by the people in her house, especially the baby she is being forced to share a bedroom with. They do ask her several times if she wants to sleep with Auntie Thea or Auntie Sara, but she refuses.

She gets three stories and a lot of snuggles and she still fights sleep. There are multiple unproductive bathroom trips and several pitiful pleas for water and every time the baby so much as coos in her sleep - which Mary shouldn't even be able to hear from where she is - she jolts upright, asking what's going on and why the baby won't be quiet. Just after midnight, right as Mary is finally falling asleep, curled into Dean while Laurel strokes her hair, Kaylie wakes up crying - because she is a tiny baby and that's what they do - and Mary jerks awake and just starts sobbing.

That's when they finally give up and ask her, again, if she wants to sleep with Auntie Thea. She's already crawled out of bed and staggered to her feet before she even blubbers out a sad little, ''Yes please.''

It's not what Laurel had in mind for her last night. Not that she has the right to expect something more.

By the time the house is finally quiet and dark and all occupants are asleep, it's past one in the morning.

She lies awake, watching the minutes tick by on her alarm clock, and then she rolls onto her side, watching her husband's sleeping face. When you make a choice like the one she's making, there are a lot of things you think about. A lot of memories that flash through your mind. Things that pop up in the still of the night before you leave.

For her, it's the big moments, sure - the night they met, their wedding day, when Mary was born - but it's also the small moments. The little details that make a life a life. The morning coffee and doughnut runs. The long drives. The first time Mary tried ice cream. The one evening they took a walk on the beach in Malibu and Mary insisted on holding both of their hands. The way he touched her in Seattle all those years ago, not when they slept together, but the morning after.

The night she died, the last thing she remembers, the last tangible thing she felt was his hand in hers. She wonders if he knows how much that meant to her. If she could ever explain it to him in words. How grateful she is that he was there, even though she knows - and she really does know now - how much pain he must have felt, how that moment and that agony will haunt him for a long, long time.

She rolls onto her back. She had been certain she was all cried out, but she still manages to squeeze out a few when she thinks about how much she's going to miss things like date night and bedtime stories and mornings. The mornings were the best part.

The stupid avocado toast and excessively strong coffee. How she would crawl into bed with Mary and tell her Wake up, sleepyhead. The sun has to rise every morning, and so do you. The way Dean would tease her about her early morning runs and how much noise she made on the weekends when she would bang around in the kitchen making her smoothie. The mornings were the brightest part of her days.

She hopes that maybe someday she will get those mornings back. If she makes it through this. If she can learn to control the Cry. If she can stop Edie. If he ever forgives her. She does hope that this isn't the end of their story, but if it is...

She's just grateful it happened. She's glad she got to be here even for a little while. Dean and Mary will have each other, that's all that matters and maybe Laurel was just a passing ship in the night, but she is endlessly grateful she got to be here with them for a moment. It meant so much. They made her life full. She was so lucky. She loves them both completely. With all that she has. She hopes they'll be able to see that one day.

Laurel turns her head to look at Dean, sleeping peacefully beside her. She looks back up at the ceiling, tears sliding down her cheeks and onto the pillow. She closes her eyes. She thinks, again, of March, of their wedding vows and the promises she made that day.

I take you as you are, loving who you are now and who you are yet to become. I promise to listen to you and learn from you, to support you and accept your support. I will laugh with you, cry with you, grow with you, and create with you. I will love you and have faith in your love for me through all our years and all that life may bring us.

She thinks, again, of Dean lying bloodied in the dirt, the blood on her hands, and the black hole pulling her apart. She thinks, again, I will love you until I am dust.

She lies there for a long time, eyes closed, half wishing she could just fall asleep and miss her chance to run. Until Kaylie wakes for her next feed.

Dean stirs when the baby fusses and she can see him start to move, to wake up like he's going to roll out of bed. ''Don't get up,'' she murmurs softly, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. ''I've got her.''

He blinks open his eyes and just misses catching a glimpse of her tear streaked face as she turns away. ''You sure?''

''Yeah, you got her last time,'' she says, pulling back the covers and climbing out of bed. ''Go back to sleep, love.''

If he wasn't so groggy, still mostly asleep, he might notice something off in her voice, the sadness, the crack when she calls him love. But he just goes back to sleep.

She looks over at him, letting out a sigh of relief as she scoops the baby into her arms. Kaylie is an easy baby. She's struggling with the change in the routine, certainly with the change in food, and she's been through a lot, but she's actually been fairly chill over the past few hours. The snuggles probably helped.

Mary was not an easy baby. Dean will tell you she was, but she was definitely high needs. For Laurel, the newborn days are a blur. She does her best to extricate her memories of those newborn days to remind her how to do this. She feeds her a bottle, burps her, changes her diaper, and puts her back to bed. It feels like it takes no time at all, although she does have other things on her mind. She's running down a list of things that she needs to do before she leaves, one part of her methodical and practical while the other part of her irrationally begs Kaylie to eat slower, make a fuss, anything to throw off the plan and keep her here.

It's been a long, long day, however, and even Kaylie just wants to eat and go back to sleep.

Laurel makes sure the baby has a full belly, that she's warm and dry, and then puts her back to bed. It's almost too easy. She stands in the darkened bedroom, lingering like a ghost, eyes fixed on Dean. She knows she can't touch him, can't make even the slightest creak because he'll wake up, but it's almost excruciating not to.

As silently as possible, artfully avoiding every creaky floorboard, she gathers up a few articles of clothing, pulls out two folded pieces of paper from the pocket of her bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, and puts them on top of her vanity. She puts her engagement ring on top of the letters. After a minute of thought and great reluctance, she adds her wedding ring. It's not meant to be a declaration, to be a wound, it's just that the engagement ring is an heirloom and the wedding ring was expensive and she doesn't want them to get lost. She wants them to go to Mary. She knows what Dean will see it as.

She looks at him one more, hesitating in the doorway, and then she steps out of the room. She doesn't want to risk waking Sara in the living room because she knows her former assassin sister is a light sleeper and she knows she will be able to see through whatever lie Laurel makes up.

She does, however, duck into Thea's room after she has pulled on jeans, a t-shirt, a gray hoodie, and boots, black leather jacket held in her hand. There is no way she could leave without seeing her daughter. Both Mary and Thea are fast asleep when she tiptoes into the room, comfortably curled up together. She looks at Thea, the child she did get a chance to watch grow up, and then she looks at her Mary, the child she might not.

She has never meant to be more of an absence than a presence in her child's life. That was never her intention. She wanted to be there. She wouldn't have had a baby if she didn't. She is not her mother. It was never the plan to miss things. The plan was to see it all. Every first, every second, every bruised knee and broken heart, every recital, every summer vacation.

Somewhere along the way, things just got so twisted up - some of it out of her control, some of it perfectly within her control - and she ended up more ghost than mother. Life, as we know, rarely goes according to plan.

She wanted to be there on Mary's first day of school, to be with her when she is sick or sad or scared. She wanted to watch her grow, like she did for Thea, for Sara, to be her soft place to land. But here we are. She is thankful, at least, for the time she got. She is even more thankful that Thea is here to fill the space, to be the mother figure Laurel should have been but wasn't.

She drifts over to the side of the bed Mary's on, crouching down to look at her baby girl's sleeping face. Even after being back for a few months, she still can't get over how grown up Mary looks. She is only four, still just a baby but there is a certain kind of wisdom in her that other kids her age don't necessarily have. A kind of strength. She hopes she will always have that.

In this life, in this family, she's going to need it.

Laurel tentatively brushes disheveled strands of hair out of Mary's face. Mary shifts in the bed unexpectedly, opening her eyes. She blinks a few times sleepily, and Laurel has this flash of the night Mary was born. This memory of those little eyes, brand new and unfocused, unsure of this cold new world, blinking up at her.

Mary starts to lift her head, bringing a fist up to rub at her eyes. ''Mommy?''

''Hi, little bird,'' Laurel whispers, stroking Mary's hair. ''I was just checking on you. Go back to sleep, baby girl. I love you.''

''Okay,'' Mary whispers back, half asleep. ''Love you.''

Laurel leans in to kiss her forehead, hiding her face in her hair. ''Have a good sleep, honeybee.''

Mary falls back to sleep easy enough, curling back up under the covers with Sharkie, but Laurel's can't bring herself to leave. Mary will be okay. She knows that. She has her father and everyone else who loves her. She'll be just fine. Doesn't make it any easier.

She looks at Thea, still sleeping soundly. Laurel stands up and turns to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back at her girls one last time before she steps out of the room.

She goes out the back door, stepping out onto the back porch, trying to find the strength to walk away. She tries not to think about anyone as she closes the sliding glass door behind her and steps off the porch. She tries not to think about how they will all feel tomorrow morning when they wake up and she's not there, how hurt and angry they will inevitably be. She zips up the thin hoodie and pulls on the leather jacket as she winds her way to the front of her house and into the yard of the Moretti/Denton house, making her way to the backyard.

Where Dinah is waiting for her on the back stoop. Just as they discussed.

Laurel raises an eyebrow when she sees her doppelganger, relaxed back against the concrete steps, eyes closed, headphones on, looking, for lack of a better term, bored. She tip toes closer, trying to make out whatever Dinah's listening to. ''Are you listening to Dramarama?''

Dinah doesn't react to the question or Laurel's sudden appearance, tapping her finger on her jean clad leg to the beat of the song. ''It was either that or the Thompson Twins,'' she says, and then cracks open one eye. ''Who the fuck are the Thompson Twins?''

''Where did you even get that?'' Laurel asks, looking at the ancient device. ''Is that a walkman?''

''Garage,'' Dinah says, pulling the headphones off. ''It's a mess in there. I don't think Hanna's mother knows how to throw things away.'' She puts the walkman off to the side and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the shirt pocket of the flannel she's wearing. ''I also think she's way fucking older than she looks.''

''Well, she is a pretty powerful witch,'' Laurel says. She nods to the walkman. ''So this is how you spend your days? Snooping around other people's property?''

''I spend my days making sure Barbie Doll in there doesn't accidentally on purpose kill herself or send herself into a diabetic coma,'' Dinah retaliates, without even looking up from searching her pockets for something - presumably a lighter.

Laurel crosses her arms and watches Dinah for a minute. She's not sure why her surly counterpart is helping her with this. It's not like she's paying her. There's nothing on the line. It's curious to feel gratitude for someone who has been mostly a pest over the past couple of months. She thinks about asking, but then opts to broach a lighter subject. ''You cut your hair.''

Dinah - who is indeed sporting a new, much shorter haircut, a curly platinum bob cut just below her ears - pulls a matchbook out of her pocket. ''Got tired of people doing a double take when they see me. I can't keep walking around looking like you.'' She pops an unlit cigarette into her mouth. ''You're insipid.'' She strikes a match and lights her cigarette before shaking the match out and tossing it nearly onto the grass.

Laurel isn't even going to bother taking offense to that. She's learned to work around Dinah's cattiness. She toes the match farther away from the grass. ''Hate to break it to you, but you still look like me. That's the point.''

''False,'' Dinah declares, pointing a finger - the one holding the lit cigarette. ''I'm much better looking.'' She smirks when Laurel rolls her eyes. She pops the cigarette back into her mouth and grabs for something behind her, handing over the black duffel bag that was stashed with her earlier in the night. ''Here.''

Laurel takes the bag. ''Thanks.'' She pauses, both hands gripping the straps. ''I mean that. Thank you, Dinah.''

''Don't thank me,'' Dinah scoffs. She takes a few puffs of her cigarette and then asks, with casualness that is clearly forced, ''Not that I care, but why are you pulling a Flo Jo?'' She cocks her head. ''Married life too boring for the Black Canary? Motherhood not the Instagram fuel you thought it would be?''

Laurel chews on her bottom lip. She looks over at the house next door. The life she just walked out of. ''It's for the best.''

''Hm.'' Dinah's gaze is steady and piercing. ''Wonder if they would agree with that assessment.''

Laurel puts the bag down and sits on the steps next to Dinah. ''I killed Dean.'' She just blurts it out. She doesn't mean for it to come out that way, so startling and sudden.

Dinah nearly chokes on her nicotine fix. ''What?''

''I killed Dean today,'' Laurel says again. ''With the Cry. It was an accident, I didn't mean to, I would never...'' Her finger brushes over her bare ring finger. ''But it happened. I killed him.''

Dinah is gaping at her, too stunned to come up with some snarky remark. ''Like...to death?''

''I'm surprised Hanna didn't tell you what happened,'' Laurel says, too emotionally drained to get into this.

''I was in a meeting with the Diggles today,'' Dinah says. ''They wanted to talk about my progress and my paycheck and my future with the organization.'' She looks disturbed and disgusted by the prospect of potentially having a figure with ARGUS. ''Kid was asleep when I got home. Did - Wait, I'm sorry, are you saying he's dead? As in...dead dead?''

''No, a seven-year-old boy brought him back to life with magic. He's fine now.''

Dinah doesn't even look particularly thrown by that. Just takes another drag of the cigarette, rudely blows smoke in Laurel's face, and says, ''Huh.''

''We got lucky,'' Laurel says. ''We got really lucky.''

A small bitter smile crosses Dinah's face. ''Must be nice.'' Then, in a rare moment of what probably passes as kindness to her, she picks up her pack of smokes from the step beside her and holds it out to Laurel.

Laurel does not want a cigarette, but she takes one anyway and lights it up with the match Dinah gives her. It doesn't help. Mostly just makes her nauseated. You know what would help? Vodka. Still, she doesn't stub it out. Maybe it's more of a self-punishment than a balm. She looks back over at the house next door. She could go back. There's still time. She could sneak back in, rip up the goodbye letters, put her rings back on, and curl up next to Dean where she's supposed to be. She could go home. No one would ever know what she almost did.

Except -

No.

That's not true. None of that is true.

She can't go home.

She looks away, staring at the cigarette, sitting in a perplexing yet companionable silence with Dinah, both of them destroying their lungs like they're doing a bad impression of the Olsen twins. She glances at her out of the corner of her eye. ''Can I ask you a question?''

''You just did.''

''Do you know if the - If our inheritance comes with a - a healing ability of some sort?''

Dinah exhales. She looks like she has been waiting a long time for that question. ''I can't be sure,'' she says evenly, after a telling pause.

''But...?''

''But,'' Dinah says. ''Wounds do tend to heal suspiciously fast. Technically we're metahumans. Our bodies are wired differently. It would make sense.'' She eyes her closely, disbelievingly. ''You're telling me you haven't noticed the way your wounds have been healing faster since your scream was activated?''

''I...'' Laurel's not entirely sure how to answer that because the truth is that she has noticed. It's not that she's been blind to it. It's that she thought for sure her mind was playing tricks on her. She hasn't been...right since she got back. She thought it was just more of that. ''I guess I wasn't thinking about it.'' She looks down at her hands. There are still small cuts on her palms from when she was thrown through the window and she knows her face is still bruised and beat up, but it is rather miraculous that she got out with only a few scrapes and bruises.

Ever since she came back, despite the beatings she has taken and despite the fact that her body is dying, she has managed to escape any permanent injuries. Hasn't even scarred. She crawled out of her own grave and destroyed her body and there's nothing left to show for it. Her most recent scar is the one from the arrow. The last injury she got as the person she was before. But, still, healing faster than the average joe and avoiding scars is a far cry from whatever it is that Edie may or may not be trying to heal. ''But we can still get sick, right? The Cry doesn't heal or prevent human illness.''

''Not as far as I can tell,'' says Dinah. ''It's a minor healing ability. We're more durable. We're not invincible. Far from it.'' She takes one last drag of her cigarette and then crushes it under her boot on the concrete patio. ''Why are you asking?''

''Just wondering,'' Laurel lies. ''I don't know.'' She takes a puff of her own cigarette, but it still doesn't help. It's familiar, more relaxing than it probably should be, but it doesn't alleviate the excruciating pain of leaving. She looks over at Dinah. Then at the Moretti house behind them. A thought occurs to her and she narrows her eyes. ''Are you aware that you live with an asthmatic?''

''Yes, I'm aware,'' Dinah grunts impatiently. ''Why do you think I'm smoking outside?''

''Well, you should probably take a shower and brush your teeth when you go back inside.''

''You should probably take a shower and brush your teeth,'' Dinah parrots mockingly - and rather childishly. ''Okay, Mom.'' She leans back, but keeps her unnerving gaze on Laurel, unblinking and completely steady. She cocks her head to the side. Sometimes she is uncannily reminiscent of a cat. She's definitely more cat than canary that's for sure. All predator, no prey. ''So you're really going to do this?'' She taps her fingers on the cement. ''Just leave?''

Laurel looks the cigarette burning away between her fingers. ''What would you do? If you knew you were a danger to your child. What would you do?''

The look on Dinah's face says it all. She plucks the cigarette from Laurel's fingers, stubbing it out on the steps beside her. ''Where will you go?''

''I don't know.'' Laurel winds her arms around her middle. ''Away.''

''They won't understand.''

''I'm not expecting them to.''

''Are you expecting to be welcomed home with open arms once you've defeated your creepy crawly cousin?''

''No.''

''What if he never forgives you?''

''Then he never forgives me.'' Laurel is surprised by how calm she sounds as she says it. She pulls herself back to her feet, moving away from Dinah. ''I'm not asking for forgiveness,'' she says, as if it is simple as that. ''If the price I have to pay to keep them safe is not being forgiven or - or - ''

''Your husband divorcing you?''

''Then fine,'' Laurel says firmly, even as she visibly flinches. ''I'll pay that price. I can live with that. At least they'll be alive. It'll suck, but I can live with it. I can't live with him dead. I know I can't live with my daughter dead. That's not a price I will ever be willing to pay. I'd rather die.''

''Is that the plan then?'' Dinah questions. ''To die?''

''No.'' Laurel stuffs her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. ''My plan is to fight.''

It's hard to read the look on Dinah's face. It's not judgmental, it's not disapproving, but it's not a look of understanding either. She is, unlike her Earth-1 counterpart, not an open book. She approaches the idea of wearing her heart on her sleeve with utter contempt. She would rather be an enigma, rather be an infuriating mess of chaos and snark, than let someone in on how she's feeling.

Yet, when she opens her mouth again, it is not with contempt or snark, but something softer, something that, for a second, resembles something almost vaguely maternal. ''You have what you need?''

''I have the basics.''

''Do you have money?''

''I'm not exactly flush with cash at the moment.''

Dinah rolls her eyes again, very dramatically, which is also somehow maternal, and pulls something out of her pocket, holding it out. ''Here.''

It's a wad of cash. A wad of cash of unknown origin. Wow, she really just had that ready to go, huh?

Laurel squints at it suspiciously, trying to spot any possible bloodstains.

''Don't look at me like that,'' Dinah snaps, shaking her extended hand impatiently. ''It's not a fucking bomb.''

''Where did it come from?''

''Not relevant.''

''Dinah.''

''It's not stolen if that's what you're worried about. Although even if it was, get over it. You're going to need to loosen those righteous morals of yours, Captain America. You're a dead woman on the run now. You're a ghost.''

Fuck.

She's right.

Laurel relents with a sigh, snatching the money from her.

''It's not much,'' Dinah tells her. ''Just enough to help you out. Get you where you need to go.''

''What's the catch?'' Laurel asks, still dubious, even as she pockets the cash.

''There's no catch. You need cash. That's just a fact. I've lived nearly my entire life this way. I know how the story goes.'' Dinah's thumb rubs at her wedding ring, the one she still wears even though her husband, her Ollie, died nearly a decade ago. ''I was a mother,'' she says, voice barely above a murmur. ''I was a wife. I couldn't save either of them. I couldn't bring Ollie home. I couldn't protect our son. Not from the explosion and not from the shitty choices I made during his life.'' It's a rare moment of sincerity and an even rarer moment of the raw grief that she carries around with her like a chip on her shoulder. ''You're trying to protect your child. I can respect that. I want there to be a better outcome for your daughter. I'm not lying when I say that.''

Laurel is uneasy about the honesty coming from her generally apathetic doppelganger.

Dinah spends so much of her time locking herself away behind a mask of selfishness and vulgarity, feigning nothing more than vanity and an insufferably cantankerous attitude that it's easy to forget what she has been through. That she is a widow, a mother without her baby, a cautionary tale not to be taken lightly.

''Thank you,'' Laurel finally says. ''For everything you've done tonight. For helping me. No one else would have. It means a lot.''

''Like I said,'' Dinah replies, visibly hardening up again, putting that mask firmly back in place. ''Don't thank me. Just protect that little girl.'' She moves her gaze to the house next door. ''You better go,'' she advises. ''If he wakes up and you're still here, he won't let you go. When Dean Winchester loves, he doesn't let go. Some things are the same on every earth.''

Laurel takes in a breath. ''Right.'' She picks up the duffel bag and slings it over her shoulder, but lingers awkwardly, unsure of how to repay this particular debt. Not that Dinah would ever let her even attempt to repay it. Or even mention any of this ever again. ''I like your hair,'' she settles on. ''It suits you.''

''Thanks,'' Dinah says, unconvincingly sarcastic, a tiny half smile creeping onto her face. ''Now I hate it.''

Laurel throws her one last smile, perhaps the only thing Dinah might accept, and then turns to leave.

''You have to kill her, you know.''

Laurel stops.

''I know all about you,'' says Dinah. ''What you do. Who you are. The Black Canary doesn't kill. She may be a symbol of justice and vengeance, but she is also a symbol of mercy. Is that how you plan to fight this witch? With mercy? 'Cause I can tell you right now all that's gonna get you is deader than you are right now.''

Normally, Laurel would have to think about that. She doesn't this time. ''No.'' She turns around. ''I have no mercy left for her. Not after today. I know how this has to end.''

''An eye for an eye?''

''I'm planning on taking more than an eye.''

An unsettling smile spreads across Dinah's face, bloodthirsty, maybe even proud. ''All right then,'' she says, standing half in the house, half out. ''Happy hunting, Canary.'' She winks at her, as if they're sharing some sleepover secret, and then disappears back into the house.

Laurel looks around the darkened backyard, listening to the peaceful sounds of the suburban night. She glances into her own backyard one last time and then adjusts the duffel bag over her shoulder and leaves.

She is not in love with having something in common with her spooky double and she's even less in love with the idea of killing her cousin, but it is what it is. We are where we are now. There are a lot of things she's not going to be able to come back from. She's working on accepting that. Why not add one more thing to the list?

She did mean what she said when she said she knows how this has to end. She knows it can only end one way. She is not going after Edie as Black Canary. She is going after her as Laurel Lance. There's a difference. People don't seem to get that.

She makes it all the way to the dark, tree lined side street on the other side of her beloved corner lot home. She pauses in the dark, turning to look at the home she is leaving behind, the place where her family is sleeping, the back gate she could still go through if she wanted to.

She thinks, one more time, about Seattle in May 2010, when it was all over and Dean put her on a bus back to Starling, the two of them going back to the respective lives, believing they would never see each other again. She remembers she looked back. On the steps of the bus. She stopped and looked back at him. She didn't know why she did it, but she did. He was leaning back against the hood of his car, hands in his pockets, watching her go. He was smiling. She has never forgotten that. When the bus pulled away, she didn't look back again, didn't watch him as they drove away. She didn't dare to. She wanted the last image she had of him to be of him smiling.

She thinks of all those nights where she would go out as Black Canary, about the little ritual she and Mary had, the words she would repeat every night before she walked out the door.

And she thinks of the letters she wrote tonight, the pieces of love she left behind to soften the blow. Dean's, longer, a last ditch attempt to make him understand why she has to do this, an apology for the hurt she's caused, and Mary's, shorter, only consisting of a few sentences that she knows are not enough.

No matter where I go, a piece of me will always be right here with you. I love you, honeybee. Be good.

Laurel closes her eyes briefly, inhales through her nose, lets it out slowly through her mouth, and then she steps away from the house, pulls the hood of the gray hoodie up over her head, and melts into the shadows, moving silently in the still of the night, away from home.

.

.

.

end part seventeen

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AN: ...But at least Dean's alive now, right? See, I fixed it!

Chapter title taken from the poem ''For Jane'' by Charles Bukowski.