Water grey
Through the windows, up the stairs
Chilling rain
Like an ocean everywhere

Don't wanna reach for me, do you?
I mean nothing to you
The little things give you away
And now there will be no mistaking
The levees are breaking

Hope decays
Generations disappear
Washed away
As a nation simply stares

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you
And six feet under the water
I do

Linkin Park – The Little Things Give You Away


I wish I could go back—not insist we stop for the night and get a motel room. I didn't wholly regret it; Dean and I finally got some time alone, which was nice. It was what came after. At least if I dozed off and awoke the same way in the Impala that I did in bed, I could make some excuse about it. "It's too hot back here," or, "You hit a pothole. Why wouldn't that scare me awake?"

I had neither a buffer nor an excuse when I practically jumped out of Dean's arms at four in the morning, coated in a thick sheen of sweat that I again thought was blood until reality sunk in. It took forever to convince him that I was alright, that there was nothing to worry about. He didn't believe me, not by a long shot, but eventually, he fell asleep again. Despite the comforting warmth of his chest flush against my back, I stayed awake. Snippets of myself frantically dashing through trees and falling into a pool of blood played out behind my eyelids every time I blinked; I didn't want to risk sleeping, scared of getting trapped in another terror.

By the time six AM rolled around, and Dean began to stir, I was itching to get out of bed—to preoccupy my mind with literally anything else. But I didn't. I stayed there in his arms, lightly dragging my nails over the back of his hand in order to soothe my jumbled thoughts. Eventually, I rolled over to face him, peppering kisses along his neck as a good morning.

"Hi," he hummed in a raspy voice, throat vibrating against my lips.

"Hi," I replied quietly, snuggling into his chest, absentmindedly rolling the amulet that hung around his neck between my thumb and pointer finger. We spent a few moments of peaceful silence with Dean running his fingers through my hair until he reached my back, where he started tracing patterns up and down my spine.

"Did you go back to sleep?" He asked. I nodded yes—a lie. Peering up through my eyelashes, I watched his jaw go rigid as he bit the inside of his lip. Of course, he knew the truth. "I'm worried about you," Dean finally admitted.

"You don't have to be."

"Oh, yeah?" He wondered incredulously. "Have you met me?"

"Baby, I'm fine," I repeated for what felt like the millionth time—propping up on my elbow. I flattened my palm over his heart. "Really."

Dean lightly drummed his fingertips against my skin. "No, you're not," he stated, point blank. I'm not sure why I didn't expect him to call me out on my bullshit. "You're not fine," he added, softening his voice as he placed his hand on mine. "Just talk to me."

There was so much concern and love in his eyes that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't look away. The longer I stared into those shades of green, the more the truth tugged at my chest. It had been weighing me down, and was fighting to come out. As of late, our being alone was a rare phenomenon; I'd be stupid not to take this opportunity.

Seeing my resolve break, Dean squeezed my hand encouragingly. "Are they worse?"

I swallowed hard and nodded. "A little," I played it off.

Of course, I couldn't get anything by him. "How much worse?"

"It starts at my old school, like always, and then goes through the woods," I shuddered at the memory. I took a breath, focusing on the steady beat of Dean's heart below my palm. "And it ends in me falling into a puddle of blood. It all feels so real; that hasn't changed."

"Then what has?"

"I don't know… I just have this feeling that someone else is there… watching me."

I could see the worry simmering below the brave front he put on for my sake, but I chose to ignore it. I needed his strength to push through, more now than ever.

"Listen to me," Dean finally spoke, leaning up on his elbow to be eye-level with me. "Nothing is gonna get to you. And if they wanna try, they gotta go through me first," he recited the exact words he told me years ago to make me smile. It worked. Dean cradled my face in his hand, stroking my cheek with his thumb, his expression turning serious again. "We got through this before; we'll do it again. I won't let anything happen to you, Cherry Pie," he finished protectively.

I held his wrist. "I know you won't," I uttered, tears filling my eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied, knowing I needed to hear it. Dean pressed his full lips to mine and snaked his free hand underneath my rib cage to bring me flush against him. I melted into his embrace, sliding my hand up his biceps to pull him impossibly closer. Just before things got heated past the point of no return, the alarm I now regret setting last night buzzed through the room. "Ignore it," Dean mumbled into the kiss.

I tried to, I really did, but I couldn't. It grated on my already thin nerves. "I can't," I murmured regretfully, rolling over to slam on the clock's off button. I sighed heavily, rolling onto my back. I took Dean's hand, threading his fingers through mine. "We gotta meet up with Sam."

"He can wait," Dean coaxed, pulling me against him once more.

"What about breakfast?" I challenged.

"That can wait, too."

I chuckled. "You didn't shut up about waffles all night."

"Not all night," Dean said, smirking. I smiled. "And I can think of something else I'd rather have," he added, flashing an eyebrow.

I feigned shock. "More than food?"

"Oh… much more," Dean smiled, trailing kisses across my skin. Did I feel bad about making Sam wait? A little. But the guilt was quick to leave when Dean ducked beneath the sheets.


By the time we got ready, an hour and a half had passed. Outside, Sam was already waiting by the Impala, legs crossed at the ankles and hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. "Morning," I greeted him.

"Morning," he replied.

"How long have you been out here?" I inquired.

"Not long," Sam brushed it off, pushing away from the car. He said nothing about us being way later than we originally agreed on meeting and slipped into the passenger seat after Dean unlocked the doors.

Despite me thinking our talk would quell his worrying, even just for today, I kept catching Dean watching me in the rearview mirror on our way to the small diner across the street. The concerned glimpses continued even after we sat at the counter and got our breakfast. He cared; that's why he was doing it, but I just needed a moment to decompress. Even now, hours later, the nightmare wouldn't leave my mind; it sunk its claws into the deepest parts of my brain and desperately clung on. I couldn't shake it.

The puffy, syrup-logged pancakes sitting on the plate in front of me shredded into pieces with little restraint as I absentmindedly ran my fork over them. I'd only taken a couple of bites, which left the rest to sit and soak up the sticky substance. The consistency reminded me of the crimson pool I repeatedly fell into. I tried to ignore it, but bile rose in my throat. I'm not even sure why I ordered anything. Maybe to appear more normal for the boys so they wouldn't worry any more than they already did; perhaps I wanted to pretend everything was fine—try to convince myself of it. It didn't work.

Sitting beside me, Dean was going through a local paper he picked up from the stand outside of the diner, reading obits and missing person reports, no doubt searching for a case as he absentmindedly chewed on the pen in his hand. I rested the fork down on the plate, the clang of metal on ceramic calling Dean's attention to me. He frowned around the pen.

"You better hope that doesn't bust open. I don't need you getting ink poisoning." I mumbled with a small smile. Dean grinned with the pen still held loosely between his teeth. "Oh, stop it." I laughed, snatching it from him.

Dean leaned over and kissed my temple, taking the pen back as he righted himself in his seat. "By the way, since when do you not finish pancakes?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, gesturing to the whole serving of food on the plate in front of me.

I shrugged, resting an arm atop the counter between me and the dish. "I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought."

Albeit reluctantly, Dean turned his attention back to the newspaper. Sam came back, and he froze when he touched down to his seat, eyes darting between us. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied quickly. Dean nodded but kept his focus on the paper. I picked up my fork again, dipping it in some syrup and slowly letting it drizzle over the food I still had no intention of eating.

Our leggy blonde waitress in tiny denim shorts and tight, lowcut tank top—who leaned over the counter to show off her cleavage more times than I could count since we sat down—returned once again with a giant smile for Sam. "Can I get you anything else?" She asked with a wink.

"Just the check, please," Sam replied briskly.

"Okay," she muttered disappointedly, giving him another forlorn glance before turning on her heel and heading to the back room for the check.

Hanging his head in frustration, Dean sighed and turned his attention to his little brother. "You know, Sam, we are allowed to have fun once in a while," he said, pointing in the direction of the waitress. "That's fun."

Sam's blank face contrasted with the emotion swirling in his eyes; their inner gold flecks spun with unease that flittered out into an outer ring of guilt-littered aquamarine. It'd barely been a month since Jessica's death. I'm sure he felt he'd be cheating on her, in a way. Dean didn't mean anything wrong by it; he just wanted to help, but his idea of helping wasn't, well… helping.

So, sensing Sam's discomfort, I wanted to take the spotlight off him and hit Dean's leg with the toe of my boot to get his attention. "We?" I inquired, popping an eyebrow when he looked at me.

"What?" Dean asked.

"We, as in…?" I trailed off, rolling a hand expectantly.

"No, I–" Dean laughed uncomfortably, eyes darting around like a caged animal. "I didn't mean me."

"Better not," I said pointedly, staring him down until he looked away. I saw Sam sporting a thankful smile from the corner of my eye.

"Come on, I barely even looked at her!" Dean defended. I couldn't argue there; he didn't make a single flirtatious gesture toward the girl, too consumed with his worry for me. "She's been making eyes at him," he threw out a hand to his brother.

I needed a sense of normalcy, and what better way to achieve that than by teasing him like I used to? "Maybe you're losing your touch," I suggested.

"Losing my—" Dean furrowed his brow and scoffed. "What?"

"I'm just saying," I shrugged. "It's possible."

Sam chuckled, and Dean shot him a glare. "It's not," he argued. "Trust me; I could never."

"Sure," I laughed.

Dean pursed his lips in annoyance."You want me to get her number?" He asked, jutting a thumb in the direction she'd gone. "I can do it."

"Dude," Sam scolded. Any sense of humor had fallen from his face. "What the–"

Before he could finish his sentence, the waitress returned and dropped the check in front of me. "Thanks," I told her, sliding it over to Dean. "Your turn. Unless you wanna try and flirt your way out of it."

Grumbling something unintelligible, Dean snatched the paper from me and pulled out his wallet, dropping enough cash to cover the bill and tip onto the counter. I nodded to the newspaper still sprawled out, eying a couple of the circled obits. "Find anything?" I asked.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, tucking his wallet away and pushing the paper in front of Sam and me. "Take a look at this," he said, pointing down at the page as he spoke.

I scanned the circled obituary for an eighteen-year-old girl from Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin, named Sophie Carlton, who died in a 'tragic swimming accident.' I bit the inside of my cheek. "She drowned, huh?"

"Yeah, that's what they think," Dean replied, turning on his stool to face us.

"What happened?"

"Last week Sophie Carlton walks into the lake, doesn't walk out. Authorities dragged the water; nothing," Dean explained. "She's the third Lake Manitoc drowning this year."

I nodded slowly, tapping my fingers on the page. "And the others?"

"None of their bodies were found either. They had a funeral for Sophie two days ago."

"A funeral?" Sam interjected incredulously.

"Yeah, it's weird," Dean said, moving the notepad he'd be scribbling notes on in front of him. "They buried an empty coffin. For, uh, closure or whatever," he waved a hand carelessly—obviously seeing no point in that form of closure… or whatever.

"Closure?" Sam scoffed. "What closure? People don't just disappear. Other people just stop looking for them," he finished bitterly.

I raised an eyebrow while Dean peered around me with a questioning gaze aimed at his brother. "Something you want to say?" He wondered.

"The trail for Dad. It's getting colder every day," Sam said, jutting a finger onto the countertop.

"Exactly. So, what are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Something. Anything," Sam insisted, eyes flicking to me in desperation.

He wanted me to agree with him, but I couldn't. I'd spent many nights trying to figure out the most minor details, tiny clues John might have left behind on accident that could lead us to him—but there was nothing. Then, after Jericho, all the possibilities seemed to open up. There was hope, but it was promptly squashed when I discovered his journal. Even more, when he sent us somewhere he'd never even been. I wasn't sure he even wanted to be found at this point.

"Sam, we can't go out looking for him if we don't even know where to start," I pointed out.

"Then we have to try harder!" He demanded, voice rising in aggravation.

"You know what? I'm sick of this attitude," Dean said abruptly. "You don't think we wanna find Dad as much as you do?" He accused, propping a hand on his leg as he leaned forward.

"Yeah, I know you guys do," Sam replied in a constricted voice. "It's just–"

"We're the ones that have been with him every single day for the past two years while you've been off to college going to pep rallies," Dean scowled. I kicked his shin, much less gently than before. He narrowed his eyes at me slightly, and I shot him a stern look—not about to back down. There was no reason to belittle Sam for his decision. He had no idea this would happen with John; none of us did. Dean had to let that shit go before we drowned in his pique.
He barely relaxed enough that I didn't feel the need to interject again. "We will find Dad, but until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there," he demanded. "Okay?"

"Alright," Sam relented much easier than I thought he would, folding his arms atop the counter.

"Sounds like a plan," I said. "How far is Lake Manitoc from here?"

"Two hours out. Three tops," Dean explained.

"Well, with you behind the wheel, we'll make it there in no time," I smiled, hopping off the stool. "Let's go."

Dean rolled up the paper and tucked it into his jacket as he stood, "You know, if you paid attention to her, I wouldn't have had to fork out the extra tip money," he told Sam before heading for the door.

I rolled my eyes, patting an exasperated Sam's shoulder. "Sorry."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, begrudgingly standing up.


After a relatively short hour and a half drive, we arrived in front of a small charcoal gray-colored house with red roof shingles. Surrounded by tall, vividly green trees with breezily blowing leaves that hung over an expansive shadowy lake covered in gentle ripples created by the wind. It was beautiful, like stepping into a Bob Ross painting. In the distance was a dock, a grey-haired man sitting atop a bench, staring unmoving out into the water. It wasn't difficult to figure out who he was—his somber posture weighed heavily with guilt that rolled off him in waves, giving him away as Sofia's father. I couldn't imagine what it felt like to lose a child, the anguish that came with being unable to protect a life you created. That was something I couldn't imagine going through. Dean pulled the keys from the ignition, the low rumble of the Impala's engine cutting out. I followed the boys out of the car, and we walked the short distance to the porch, where Dean knocked on the front door.

A few moments later, a brown-haired young man our age opened it, peering up at us in question. "Will Carlton?" Dean asked, looking around him into the house.

"Yeah, that's right," Will answered, squaring off his shoulders as he held tightly onto the wood.

"I'm Agent Ford. This is Agent Hamill and Agent Fisher." Dean introduced himself, then Sam, then me, respectively. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the glaringly apparent names I told him multiple times not to use and plastered a smile on my face. "We're with the US Wildlife Service," Dean added, holding up a fake ID.

Will briefly squinted his eyes at the card. "For what?" He asked in bewilderment.

"We just have a couple of questions about what happened to your sister, Sofia," I said gently. "If you don't mind?"

"Oh, uh," he paused, tapping a fingernail on the wooden door. "No, I don't," Will conceded, stepping outside. "What do you want to know?"

"Would you mind showing us where it happened?" Sam inquired.

Will shook his head in reply and led us across the property toward the lake, gesturing at a section of water across the way. "She was about a hundred yards out," he explained, hands shoved into his pockets. Will's already dark brown eyes looked impossibly deeper as they glistened with sadness. "That's where she got dragged down."

"And you're sure she didn't just drown?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Will replied, eyes wrinkling as he thought of his sister. "She was a varsity swimmer," Will's fond smile turned bitter as he spoke; He locked his deep brown eyes on the water in resentment. Finally, he broke away and looked back at us. "She practically grew up in that lake. She was as safe out there as she was in her own bathtub."

"So, no splashing?" Sam wondered aloud. "No signs of distress?"

"No, that's what I'm telling you," Will muttered, folding his arms. "She was fine."

"Did you see any shadows in the water?" Sam asked, trying to reach the end of a seemingly bottomless mystery. "Maybe some dark shape breach the surface?"

"No. Again, she was really far out there."

I nodded, sliding my hands into my pockets. "What about, maybe, some weird tracks by the shoreline?" I asked. "Have you ever seen anything like that?"

"No, never," Will said, growing concerned. "Why, what do you think's out there?"

"We'll let you know as soon as we do," Dean muttered, glancing over at me with a look that said it was time to leave before beginning to head for the car.

"Thank you for your time, Will. I'm sorry for your loss," I added sincerely. His woeful eyes darted to the water once more before returning to me with a nod.

"What about your father?" Sam asked, staring at the man still perched on the bench. "Can we talk to him?" He asked Will, who briefly looked at his father.

He shook his head no. "Look, if you don't mind, I mean… he didn't see anything, and he's kind of been through a lot."

Sam nodded. "We understand," he said.

Leaving Will pensively staring out across the lake, we returned to the Impala. "What now?" I asked once we were out of earshot.

Dean sighed. "I guess we need to have a chat with the local authorities," he said in disgust.

"Aw, your favorite." I smiled sardonically. Dean grumbled unintelligibly and rolled his eyes, getting into the driver's seat. Oh, Dean and his issues with authority figures.


In the middle of the small town sat a tiny police station squished between the local bank and a cafe. Consisting of two main rooms and possibly a couple of holding cells at the back, it was one of the smallest stations I'd seen. In the bullpen sat three unoccupied, tidy desks. We introduced ourselves as working for the state's Wildlife service to Sheriff Devins, who appeared skeptical at first but led us back to his office.

"Now, I'm sorry, but why does the Wildlife Service care about an accidental drowning?" He wondered.

"You sure it's accidental?" Sam asked. "Will Carlton saw something grab his sister," he lied.

"Like what?" Devins balked.

"He wasn't sure, exactly," I said. "Just that it took her."

The Sheriff gestured to the seats in front of his desk. "Here, sit, please," he offered.

Considering how cagey he already was, Dean remained standing while Sam and I sat down. "Thank you," I said cordially, scanning the items decorating the Sheriff's desk subtly. One thing in particular that caught my eye was a framed photograph of a woman appearing to be around my age with curly, shoulder-length dark brown hair and a big, friendly smile.

"There are no indigenous carnivores in that lake," Devins said, sitting behind his desk. "There's nothing even big enough to pull down a person unless it was the Loch Ness Monster."

"Yeah, right." Dean scoffed with a laugh, leaning down on the back of my chair. I shoved my shoulder blade into his fingers, and his sardonic smile slowly faded.

"Will Carlton was traumatized, and sometimes the mind plays tricks. Still, we dragged that entire lake. We even ran a sonar sweep, just to be sure, and there was nothing down there."

"That's weird, though; I mean, that's the third missing body this year." Dean pointed out.

"I know. These are people from my town. These are people I care about," the Sheriff replied remorsefully. All the responsibility lay on his shoulders, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Dean gave him a tight-lipped, sympathetic nod. "I know."

"Anyway…" Devins sighed, leaning back in his chair. "All this—it won't be a problem much longer."

"What do you mean?" Dean inquired, cocking his head to the side. There was no way Devins knew anything we'd be interested in… right?

The Sheriff's eyebrow twitched, his chin lowering. "Well, the dam, of course." He replied, lowering his head pointedly.

"Of course," Dean hurriedly attempted to cover our lack of knowledge. "The dam. It's, uh, it s– sprung a leak," he stuttered.

"It's falling apart," Devins finished pointedly. "And the feds won't give us the grant to repair it, so they've opened the spillway. In another six months, there won't be much of a lake. There won't be much of a town, either," he said while leaning forward, propping his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands together. "But as Federal Wildlife, you already knew that."

"Of course," I answered confidently while mentally berating myself for not researching the local goings-on before coming here. "It's one of the reasons we're so concerned. We don't want anyone else to get hurt."

A short rap on the door called the attention of everyone in the room. In the doorway was the woman from the photo on Sheriff Devins' desk. Sam got up, and Dean stood straight at the sight of her. She wore an apologetic smile, cheeks flushing pink. "Sorry, am I interrupting? I can come back later."

"No, it's fine," Sheriff Devins told her. "This is my daughter," he introduced.

I didn't miss the way Dean's eyes darted down to me, silently marking the start of the inevitable before he smiled widely at the brunette. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Dean," he said, holding out a hand to her.

Of all the people he could flirt with to get a rise out of me, he unknowingly picked a woman with a child. God, I can't wait to see his face when he finds out. I almost regretted what I had brought up before. Almost. That cynical part of me—the teenage one that was born purely out of frustration from my own feelings for him when I couldn't act on them—couldn't wait to see this rejection.

"Andrea Barr," she shook his hand and smiled politely at each of us. "Hi."

"Nice to meet you," I said, standing up to shake her hand as well.

"They're from the Wildlife Service. About the lake." Devins explained.

"Oh," Andrea mumbled, her eyes turning sad at the mention. I didn't have long to dwell on her sudden shift when the blonde boy from the picture bounded next to her, peeking up at us through his eyelashes.

This time, I did not attempt to stop the shit-eating grin from spreading across my lips as I took in Dean's pale, wide-eyed expression. Seeing the look on my face, he straightened his spine and plastered on a confident, friendly smile. "Hey there," he addressed the boy. "What's your name?"

The child released a heavy sigh and walked away without a word. Dean could say he was terrible with kids all he wanted, but they usually liked him, probably because of their shared level of humor—so this short interaction was strange, to say the least.

"His name is Lucas." Sheriff Devins said, staring after the boy. Andrea shot us a small smile as she followed her son back into the other room.

"I know it's not my place, but is he okay?" I asked the Sheriff.

"My grandson's been through a lot. We all have," he muttered. Sighing through trudged-up memories, he stood and made his way to the door to silently tell us it was time we had left. "Well, if there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know."

"Thanks," Dean replied, being the first to exit the office. On the way out, he stopped short, and I nearly slammed into his back. "You know, now that you mentioned it, could you point us in the direction of a reasonably priced motel?" He asked Andrea.

She looked at us from her spot next to Lucas on the couch. "Lakefront Motel," she said. "Go around the corner. It's about two blocks south."

Just as I opened my mouth to thank her, Dean furrowed his brow in faux confusion. "Two–" he spoke slowly as though he'd never heard directions before, glancing back at me. The puzzled look he sported dropped for a split second, and he winked at me before returning to the brunette. "Would you mind showing us?"

My shoulders fell, and I exchanged an annoyed look with Sam. I couldn't believe he was continuing this even though she had a kid. I'd be impressed by his commitment if I wasn't irritated by how his horrible attempt at flirting made us look severely incompetent.

Andrea chortled. "You want me to walk you two blocks?" She asked incredulously.

Dean smiled charmingly. "Not if it's any trouble."

"Well, I'm headed that way, anyway," Andrea said as she stood. "I'll be back to pick up Lucas at three," she told her father, who nodded. Andrea kissed her son on the top of the head, smoothing his hair back. "We'll go to the park, okay, sweetie?"

Lucas didn't respond, not even with a nod. Instead, he bent his head down further into the paper he furiously scribbled on with a crayon, his shaggy blonde hair that covered his eyes vibrating from the force of his drawing. Though she tried to hide it, the distress was clear in Andrea's eyes. My nosey side wanted to know what happened to this small family that shattered them so seemingly beyond repair. But that's not why we're here. So, sad as it may be, I had to keep my distance.

Outside, I kept stride with Dean, taking advantage of the space Andrea put between us and the noise coming from the busy street beside us to ask, "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" He wondered innocently.

I rolled my eyes. "You're making a move on a Mom?" I questioned.

"Because you think I can't," he retorted as though that made it make sense.

"Why would you? You wanna be a Step-Dad?"

Dean paled. "No."

"Exactly, so–" I trailed off pointedly. When he didn't respond, I rolled my eyes. "Dean, she's probably married."

"She's not wearing a ring. No harm, no foul."

"Oh, really?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah."

I scoffed. "Know what? You wanna try, go for it. You won't get anywhere, but–"

"Oh, yes, I will," he interrupted.

"Oh, no," I laughed. "You won't."

"I'm gonna get her number."

"Sure, you will," I nodded. "But when you don't—which you won't—you can do the laundry."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," he said confidently, stalking forward purposefully toward Andrea.

"You're gonna let him do that?" Sam asked me, eyes wide with confusion.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Flirt with another woman."

"Yeah, he sucks at it," I chuckled. Sam's already tucked brows only ventured further down. "We used to do this all the time," I waved a nonchalant hand, referring to how we'd fill out boring non-hunting nights in bars vying to see who could get more numbers. "You remember."

"Yeah, used to. It was a dumb game you played when you were kids. Before you got together," he stressed. "Tori, somebody is gonna get hurt."

"Sam, I appreciate the concern, but it's okay," I said, squeezing his arm. "Really."

"So, cute kid," Dean told Andrea.

For a moment, she looked taken aback by what he said. Like any sane person would. "Thanks," she finally replied.

"Kids are the best, huh?" Dean gushed. Where the hell did he think he was going with that? I bit my lip to stifle a laugh, peering up at Sam to find him staring at his brother, mouth agape. I cocked an eyebrow at the bewildered individual next to me, flashing an expression that read, see? Hilarious.

Andrea glanced over but otherwise ignored him. After a few minutes of awkward silence, we stopped nearby a motel. "There it is," she gestured to the building across the street. "Like I said, two blocks."

"Thanks," Sam smiled appreciatively, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Sure," Andrea told him sincerely. She took a half step closer to Dean. "Must be hard," she sighed, peering up into his curious eyes. "With your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line."

A small squeak escaped my lips, and I hurried to press them into a tight line. Dean's mouth fell open, his jaw practically hitting the concrete below us. I ground my teeth together, trying once again to hold in the laugh that threatened to burst through. Andrea smiled almost knowingly at me as she moved past, heading back the way we came.

"Enjoy your stay!" She called out over her shoulder.

"Oh my god," I breathed, spinning around to face her. "Thank you!" I waved, still fighting off laughter. She'd never know the extra meaning behind my words, but it didn't matter because Dean still stood frozen in the same spot. I composed myself enough to push his mouth closed. "Face it. You lost your touch, Winchester."

Dean shot me a stern look. "I will never lose my touch." He argued.

"Can't lose something you never had," Sam mumbled. I snorted at his unexpected comment.

"It just keeps getting better," I said giddily.

"Come on!" Dean waved him off angrily. "When you wanted advice on girls, who did you go to?"

"Tori," Sam replied with a simple shrug.

"Well–" Dean scrambled. "Before her!"

"You, and it never worked!" Sam laughed. "I mean, kids are the best? You don't even like kids."

Dean scoffed. "I love kids."

"You do not, you liar," I said.

"I do."

I folded my arms and cocked my head to the side. "You do?"

"Of course!"

"Yeah? Name three children that you even know," Sam challenged.

"Alright," Dean agreed quickly. Brow furrowed in thought, he lifted his eyes to the sky as he thought. I could've sworn I saw a vein pop out in his neck from the strain he was putting himself under. Two seconds in, Sam was fed up and headed for the motel entrance.

I tapped the toe of my boot on the sidewalk. "Dean."

"I'm thinking!"

"Well, stop. You're gonna hurt yourself." I held my hand out. "Give me the keys."

"What? Why?" Dean asked, eyes darting from my open palm to my face.

"Because we left the car at the station. Now, gimme–"

"No–" he protested. I huffed and reached into his pocket, snagging the keys before he could stop me. "Hey!"

"Slow," I tutted, walking backward away from him. "See you in a few."


After retrieving the Impala, I headed back to the motel and grabbed the bag of dirty clothes from the trunk, tucking the keys into my jacket pocket on my way to the room labeled with the number Sam texted me. I knocked on the door, and as soon as Dean opened it, I shoved the bag into his startled arms on my way inside. "What the hell is this?" He asked.

"You didn't get her number," I replied. Sam was at the table, nose buried into his laptop screen.

"At least give me a day."

I paused halfway, removed my jacket, and looked over at him. "You need an entire day to get a girl's number?"

"Well…" Dean crumbled, blinking rapidly. "No."

Hanging my jacket over an empty chair, I stopped in front of Dean on my way to the bed. "Baby, nobody likes a sore loser," I smiled and kissed his cheek.

Taking the remote from the side table, I sat on one of the beds and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels. Dean begrudgingly dragged his feet over to the bed, where he tossed the bag of clothes onto the other side of the mattress, beginning to sort through it. Honestly, he could make a move on ten more girls; I didn't care if it meant that I got out of washing mud-caked hunter's clothes.

"So, there's the three drowning victims this year," Sam announced out of the blue.

"Anything before that?" I asked, pausing my absentminded pressing of the next channel button.

"Uh, yeah," he replied, looking up at me from the screen. "Six more spread out over the past thirty-five years. Those bodies were never recovered either. If there is something out there, it's picking up its pace."

"Ooh," Dean murmured, holding up the lacy black lingerie I'd almost forgotten about. "I didn't know you still had this."

"How did that even get in there?" I asked, sitting upright.

"I don't know," Dean shrugged, peering at me over the garment. "God, I don't think we left that room for two days," he added, eyes darkening. I couldn't help but smile at the memory. He was so flustered when I stepped out of the bathroom in that. It never mattered to him what I wore, just that I got out of it, but it was nice to surprise him with something a little sexier. And his reaction was well worth it.

"Uh, guys… ?" Sam called, catapulting me from my increasingly inappropriate thoughts, and my cheeks flooded with color when I remembered Dean and I weren't alone.

I reached for the fabric. "Give me that."

Dean held it out of my reach, raising a challenging eyebrow. "Promise you'll wear it again?"

"Sure," I replied quickly, making a grabbing motion with my hand.

"How soon?"

"Dean," I growled. He tossed it to me, the cocky smirk he sported never faltering. I quickly stuffed the lingerie behind me. "Have you no shame?" I questioned.

"No," Dean quipped proudly, winking at me. "So, what, we got a lake monster on a binge?" He wondered.

"This whole lake monster theory," Sam began, sounding relieved about the subject change. "It just bugs me."

Dean abandoned the clothes he'd been sorting through to stand behind Sam. "Why?" He asked, leaning down to get a better look at the laptop's screen.

"Loch Ness, Lake Champlain, there are literally hundreds of eyewitness accounts, but here, almost nothing," Sam explained. "Whatever it is out there, no one's living to talk about it."

"Does it say who the victim before Sophie was?" I asked.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, scrolling up the page. "Christopher Barr."

"Wait, Barr," Dean stopped him, pointing to the screen. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"Barr is Andrea's last name, isn't it?" I said, getting up to stand beside Dean. Sam opened a link, the headline reading: Local Man in Tragic Accident. Below were a few photos from the scene; one, in particular, caught my eye. Besides a police officer was a weighted-blanket-wrapped Lucas, his shaggy blonde hair once again covering his eyes as he stared at the ground.

"So, Christopher Barr was Andrea's husband," Sam said, scanning the page. "Apparently, Chris took Lucas out swimming. Lucas was on a floating wooden platform when he drowned. It was two hours before the kid got rescued. Maybe we have an eyewitness, after all."

"God, that's horrible," I said, folding my arms loosely. Being trapped out in the middle of nowhere with no rescue in sight—especially after what he'd seen—he must've been petrified.

"No wonder that kid was so freaked out," Dean said, glancing over at me. "Watching one of your parents die isn't something you just get over." Sadly that was something we both had an experience with. I put my hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"We should go talk to him," Sam said.

"How?" I asked.

Sam furrowed his brow at my question. "What do you mean?"

"Lucas is traumatized, Sam. You think he's gonna open up about this? To strangers?"

Sam shrugged sympathetically. "We have to try," he said. I didn't want to push Lucas, but I also didn't see our other choice. It very well might be the key to stopping all of this.

As we neared the Impala, I slipped my jacket on, reaching into the pocket where the car keys sat. Knowing he wanted to drive, I tossed them to Dean as we rounded our respective sides of the car. A quick five-minute drive and we reached the only park this town had. Many children played rambunctiously, running around the playground and swinging on the swings. They were so carefree, void of all worries. And in the middle of the joy was Lucas. His stiff, hunched posture was closed-off and anxiety-ridden.

With a crayon in hand, he scribbled on a piece of paper. Every so often, he'd pick up one of the few plastic army men scattered beside him. That didn't last long, though, and he returned to the picture. Andrea sat on a bench about a yard away, her clasped hands cradled in her lap and curled shoulders screaming sadness. What was their life before all this? I found it difficult to imagine Lucas any other way.

"Can we join you?" Sam asked her as we approached.

Andrea looked taken aback by our sudden appearance. "I'm here with my son," she answered.

Dean glanced over at the boy, then back to his Mom. "Mind if I say hi?" He asked. I was slightly surprised he took the initiative to speak with Lucas; I thought for sure it would've been Sam or me.

"You know, this whole Jerry Maguire thing is not gonna work on me," Andrea told Dean.

"That's not what it's about," I said.

"It's not?"

"No. Uh… everything this morning was just… bad timing," Dean admitted.

"Really bad," I added apologetically.

Andrea narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "So, then, what is it about?"

"People have been disappearing in that lake left and right," I began cautiously. Her eyes darted to the grass before returning to mine, now guarded. "Lucas is the only witness," I said. Before she shut off completely, I quickly added, "If you don't want us to talk to him, we won't. It's your call."

Her posture stiffened, torn between wanting to give us permission and keeping her son sheltered from reality. "He won't talk," she uttered sadly. Thankfully sensing we meant no harm, Andrea waved a hand of approval. "But you're welcome to try."

"Thanks," Dean nodded. Andrea watched him closely, not missing the hand he ran across my hip as he parted ways with us. I cleared my throat, perching on the edge of the bench next to Andrea while Sam stood to my right.

"I get it, you know," she mumbled, folding her arms casually across her chest. "Chris was like that, too."

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"Lucas's father," she clarified, having no clue I already knew who he was. Andrea smiled fondly at the memory of her late husband. "He was a flirt. It always made my Dad angry, but I knew Chris loved me. Kinda like your guy," she gestured to Dean. She was way more perspective than I gave her credit for.

I smiled loosely. "It's kind of a dumb thing we sometimes do, and we shouldn't have involved you in it."

Andrea nodded. "It's okay. We all have our things. Although, I have to ask, was the pickup line he used on you as bad as the one he tried on me?"

"Worse," I joked. We shared a laugh until Dean's proximity to Lucas caught our attention. I quieted down to listen, but they were too far away. So, although I wanted to sneak closer and eavesdrop, there was no possible way. I have to be patient; wait and see what happens.


-DPOV-

It didn't seem to matter to Lucas that someone was walking up to him. I'm sure he heard me, but he didn't stop drawing; he didn't even bother to give a glance. Just before I reached the bench he was crouched over, I peered over my shoulder, finding Tori already looking my way, an encouraging, proud smile on her face. Any hesitation I felt faded away, and I sat down at the opposite end of the bench.

"How's it going?" I asked Lucas, not expecting an answer. Among the scattered paper and crayons sat a few green army men. I couldn't help but smile seeing them. The damn ashtray in the Impala still didn't close all the way because of the one Sam stuffed into it years ago. "Oh, I used to love these things," I said, picking up one of the soldiers.

Lucas grabbed another crayon, gripping it tightly between his small fingers as he drew. "So, crayons are more your thing? That's cool," I nodded, putting the plastic toy back down. "Chicks dig artists."

A couple of completed drawings caught my eye—the one on top of a big black swirl and the other on a small, red bike. "Hey, these are pretty good," I told him, pointing to the drawings. "You mind if I sit and draw with you for a while? I'm not so bad myself," I lied.

Once again, Lucas didn't make a peep. He didn't stop drawing, either. Even without his confirmation, I grabbed a crayon and a blank piece of paper and started drawing. It was a little unnerving, the way he stared blankly at the paper with glazed-over eyes—like an empty shell just going through the motions. A question lingered in my mind; how many times had that been me? There were countless moments when I wanted to shut the world out and not talk to anybody. I was proud—probably too much if you asked a certain blonde—of how well I hid it. At least, I thought I did… until she came along and saw straight through me. It was kind of hard to keep up the facade after that—with her, at least.

I could sit here in silence all day, but that wouldn't do any of us any good. So, I figure I might as well say something, regardless of whether Lucas responds or not.

"You know, I'm thinking you can hear me; you just don't want to talk. I don't know exactly what happened to your Dad, but I know it was something real bad," I trailed off. I didn't want to say what I was about to but forced the words out anyway. "I think I know how you feel. When I was your age, I saw something," I admitted, somehow keeping my voice from wavering.

No matter how many years had passed or how hard I tried to force myself to forget, whenever I allowed those memories to resurface, that same wash of intense heat prickled across my skin, plunging me right back into that blistering house. I already knew what'd come after and hurried to blink away the images of that burning ceiling threatening to show. I couldn't get lost in them, not now.

I cleared my throat. "Anyway. Maybe you don't think anyone will listen to you, or, uh… or believe you. I thought so, too, for a while," I admitted, catching Tori's eyes from the corner of mine. "But somebody will," I said, looking back to Lucas. "And I just want you to know that I will. You don't even have to say anything. You could draw me a picture about what you saw that day, with your Dad, on the lake," I suggested gently.

Lucas kept his eyes on the page, beginning to draw a bit faster than before, but he didn't do anything to agree or decline my offer.

"Okay, no problem," I relented. He was obviously stressed, and I didn't want to do more damage. He'd been through enough. "This is for you. This is my family." I said, holding the paper out to him as I pointed to the small stick figures I'd drawn. "That's my Dad. That's my Mom. That's my geek brother and my… lady friend, and then, uh, that's me."

I sighed, staring down at the mangled stick figures with disdain. "Alright, so I'm a sucky artist," I admitted, placing the paper down on the table. "I'll see you around, Lucas."

As I headed away from Lucas, I should have been trying to drum up another plan—some other way to gain information about what he saw that day—but instead, all I could think about was a certain night twenty-two years ago. Three sets of questioning eyes watched me, but only one was perceptive enough to know something more was going on. Tori's curious eyes never fell from me long after I shook my head no to her and Sam. I knew her well enough that she wouldn't let this go. And I guess I couldn't blame her.

"Lucas hasn't said a word, not even to me," Andrea said. "Not since his Dad's accident."

"Yeah, we heard. Sorry," I apologized sincerely. The brunette responded with a small, sad nod and nothing else, her eyes drifting past me to her son.

"What are the Doctors saying?" Sam asked.

"That it's a kind of post-traumatic stress," Andrea answered.

"That can't be easy. For either of you."

"We moved in with my Dad. He helps out a lot. It's just… when I think about what Lucas went through, what he saw..." Andrea trailed off quietly as her eyes turned glossy with unshed tears.

"Kids are strong," I reassured. "You'd be surprised what they can deal with."

"You know, he used to have such life. He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there. Drawing those pictures, playing with those army men. I just wish–-" Andrea stopped mid-sentence, her woeful expression turning upward into a forced smile. Leaves crunched behind me, and I turned to find Lucas approaching with a paper in his grasp. "Hey, sweetie," Andrea smiled, holding a hand out for him.

Without looking up, he jutted out the paper toward me. Andrea looked taken aback by his gesture, but she didn't say anything. I took the page, scanning the drawing of a house. "Thanks, Lucas," I said. Unsurprisingly, he didn't respond and retreated to his bench.

Out of options, we said goodbye to a slightly confused Andrea and returned to the Impala. Unexpectedly, Tori followed me to the driver's side, calling, "Hey."

"What's up?" I asked, facing her.

"What did Lucas give you?" She inquired. That wasn't the real question she wanted to ask. I could see it in her eyes.

"Oh, yeah," I handed her the drawing.

Pinching it carefully between two fingers, Tori raised an eyebrow. "A house?"

I shrugged. "Yeah."

"What does that mean?" She handed me the drawing back, and I folded it up, stuffing it into my pocket.

"I got no clue," I said.

"Hm," Tori hummed, pursing her lips in thought.

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything."

She took my hand in hers. "He likes you. You were good with him. "

I scoffed lightly, shaking my head. "No, I–"

"Yes. Don't argue with me." She squeezed my hand and poked my chest playfully. "It was cute," she lit up, and it was damn hard not to get lost in those pools of shimmering blue. Everything else turned grainy and unfocused as she reached up on her toes to kiss me. It was a quick peck, but my heart still fluttered. Would that ever go away? I doubt it; I didn't want it to.

The car jostled beside us, expanding my tunnel vision. The reason for the movement was Sam leaning against the Impala, clasped hands resting on the roof. He sported a soft smile that he was undoubtedly wearing while watching us the entire time. I cleared my throat, looking for an escape from the situation. I hated myself for it, but Tori didn't look upset. Instead, she patted my chest comfortingly before disappearing into the backseat. Maybe one day I'd be comfortable but today was not that day.


-TPOV-

After we arrived back at the motel, Sam decided to take a drive to the library in hopes he could find out more information not available online. Any other time Dean and I would've taken this opportunity to have a little fun, but something felt… off. It had since the park. He lounged on our bed, propped up against the headboard—arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles. The moment Dean returned from speaking to Lucas, he'd become withdrawn. He developed a soft spot for the boy because of how similar their situations were. Dean related to him in ways no one else really could. Both witnessed a parent being taken away by something unexplained before they learned how to express themselves; neither knew how to deal with it. I understood to an extent, but I was much older when tragedy struck. It didn't make it easier—not by a long shot—but at least I could process my grief. Dean never had, not even now. Nobody gave him the tools to do so.

I made my way to the other side of the bed, pushing the laundry bag to the foot so I could sit next to Dean. "Lucas will be okay," I reassured, tucking my long bangs behind my ear to get them out of my face.

"You think so?" He asked.

"I do. Andrea will get him the help he needs to get through it."

"I hope so…" Dean muttered, staring down at his boots for a moment. He pulled in a deep breath and lifted an arm to beckon me to his side, bouncing out of the funk he was in. I gladly snuggled into him, resting my head on his shoulder.

I was always amazed—and consistently given whiplash—by his ability to jerk his emotions backward and forward. Over the years, he'd gotten more comfortable lowering his carefully constructed wall and letting me in. Still, sometimes old habits die hard, and his instinct to protect himself, and those around him from worry, took over.

"It's a two-way street, you know," I mumbled.

"Hm?" He hummed, absentmindedly playing with the hem of my shirt.

"I talked to you, you should talk to me," I said softly.

"'Bout what?" He feigned ignorance.

"Dean," I scolded gently, lifting my head to look into his eyes. "You know what.". No

Thankfully, his barricade slipped enough for me to see his eyes flicker with fear—I could've sworn I saw the flash of a flame in their emerald reflection. "I just don't want to talk about it," he uttered quietly. "It's over, you know?"

"It's never over," I told him honestly. Perpetuating this charade that because the event that took his Mother from him happened so long ago, it didn't affect him anymore would only do more harm than good.

"We've already talked about it," he insisted.

"Yeah, then. This is now."

"It's the same. I swear to you, it is," Dean said, stroking his thumb against my chin.

I didn't believe him for a moment, but instead of forcing the subject, I took his face gently between my hands and pressed my lips to his. The hurt, the pain—I could never take that away from him, but I could soothe the ache it caused; I could let him know I would be there for him.

Dean shifted slightly to the right, pulling me to where I was sitting more on his lap, hands roaming through my hair and lower back, sliding underneath my shirt. It wasn't enough, I needed more. I groaned slightly as our kiss deepened and pulled away abruptly to take off my shirt and toss it to the side. Dean tried to reach for me again, but I moved his hands away, gently pushing him back against the headboard as I climbed on top, shifting my hips so they settled against his own. Dean let out a muffled moan, lifting his hips in a slight thrust. One of his hands cupped my backside, pulling me downward in an attempt to cause more friction. This time, I let him take the lead, bending downward to take his mouth in mine in a heated kiss, his tongue parting my lips as his other hand moved to cup my breast.

Without warning, the door swung open, and Sam rushed inside. "Oh my god!" He exclaimed, turning around. I cursed under my breath as I scrambled off Dean, folding my arms across my chest after I sat cross-legged on the other side of the bed, blowing away the strands of hair that fell into my face. "Do you– should I come back later?" Sam asked.

"Yes–" Dean barked while I answered, "No." Dean shot me a displeased look, and I shrugged timidly, mouthing sorry.

"I just– I'm gonna–" Sam held the doorknob tightly, moving back and forth on his feet until he stopped halfway outside. "Will Carlton is dead," he announced quickly.

"What?" I asked, spine straightening at the unexpected news. How on earth could he be dead? We just spoke to him this morning, and other than his mournfulness from the loss of his sister, everything appeared fine.

Dean sat up with a frustrated exhale to pick up my shirt from the floor, keeping a hand draped over his lower half. "How?" He asked, tossing the article of clothing to me.

"Can I come in?" Sam wondered.

Dean waited until my shirt was in place to say, "Yes, Sam," rolling his eyes as he did so.

Sam peered into the room, disgusted when he saw his brother's position. "I don't think I want to."

"Shut up," Dean waved him off annoyedly. "Get in."

"What happened, Sam?" I pressed, pulling my hair out of my shirt and allowing it to fall over my shoulder. "To Will."

"He drowned," he explained, finally entering the room. "But I think it's safe to say we can rule out Nessie."

"What do you mean?"

"He drowned in the sink."

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, unsure I heard him correctly. Sam simply nodded.

"What the hell?" Dean questioned incredulously. "How does somebody drown in a sink?"

"No clue," Sam said with a shrug. "But apparently, it's possible."

"Great, well, now I'm gonna be nervous washing my hands," Dean quipped, about to get up when he looked at his lap and lowered back down to the mattress.

Sam's nose scrunched in revulsion, but before he could make another comment, I spoke, trying to keep this conversation on track before it derailed again. "Then it can't be a creature. It's gotta be something else."

"Yeah, but what?" Sam asked, dropping his sour expression when he looked at me.

"Water wraith, maybe?" Dean suggested. "Some kind of… uh–" he paused, glancing back at me with a speculating look. Somehow I knew what he was silently asking permission to say and prepared myself before giving him a nod. "A demon," he finally uttered and cleared his throat. "I mean, something that controls water… water that comes from the same source."

"So, the lake," I said.

"Yeah."

"Which would explain why it's upping the body count," Sam interjected. "The lake is draining. It'll be dry in a few months. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, it's running out of time."

"And if it can get through the pipes, it can get to anyone, almost anywhere," Dean said, resting an elbow on his knee. "This is gonna happen again soon."

"Yeah, but the problem is, we don't know when or where," I added.

"But we do know one thing for sure," Sam said, holding up a pointer finger. "We know this has got something to do with Bill Carlton."

"Yeah, it took both his kids," Dean agreed.

"And I've been asking around. Lucas's dad, Chris—Bill Carlton's godson."

"So, they're all connected?" I said.

"Looks like."

This time when Dean moved to stand, he actually followed through. "Let's go pay Mr. Carlton a visit."


Back at the Carlton's home, a thick fog of woe hung over the property. It was hard to imagine that this family was going about their routine just days ago, completely unaware of how quickly things would crumble in the coming hours. It wasn't difficult to find Bill; he was in the same spot as the other day—sitting on the dock bench with his head in his hands. If I thought he was in bad shape before, it was nothing compared to this. You could almost taste the heartache dripping off of him.

"Mr. Carlton?" Sam called as we approached. Bill glanced up but refused to speak. His eyes drifted back to the water. "We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

"We're from the Department–" Dean began, only to get cut off.

"I don't care who you're with," Bill said. "I've answered enough questions today."

"Mr. Carlton, Will said he saw something out there," I said, nodding to the expansive water. "Have you ever seen anything?" I asked, gaining no reply.

"Sophie's drowning and Will's death—we think there might be a connection to you or your family," Sam informed him.

"My children are gone. It– it's worse than dying." Bill muttered. "Go away. Please."

Sam was the first to relent, taking the lead in exiting the dock. Dean and I followed soon after, the former watching Bill closely as we left. "What do you think?" Sam asked on our way back to the car.

"He's been through hell," I replied. "But he's hiding something."

"I thought so, too," Dean said, rounding the front of the car.

Sam let out a heavy breath, leaning on the Impala. "So, now what?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer but froze, his eyes locked on something behind us. All I saw when I followed his gaze was the Carlton's home. Nobody was there. "What is it?" I asked him.

"Maybe Bill's not the only one who knows something," Dean said, reaching into his pocket to show the drawing Lucas had given him. I couldn't believe I didn't notice before, but it was a near-perfect recreation of the home behind us. There's no way it was a coincidence.


-DPOV-

Thankfully, Andrea was home when we arrived. For a brief moment, she looked hesitant to open the door when she peeked out of the window and saw us. I couldn't blame her; as of late, everywhere she turned, we were there. If I were her, I'd be freaked out, too. Despite herself, Andrea cracked open the door. "Can I help you?" She asked.

"Hey, Andrea," I smiled. "Listen, we don't want to bother you, but… is it possible for me to talk to Lucas again?"

Andrea's shoulders dropped, and she rested her weight on the door. "Why?"

"Because he could be a big help."

"I don't see how," she said. "I'm sorry, I don't think it's a good idea."

"I just need to talk to him." I insisted as gently as possible. "Just for a few minutes."

"He won't say anything. What good's it gonna do?" She asked, confused.

"Andrea, something is going on out there," Tori chimed in. "It's possible more people could get hurt."

"My husband, the others—they just drowned. That's all."

"If that's what you really believe, then we'll go," I told her. "But if you think there's even a possibility that something else could be going on here, please let me talk to your son."

A painfully quiet moment passed between us as Andrea debated my words. I thought she'd slam the door in our faces, so my surprise when she opened it and stepped aside to allow us entry was immeasurable. Sam headed inside first, and I gestured for Tori to follow him—wanting to take a moment to ready myself before I stepped into the inevitable. My pulse spiked. To try and calm myself somewhat, I placed a hand on the small of Tori's back as she stepped over the threshold. Andrea led us upstairs to the first room on the left.

The door to the light-blue room was open, sunlight streaming through the white curtains draped over the window. At first glance, it looked like a typical child's bedroom, but the longer I stared at the various toys lying around, the more apparent the thick layers of dust coating them became. The only things that didn't have a spec of dust were his drawing supplies scattered around him in the middle of the room and the few army men he had with him at the park.

Knowing why I was hesitating, Tori placed a comforting hand on my arm—a gentle reminder that she was there. I took a deep breath and walked over to Lucas, crouching beside him. From this angle, I could see what he was drawing this time; a red bicycle. "Hey, Lucas," I said. "You remember me?"

Even though he didn't answer, I knew he did, so I kept going.

"You know, I wanted to thank you for that last drawing. But the thing is, I need your help again." I requested, opening the picture of the Carlton's home and laying it in front of him. "How did you know to draw this?" Nothing. "Did you know something bad was gonna happen?" Nothing. "Maybe you could nod yes or no for me."

Of course, still nothing. Not even so much as a flinch in my direction; he just kept scribbling at that red bicycle.

"You're scared. It's okay. I understand," I said. For some reason, the urge to relate to this strange boy was stronger than the fear of Sam seeing me vulnerable. "See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave."

Even from here, I could see the tears shining in Tori's eyes. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, no doubt trying to keep them at bay. If I got that reaction from anybody else, I'd definitely feel ashamed; I didn't want pity. I didn't need it. But it was different with her. Everything was. She didn't pity me; she expressed my pain in ways I didn't allow myself to. Still, I didn't like seeing her cry and had to look away.

"And maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too." I finally finished. Lucas suddenly dropped the crayon and looked up at me for the first time. His eyes weighed with fear. He pushed a paper into my hands and hurriedly looked away, snatching another crayon and starting on a fresh piece of paper.

On it was a near-perfect drawing of a white church with a yellow house next to it and a boy with a blue baseball cap and red bicycle in front of a dark wooden fence that lined the front of the property.

"Thanks, Lucas." I said.


-TPOV-

From the second story of that house to the Impala, Sam kept his gaze on his brother, eyes overflown with empathy—the intensity of the emotion bringing out their blue hues. To receive a glimpse of the pain Dean experienced at such a young age was no doubt a revelation for Sam. Judging by how his breathing slowed as Dean spoke, it was something he had never even thought of.

Of course, Dean pretended to ignore the way Sam was watching him—he'd do that forever if given a chance. Feigning that something wasn't there was far preferable to addressing the elephant in the room for him; it always had been. I struggled to believe it never would be.

Inside the Impala, I leaned over the front seat to get a better look at the picture Sam was holding that Lucas had drawn for Dean. A white church, a yellow house this time, a boy in a blue baseball cap, and a red bicycle.

Dean started up the Impala, pulling out onto the long stretch of road leading away from the Devins' home. "Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died," he said.

"There are cases going through a traumatic experience that could make people more sensitive to premonitions—psychic tendencies," Sam said.

"Especially kids," I added. "They're already so open to it."

"Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow? I mean, it's only a matter of time before somebody else drowns," Dean said hurriedly. Each encounter with Lucas had him increasingly paranoid, and while it was sweet to see their interactions, I wasn't sure it was something I wanted to continue. "So if you got a better lead, please."

"Alright," Sam sighed. "We got another house to find."

"Do you know how many yellow two-story homes there probably are in this town?" I asked. "It's impossible."

Sam was about to agree when he stopped, staring at the picture with a furrowed brow. "Wait, see this church? I bet there's less than a thousand of those around here."

"Oh, college boy thinks he's so smart." Dean mocked in jest.

Rather than getting upset by his brother's teasing, Sam smiled. I knew from the expression his face settled into exactly what was coming and braced myself for the memories it'd trudge up for Dean.

"You know, um..." Sam started tentatively, playing with the paper between his fingers. "What you said about Mom… you never told me that before."

Dean's eyes flicked to mine in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. "It's no big deal." He shrugged. Before Sam could get another word in, he continued. "Oh god, we're not gonna have to hug or anything, are we?"

"We should," I teased, hoping to take the spotlight off the subject he'd rather leave in the dark for now. "Just a big, fat group hug," I said, tossing my arms around their shoulders. Sam chuckled.

"Oh, gross," Dean complained. "I'll pass."


Thanks to Sam, it only took us a couple of hours to arrive at our destination. Despite it being the second instance, I couldn't get over how similar the crayon scribbles were to the real thing. Like in Lucas's drawing, a little yellow house with a tall brown fence surrounding the property was perfectly situated behind a white church with thick trees. The only thing missing was the red bike and the little boy.

Wasting time was not an option, so we walked up the pathway to the front door and knocked on it. I could hear some shuffling on the other side before an elderly woman answered, peering up at us through the sliver of the open door. "Can I help you?" She asked with curious eyes.

"We're sorry to bother you, ma'am," Dean said politely. Sensing no harm, she opened the door the rest of the way. "Does a little boy live here, by chance? He might wear a blue ball cap—has a red bicycle."

The guard she began to release bounced back into place. "No, sir," she replied adamantly. "Not for a very long time. My son's been gone for thirty-five years now."

"Thirty-five years?" I repeated in disbelief. The woman nodded.

"Mrs…" Sam trailed off respectfully.

"Sweeney," she informed.

"Mrs. Sweeney, do you mind if we ask you a couple questions about him?"

Unable to resist the puppy-dog eyes Sam was giving her, the grey-haired woman nodded and stepped aside to allow us in. Her home was quaint, full of knick-knacks and personal belongings that no doubt held a lot of sentimental value. Atop the fireplace mantle sat a photograph of a little boy wearing a blue baseball cap, similar to the child from Lucas's drawing.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dean asked.

"I wish I knew," Mrs. Sweeney replied in a sad, strained voice.

"You never found out?" I asked.

"He just disappeared. And the police never–" she paused, swallowing hard. "Losing him—you know, it's worse than dying." Ms. Sweeney muttered, her voice shaking. I recalled those same words said by Bill Carlton earlier today.

"Did he disappear from here?" Sam inquired. "I mean, from this house?"

Mrs. Sweeney shook her head. "He was supposed to ride his bike straight home after school, and he never showed up."

"I'm so sorry," I told her. Mrs. Sweeney nodded sadly.

Dean approached a mirror hanging on the wall, inspecting a photograph sandwiched between the glass and metal. He picked it up curiously, holding it out to me with a cocked eyebrow. Two boys no older than eleven stood beside a red bicycle. The taller one had an arm wrapped around the other boy's shoulder.

"Peter Sweeney and Bill Carlton, nineteen-seventy," Dean read, cocking an eyebrow.

"Those two were very close," Mrs. Sweeney informed. "They spent nearly every day together."

Even the day he went missing? I thought, sharing a look with the boys, who I could tell were thinking similarly. We thanked the mournful woman for her time and left to discuss this newfound information in the Impala.

"Okay, this little boy Peter Sweeney vanishes, and this is all connected to Bill Carlton somehow," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Bill sure as hell seems to be hiding something, huh?"

"Not well, either," I said. At first, I thought it was his way of coping with his daughter's death, but now I knew… it was much more.

"And Bill, the people he loves, they're all getting punished," Sam said.

"Maybe Bill did something to Peter."

"What if Bill killed him?"

Dean nodded, thinking it over. "Peter's spirit would be furious. It'd want revenge. It's possible."

"I guess we don't need Lucas to tell us our next stop this time, huh?" I asked.

"Nope," Dean said, putting the car in drive and pulling out onto the road.

Back at the Carlton's home for the third time today, the boys marched up the porch steps to the door, knocking on it hard enough to rattle the knob. I lingered back, leaning on the railing as an ever-intensifying breeze whipped through the air, forcing the musty scent of the lake directly up my nostrils.

"Mr. Carlton?" Sam called, knocking again.

A low, rumbling rattle in the distance called my attention, and I craned my neck toward it. Across the lake, Bill Carlton drove his boat further and further out. "Uh, guys?" I called the boys, pointing to the boat when they looked my way.

We ran to the edge of the dock, the wood creaking beneath our rushed footsteps. "Mr. Carlton!" Dean yelled, voice echoing across the water. "You need to come back! Come out of the water!"

It was no use; no matter how many times we called, he ignored us completely. We could only stand there and watch as the water rose, flipping the boat over. I wanted to be hopeful and believe that when the boat returned to its normal state, Bill would be clinging to the steering wheel. But he was gone, having vanished into the lake much like his daughter days prior.


Of course, because we called the cops, Sheriff Devins requested the three of us to take a trip back to the station to talk. I don't think he figured we had anything to do with it—he was just doing his job. Maybe in an overtly cautious manner, but I couldn't fault him for it.

Inside his office, we'd barely gotten to say more than two words to him before Andrea entered, holding Lucas's hand and a bag clasped in the other. Lucas looked… off. Moreso than usual. He sat down beside his Mom on the couch but never stopped rocking back and forth. Andrea attempted to push his hair out of his face with each sway, but it fell back every time.

"Baby, what's wrong?" Andrea asked her son, who fidgeted frantically.

Sheriff Devins quickly motioned for us to leave and led us out of the office. Hearing the door pop open, Andrea looked up in surprise. "Sam, Dean, Tori–" she smiled through her worry, standing to her feet. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Devins' brows lifted. "So now you're on a first-name basis," he grumbled. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought you dinner," Andrea said, lifting a bag.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't really have the time." Sheriff Devins apologized, eyes darting nervously to his grandson.

"I heard about Bill Carlton. Is it true? Is something going on with the lake?"

The Sheriff looked away briefly, seeming uncomfortable with the questions. "Right now, we don't know what the truth is," he said. "But I think it might be better if you and Lucas went on home."

At the mention of home, Lucas's head snapped up, and he bolted off the couch and over to Dean. He grabbed his arm, whimpering pleadingly. "Lucas, what is it?" Dean asked, bending down to be at eye level with the boy as he attempted to calm him down. "Lucas."

I couldn't take seeing him so upset and tried to intervene. "Hey, Lucas, it's okay," I said, crouching beside Dean, trying my best to comfort the frantic boy. For the first time, Lucas looked directly into my eyes. My breath caught in my throat at the fear I saw etched into his irises. It scared me.

"I'm sorry," Andrea apologized as she pulled Lucas away when he started hyperventilating. He stared at us the entire time, even through the glass door. The only thing that broke his terrified gaze was he and his Mom rounding the corner.

The whole indecent shook me to my core. I'd never seen a child so scared before. Dean lightly placed his hand on the small of my back, trying to comfort me as much as he could, even though I knew he was pretty freaked out, too.

Sheriff Devins tossed his jacket down onto the couch and stomped back into his office, beckoning us to follow. The boys and I exchanged a look, silently deciding to follow after the disgruntled Sheriff to finish the conversation that never got properly started. "Okay, just so I'm clear, you see… something attacked Bill's boat, sending Bill—who is a very good swimmer, by the way—into the drink, and you never see him again?" Sheriff Devins asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, that about sums it up," Dean said with a nod.

"And I'm supposed to believe this, even though I've already sonar-swept that entire lake? And what you're describing is impossible? And you're not really Wildlife Service?" He rattled off rhetorical questions, but the last made my eyes widen. How did he know? "That's right, I checked," he said. "Department's never heard of you three."

Dean laughed nervously. "See, now; we can explain that."

"Enough. The only reason you're breathing free air is one of Bill's neighbors saw him steering out that boat just before you did. So, we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton's disappearance," Sheriff Devins paused pointedly. "Or, we can chalk this all up to a bad day, you get into your car, you put this town in your rearview mirror, and you don't ever darken my doorstep again."

Before either of the boys—namely, Dean—could say anything, I nodded. "Sorry, Sheriff," I said. "We just wanted to help."

"Get going," he ordered.

It was clear that Dean didn't want to go; the entire way to the Impala, he was dragging his feet, a seemingly permanent scowl on his face. "Do you want me to drive?" I offered when he hesitated to open the driver's door.

"No," Dean replied, shaking his head. "No, I'm good."

"Okay," I relented, sharing a dubious look with Sam.

We'd only been driving for ten minutes when the car jerked to a stop at a red light that only took a few moments to turn green. When the Impala didn't lurch forward, I quickly glanced behind us to check if anyone was there, but thankfully the road was empty.

To ensure Dean was okay, I tapped him on the shoulder. "Light's green, babe," I said.

"What?" Dean asked, blinking a few times to clear his vision.

"The light. It's green," Sam said, pointing to the traffic light. Dean nodded, pressing the gas pedal just enough to turn the Impala right instead of left like he was supposed to. I already knew what he was doing. "Uh, the interstate's the other way."

"I know."

"This job, I think it's over."

"I'm not so sure."

"But if Bill murdered Peter Sweeney and Peter's spirit got its revenge, case closed." Sam tried to reason. "The spirit should be at rest."

"Alright, so what if we take off and this thing isn't done?" Dean questioned. "You know, what if we've missed something? What if more people get hurt?"

"But why would you think that?"

"Because Lucas was really scared."

"That's what this is about?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. He glanced back at me in question.

"Come on," Dean huffed, shoulders dropping in disappointment. "I can't be the only one who saw it."

"You're not. Something was wrong with him," I agreed. The entire time Lucas didn't say a word—barely even moved, never made a sound—and he was suddenly panicking, on the verge of tears. Something wasn't right.

"So, what are we supposed to do?" Sam wondered. "I don't think we can help him."

"Look, I just don't want to leave this town until I know the kid's okay," Dean insisted, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I knew there was so much more he wanted to say, but he didn't need to. Helping Lucas—saving him—it's what he wished someone would've done for him when he was in the same situation.

Having no clue of his reasoning, Sam laughed. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled, putting his frustration into accelerating down the road.

In just under ten minutes, we arrived back at Andrea's house. The moon cast a blanket of white light over the quiet property. If it weren't for the few lights on inside, I would've thought they'd gone to sleep for the night.

"Are you sure about this?" Sam asked as we walked up the front porch steps. "It's pretty late."

Ignoring him, Dean rang the doorbell impatiently. No more than a second later, Lucas flung the door open, his petrified eyes wide as softballs. "Lucas? Where's your Mom?" I asked, confused. He grabbed my arm, pulling it a few times before letting go and running for the stairs.

Of course, we hurried to follow. It didn't take long to figure out why he was so scared. Water ran down the stairs, gushing out from underneath one of the doors Lucas frenziedly pounded on. Dean gently pushed him over to me, so he was out of the way. Despite his efforts to flee, I held Lucas tightly. I had no idea what was on the other side of that door, but judging by what happened to Will Carlton, I couldn't imagine it was anything good. I just hoped we weren't too late.

It only took one swift kick by Dean to the center of the door for its lock to crumble, allowing the boys entry. Water flooded the white tile floor, pouring out from Andrea's overflowing bathroom. I never thought I'd be glad to see someone struggling, but Andrea's desperate attempts to pull herself from the water signaled that she was still alive. And that was something to be more than happy for.

Slipping on the wet floor, the boys skidded to the tub, where they both reached into the water, trying to free her. Ensuring we were far enough away that Lucas couldn't see any of this, all I heard was Andrea's gasp for air and another loud splash.

Lucas whimpered, clinging to me. "It's okay," I reassured. "She's gonna be okay."

After what felt like an eternity of silent struggling, a wet thump was followed by Andrea's heavy breathing. "Guys?" I called, awaiting the answer to my silent question. Was she alright?

"She's okay," Dean announced. I released a breath of relief and my grasp on Lucas, who was eager to dash to his mother's side. She was still in Sam's arms on the floor, but that didn't stop Lucas from throwing himself into her embrace.

When each of them calmed down enough to part ways, I hurriedly grabbed a towel for Andrea to throw around herself and helped her to her feet. We cleaned up as much water as we could while she went to get dressed and change Lucas out of his damp clothes. Dean never stopped scowling at the bathtub.

Eventually, we found ourselves back downstairs. I sat on the couch beside Andrea, who was wearing some comfortable clothes and a blanket draped around her shoulders. She nursed a warm cup of tea, taking slow, deliberate sips every few minutes. She hadn't spoken much, and I couldn't blame her. None of us wanted to pry, but we had to get to the bottom of this fast. I'm sure the spirit wasn't too happy about the fact that we put an end to its steady stream of revenge. There's no telling when it would strike next; we couldn't afford to wait.

"Andrea," Sam began tentatively. "Can you tell us what happened?"

"No. It doesn't make any sense," she whispered, wiping away her tears with her sleeve. I nodded to Sam to hand her a tissue from the box sitting on the end table. He reached from his spot on the armchair, easily plucking one from the box and handing it to Andrea. She accepted it with a sniffle, patting her cheeks. "I'm going crazy," she said.

"You're not," I told her. "Whatever happened, it's not in your head. We need to know everything."

"I heard–" she paused. "I thought I heard… a voice."

"What did it say?" Sam asked.

"It said… 'come play with me,'" Andrea muttered. She shook her head at herself, a fresh set of tears streaming down her face. "What's happening?" She cried. I rubbed her back gently, trying to offer some comfort.

The sound of his footsteps called my attention to the doorway as Dean entered, a large, open book in his hand. I furrowed my brow in question, and he flashed his in response, the look on his face saying, wait till you hear this shit. I straightened in my chair to peer at the book as he put it down in front of Andrea. It was a photo album with several pictures of boy scouts smiling widely at the camera across two paces. put the book down in front of Andrea,

"Do you recognize the kids in these pictures?" Dean asked her, tapping on one of them.

"What?" Andrea asked, confused. She blinked a few times to clear her vision. "Um, no. I mean, except that's my dad right there," she pointed to one of the boys. "He must have been about twelve in these pictures."

Dean addressed Sam and me, saying, "Chris Barr's drowning. The connection wasn't to Bill Carlton. It must have been to the Sheriff."

"So, Bill and Sheriff Devins were both involved with Peter," I deduced. "It all makes sense."

"What about Chris? And my Dad?" Andrea questioned. "What are you talking about?"

Dean was about to answer when something behind us caught his eye. "Lucas?" He called. I followed his gaze to the large bay window across the room, finding Lucas staring blankly outside.

"Lucas, what's the matter?" I asked. He didn't cast so much as a glance and walked to the door.

Before he stepped foot outside, Dean was already on his way to follow the boy. I hurriedly followed along, with Andrea and Sam behind. Lucas headed down the short hill behind their home, stopping between two large trees.

"Lucas, honey?" Andrea called out hesitantly. The boy looked down at the grass at his feet, then over his shoulder at Dean with a pleading look.

"You and Lucas get back to the house and stay there, okay?" Dean told Andrea. She shot him a skeptical look but still agreed with a nod, taking Lucas by the hand and leading him inside.

While the boys went to grab a couple of shovels from the Impala, I stayed near the spot Lucas signaled to us so we wouldn't lose it. By now, the sun had slowly risen, casting coral hues across light grey clouds. The mixture of colors appeared eerie instead of calming. Any other day, I'd probably enjoy it. But today, its beauty was lost on me.

Returning with the shovels, Dean tossed one to me, and we started digging. It wasn't long before Sam's shovel hit something with a loud clang. We shared a look and got to our knees to uncover the items by removing the thin layer of dirt with our hands. The soil was cold, but nowhere near as freezing as the metal my fingers came into contact with.

"What is that?" I asked, pausing to take a breather. I wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand, careful not to smear dirt on my face.

"I don't know," Sam grunted, using his body weight to shift the object. "You wanna help out a little, Dean?" He asked his brother, who stopped when I did.

"Oh, I'm sorry; who dug out half of that shit?" Dean asked, pointing to the mound of dirt beside us. I rolled my eyes and reached back into the shallow hole, tugging on the large item while they bickered.

"You're acting like I didn't do anything!" Sam exclaimed.

Dean scoffed. "Barely."

Huffing, I practically threw myself back on my haunches. "Can you two stop it?" I asked sharply. "Come on," I nodded to the pit.

With only a few mumbled comments under Dean's breath, the three of us all grabbed ahold of the metal and pulled. One good haul was all it took to remove it. A rush of sadness filled the atmosphere; any immature tension crumbled away. Before us, covered in dirt and rust, was a red bicycle. The one from Lucas's drawing, the one from the photograph.

"Peter's bike," Sam muttered sadly.

"Who are you?" Sheriff Devins' unmistakable voice suddenly came from behind us. I turned around, eyes widening when I saw the gun he had trained on us. I didn't think he'd be happy about all this, but I certainly wasn't expecting… that.

"Put the gun down, Jake," Sam instructed calmly, holding his hands up.

He nodded to the bike. "How did you know that was there?"

"What happened?" Dean asked gruffly, unaffected by the pistol Devins pointed at him when he started speaking. "You and Bill killed Peter, drowned him in the lake, and then buried the bike? You can't bury the truth, Jake. Nothing stays buried."

His air of confidence was slipping. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Devins claimed. I doubt he expected us to know what we did, and judging by how his eyes darted frantically to the bike and back to us—we were correct.

"You and Bill killed Peter Sweeney thirty-five years ago. That's what the hell I'm talking about," Dean said sharply, lifting an eyebrow. "And now you got one seriously pissed-off spirit."

"Dad!" Andrea shouted, rushing out of the house.

"Jake, you don't understand," I began, my tone a little softer than Dean's. "This spirit is going to take Andrea and Lucas. It wants to take everyone you love and drown them so you can feel the same pain Peter's Mom felt. And then it'll take you. It won't stop until it gets what it wants."

"Yeah, and how do you know that?" Devins spat, pointing the gun at me. Beside me, Dean attempted to step between me and the gun, but Sam thought fast and held him back. This situation didn't need to escalate, and his getting in the middle would do just that.

"Because that's what it did to Bill Carlton," I answered. "His kids are gone, and now he is, too."

"Listen to yourselves," Devins scoffed. "You're insane."

"I don't really give a rat's ass what you think of us," Dean snarled, bringing Jake's focus—and gun—back to him and off of me. "But if we're gonna bring down this spirit, we need to find the remains, salt them, and burn them into dust. Now tell me you buried Peter somewhere. Tell me you didn't just let him go in the lake."

"Dad, is any of this true?" Andrea asked, looking at her father with wary eyes.

"No. Don't listen to them," he told her. "They're liars, and they're dangerous."

"Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad, look at me." Andrea cried out. Jake turned to face her, his face sullen. "Tell me you– you didn't kill anyone."

I suppose he couldn't handle lying to her face again because Devins opted to turn away, training his eyes on the lake and lowering his weapon. Andrea's answer lay within his silence, and a heartbroken sob escaped her lips before she clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle any more cries.

"Billy and I were at the lake," Devins began to explain, much to my surprise. "Peter was the smallest one. We always bullied him, but this time, it got rough. We were holding his head under the water. We didn't mean to. But we held him under too long, and he drowned," he finished monotonically. All I could think about was Peter. He must have been terrified, clinging to life as his supposed friends took it from him. Devins turned back to the boys and me. "We let the body go, and it sank."

Unable to stop myself, I shook my head in upset disapproval. Sam held a glint of understanding in his gaze, one that his brother did not reciprocate. Dean's tense posture never changed despite the threat of being shot long gone. He was too angry.

"Andrea, we were kids," Devins pleaded with his daughter. "We were so scared. It was a mistake," he insisted. Perhaps they were kids, but they knew right from wrong—enough to bury the evidence and make a pact never to speak of it again. "But to say that I have anything to do with these drownings, with Chris, because of some ghost?" He paused, glancing over at us. "It's not rational."

"Alright, listen to me, all of you," Dean started shortly. "We need to get you away from this lake, as far as we can, right now."

"Yeah," Andrea agreed, about to head back to the house when her eyes drifted past us. They went round, laced with fear. Lucas was walking out onto the dock, heading for the water.

"Lucas!" Devins shouted, rushing past us toward his grandson. Dean quickly followed, easily passing him. He called for Lucas—we all did—but it made no difference. The boy bent down at the edge of the dock, seemingly entranced by something within the water.

"Baby, stay where you are!" Andrea pleaded, trying to get him to listen. Thankfully, Lucas finally turned his head to look at her, but as soon as he did, a discolored hand flew out from the depths, pulling him into the water. Andrea screamed, rushing for the water's edge. I dashed after her, grabbing her arm to stop her. "Let me go!" She shouted.

"No, Andrea!" I demanded, taking her away from the uneasy waves despite her fighting against me. By now, Sam had already jumped into the water, and Dean quickly followed. "You won't do Lucas any good if you're dead," I told her sternly. Perhaps it was harsh, but it made her stop struggling. "They will find him, okay?" I added, softening my tone. "Just stay here, please."

"O– okay," Andrea nodded nervously, holding my forearms so tightly, I'd probably have bruised. But I didn't care if it brought her some solace.

The boys came up for breaths of air, one right after the other, both empty-handed. "Sam?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head in response, and they dove under again.

"Lucas, where are you?" Andrea cried out, still clutching me.

Devins pulled off his jacket, dropping it to the ground as he made his way to the shallow part of the lake. "Jake, what are you doing?" I asked.

He ignored me, voice desperate as he spoke to the nothingness below. "Peter, if you can hear me… please, Peter, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Daddy, no!" Andrea exclaimed. I had to hold her back yet again as she frantically tried to pull out of my grasp.

"Jake, stop!" I shouted.

"Peter. Lucas—he's just a little boy. Please, it's not his fault. It's mine," Devins uttered, moving deeper into the water. "Please take me." A small head popped out of the water, its slimy wet hair clinging to a green-tinted forehead. "Just let it be over!" Devins shouted. In the blink of an eye, he was pulled down with a huge splash.

"Daddy!" Andrea sobbed, clinging to me. "No!"

This man had a daughter and a grandson that needed him. What he did was horrible, but I think he was genuinely sorry. He'd have to live with what he'd done for the rest of his life. Guilt eats you up from the inside out; it torments you. And that would be payment enough.

I turned Andrea around, locking my eyes on hers. "Stay here. If you go in there, he'll just take you, too."

Andrea nodded fearfully, falling to the ground as I finally let her go. I neared the water, taking a deep breath of the salty air, letting it fill my lungs. The erratic water was freezing, soaking straight through my jeans and penetrating my bones. I ignored it and jumped in. The further down I got, the less visible it became. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. By pure luck, I managed to spot Devins' arm and grabbed it. Attempting to pull him out was like trying to lift a ton of bricks.

My grip on his arm was slipping. No matter how deeply I dug my nails into his flesh, it didn't seem to matter; Peter didn't want to let go. My chest burned, the fire spreading into my throat as I ran out of breath. The deeper we plunged, the more pressure built, filling my ears with stabbing pain.

How could I let go? His family needed him; I had to save him.


-DPOV-

Somehow, I found Lucas drifting toward the more shallow part of the lake, breaking the surface with him in my arms. H seemed to be breathing—from what I could tell, anyway. Exhausted from navigating the rough water and weighed down by my sopping wet clothes, I trudged up the shore carrying Lucas. An eager Andrea met me halfway. She clutched her son tightly, kissing the top of his head. I scanned the immediate area, finding Sheriff Devins—and, more importantly, Tori—missing.

"Where's everyone?" I asked, alerting Sam to their missing presence. He popped up, looking around as I added, "Where's Tori?"

"She went in after my Dad… but they never came back up," Andrea uttered, a new set of tears streaming down her face.

I didn't hesitate, diving back into the nearly calm water. Panic rose, constricting my already tight chest. Nothing but negative thoughts flew through my head. What if something happened? What if I couldn't find her? No, I couldn't think like that. I couldn't let fear take over, not now.

So I pushed deeper, ignoring the burning in my limbs as I swam. Though the water was cloudy, I saw a whisp of blonde hair struggling against the current about a yard out from the shore. The closer I got, the better I could make out what was before me. I would've let out a relieved breath if my lungs weren't already burning. She was alive, grasping what appeared to be an arm. Devins was quickly drifting to the bottom of the lake, his eyes shut and body completely still.

The calm that overtook me when I clasped Tori's arm was immeasurable. Her head whipped around, eyes wide and fearful until it registered who was grabbing her. For a moment, I almost tried to help her pull Devins until I took in her appearance. A deep blue shade tinted her lips; her skin was ashen. All I cared about anymore was getting her out of this water.

Even though I was tired, the adrenaline that kicked in was enough to allow me to break her grip on his arm. Despite her struggling to clasp it again, I anchored an arm around her waist and started swimming toward the surface. Eventually, she gave in and swam with me, gasping for air when we broke out of the water. Judging by his rigid posture, Sam was mere seconds away from coming in after us and relaxed considerably when he saw us pop up.

"We have to go back," Tori sputtered breathlessly, wet strands of deep champagne-blonde hair clinging to her pale face.

"What? No!" I said, holding her tighter in case she got any ideas. "He's gone; that's why Peter let Lucas go. He got what he wanted."

"But–"

"No, Tor," I said sternly, allowing the fear I felt at the thought of losing her to show. She wasn't one to listen when told what to do, but I hoped to God she would this time. I tugged on her arm. "Please."

Fortunately, Tori nodded and swam back to the shore with me, albeit begrudgingly. Sam helped her out of the water, barely waiting until she was steady on her feet before he pulled her into a hug.


-TPOV-

Even after I showered all the dirt off back at the motel and changed into a clean set of clothes, I still felt a layer of grimy muck coating my skin and hair. I couldn't wash it off… or the remorse I felt. It's funny how just hours ago, I was justifying not allowing Peter to get the revenge he desired by saying it would be enough for Jake to live with guilt for the rest of his life, and now it sat heavily on my chest, like some sort of karma.

"Hey, you ready to head out?" Dean asked gently from across the room. I blinked a few times, realizing I'd been staring blankly down at the dresser.

"Oh, yeah," I nodded. Sam nudged Dean's shoulder, mouthing talk to her when he thought I wasn't looking.

Dean cleared his throat and wandered over. "You want to talk about it?"

"I just– I had him, you know?" I mumbled, biting the inside of my cheek.

"There's nothing you could've done," Dean insisted. I flashed an eyebrow and leaned down on the dresser for support. That's just not true—not in my head. There's always something you can do, something you should do.

"We're not gonna save everybody," Sam chimed in.

"What's the point of all this if we don't?" I asked, gesturing to nothing in particular.

Sam pressed his lips into a frustrated line. "Tori, you could've drowned trying to save him. You're being too hard on yourself."

"Maybe," I agreed. Perhaps he was right, but I had a hard time believing it.

"Come on," Dean coaxed, gently tapping my arm with the back of his fingers. "Let's get going," he nodded to the door.

Maybe that's what I needed—to put this place behind me and try to forget any of it ever happened. I grabbed my bag that Dean packed while I was in the shower and slung it over my shoulder. When Sam slipped outside, Dean took my hand to still me as I passed by and pulled me back, interlocking our fingers. I smiled, but it probably appeared as more of a grimace. Dean caressed my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb as he leaned in to kiss me. I allowed myself to melt into his comfort. For just a moment, my mind stopped its incessant guilt-tripping. He didn't say a word; he didn't have to. The love in his eyes when he pulled back was apparent. This time, my smile was a little more genuine.

We kept our hands clasped until we reached the door, and Dean let go so I could step outside first while he shut the door. Sam smiled knowingly from his spot, leaning against the passenger side of the Impala. Taking extra care than normal, Dean opened my door, winking at me when I looked up. I playfully rolled my eyes, tossing my bag into the backseat.

"Hey!" Andrea's familiar voice called as she approached with Lucas by her side, holding a tray of stacked, clear baggies. He bounced lightly on his feet—a night and day difference from the boy I'd met yesterday. That looming fog of darkness that surrounded him was gone, replaced with pure beams of light. It helped to know that something good came out of all this.

"Hey," Dean smiled as we walked over to the two.

"We're glad we caught you. We made you lunch for the road," Andrea said, pointing to the bags I now saw contained sandwiches. "Lucas insisted on making the sandwiches himself."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll be amazing then," I told him happily. Lucas giggled, hiding his face in his Mom's jacket.

"Can I give it to them now?" Lucas asked his Mom.

"Of course," she said, kissing him on the top of the head.

"Come on, Lucas, let's load this into the car," Dean said, shooting me a wink before leading Lucas to the Impala. Sam stayed behind with them, listening to their conversation that consisted of Dean attempting to persuade Lucas into listening to Led Zeppelin.

"So… how are you?" I asked Andrea hesitantly. I wasn't sure I wanted to know how she truly felt—especially not toward me—but I had to ask. I couldn't leave without doing so.

Andrea's face relaxed into an expression I couldn't quite place as she thought it over for a moment. "It's just gonna take a long time to sort through everything, you know?"

"I'm sure," I glanced down to the ground. "Andrea, I'm sorry," I said. I should've told her this morning, but I found it difficult to get the words out.

Her eyebrows lifted quizically. "About what?"

"Jake. I tried. I'm just sorry I couldn't save him," I said, timidly meeting her gaze again. Rather than her chocolate-brown eyes filling with resentment like I was expecting, they held gratitude. It floored me.

"You risked your life for him. You guys saved my son. I can't ask for more than that," she insisted. "You did everything you could," she echoed Dean's sentiment. I found myself nodding along. "Dad loved me. He loved Lucas. No matter what he did, I just have to hold on to that."

"Alright," Dean began authoritatively, severing our emotionally heavy conversion with his excited tone. He sat at the Impala's passenger side, eye level with Lucas. "If you're gonna be talking now, this is a very important phrase, so I want you to repeat it one more time."

"Zeppelin rules!" Lucas exclaimed fervently, hopping on his feet.

"That's right," Dean told him proudly, lifting a hand for Lucas to high-five. "Up high."

I rolled my eyes. "Sorry about that," I apologized.

Andrea chuckled amusedly. "No, don't be. It's okay," she reassured. "I don't really care what he says as long as he's talking."

"You take care of your Mom, okay?" Dean told the boy.

"Alright," Lucas nodded happily.

Returning to the car, Andrea enveloped me in a hug before reaching up to give Sam, and Dean kisses on the cheek. "Thank you… so much," she said.

"Of course," Sam replied with a smile.

Lucas stepped over, and I knelt down in front of him. "You gonna be okay?" I asked.

He nodded confidently. "Yeah."

"Good," I smiled, holding my arms out. "Can I have a hug?"

Lucas beamed, and he wrapped his arms around me. The smile never left his face even after he pulled away and returned to his Mom. I stood, finding Dean already watching me with a soft-eyed gaze.

"You know, you two will make great parents one day," Andrea complimented innocently.

The moment the words left her lips, I felt it. All the color drained from my face. I had to have turned white as a sheet. Still, I had the wherewithal to peer over at Dean, who had frozen in place. Much like Sam, Andrea had a sneaky smile on her face the entire time we were making fools out of ourselves. However, unlike Sam, she wasn't making fun of us. It was as though she knew something no one else did.

Sam's snort knocked Dean out of his daze, and the first thing he did was shoot his brother a hard glare. "Move your ass," he barked, briskly moving to the driver's side of the Impala.

"But–" Sam began.

"Get in the damn car," Dean gritted. Sam rolled his eyes but obliged, sneaking behind me to enter the car. Dean shot Andrea a pained smile and waved at Lucas before disappearing into the Impala as well.

Somehow, I managed to force a smile even though my lips were tight like a stretched balloon. I swallowed hard, squeaking out a small "Thank you" that tilted upward at the end like a question.

With a wave of my own, I jumped into the backseat and shut the door. The force of it blew my hair into my face. The moments it covered my eyes were heaven, shielding me from the embarrassment I faced until it fell and I was exposed again. But within the safe confines of the Impala, I could collect myself. And I began to until Sam started speaking, wearing a teasing smirk—like a sly cat circling its prey. "Still love kids, Dean?"

"Stop it," I scolded exasperatedly, not-so-gently pushing his shoulder. Sam chucked, shaking his head as he looked out the window. The smile he gave Andrea was cut short by Dean backing out of the lot.

The faster the Impala traveled down the long stretch of road leading away from Lake Manitoc, the more the awkwardness diminished slightly. Not entirely, but enough that I could think back on it without cringing. At least, not too badly. I had no doubts that the reason behind my reaction was widely different from Dean's. A perfect, little family—that was never part of his plan, not that he had one. On the list of things that resembled normal, having kids was probably the one that freaked him out the most. Other than marriage. And white-picket fences.

Dean reacted in fear of how little he wanted it, and I responded in fear of how much I wanted it.

The deepest depths of my mind lingered on what it would be like to have an idealistic life with him. What our kids might look like; who they would favor. What color eyes they would have, or what color hair they would have. But those were things I had no business wondering about. It was impossible for us, and I certainly couldn't fathom having it with anybody else. It wouldn't be worth it. Dean glanced up from the road to the rearview mirror as though he knew I needed reassurance, catching my eyes as a small smile played on his lips. The tension in my shoulders released, and I found myself returning his contented expression.

There's a reason we fit so well together. I'm not cut out for that life any more than he is; I don't think I ever was. I think it's relatively safe to say I never would be. So, maybe it wasn't in the cards, but that was okay. We had each other; that was enough.


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