Elastic Heart

by phoenixwritesSPN

"Victoria Evans was thrown into a world she never knew existed when an encounter with the supernatural left her adoptive parents deceased. Rescued by John Winchester, she's taught to be a hunter. Alongside him and his sons, Victoria finds herself where she was meant to be all along." *Rewriting for a better, more well-rounded storyline* Follows s1 with my own spin. {Dean/OFC}

1. Woman In White (Updated)

Long time no see! I made the decision last year that I would rewrite this fic to give it a much more improved, well-rounded storyline, so it better reflects the writer I am now. I started it when I was 15-16, and I can be honest with myself and say it was not good. I have no clue how it garnered so much attention, but I'm grateful for all of you. I'd like to think I'm a much better writer now. My skills have definitely improved, but I'm still growing. Even from this chapter to the recent one I'm working on, there's a difference. I'm forever trying to hone this craft because I love to write. I adore supernatural, and as silly as it may sound, this story has become such a big part of my life; I want to give it the quality it deserves.

Tori's faceclaim is Katheryn Winnick, for inquiring minds. Gotta love that woman.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

---

Hard to explain what a feeling I've found
Between hope and the doubt that holds me to the ground
Low in dry fields of California, I dream
Of a life lived with ease, simple and serene
…

Booze is the kindest of poisons these days
You wake up, a fresh start, troubles masked in the haze
But it's hard to find the optimist in me
When the life I've loved is slowly wrecking me
…

Take it back, oh, just take it back
You never did a thing for me
There's a youthful bliss that I often miss
And it haunts my memory
'Cause it's a life that slipped away
But, through my own two hands
Yeah, through my own two hands

It's more, it's more, it's more to you than it was when we were kids
And now, and now, you see the world, oh, plainly as it is
And boy, were you wrong
Yeah, boy, were you wrong

Finish Ticket — Wrong

---

From the moment we crossed state lines, I couldn't seem to shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was a mix of nervous excitement, heavy on the nervous. The moon shined down upon us through deep grey clouds; an already chilly autumn night only grew colder the closer we got to the apartment. Beside me in the driver's seat, Dean sang loudly—and very off-key, might I add—while drumming his fingers on the wheel to the song blaring through the vehicle's speakers. Chewing my bottom lip, I reached over to lower the volume. Dean shot me an annoyed look, about to open his mouth to vocalize his irritation, when I held up a hand and rolled my eyes. "You can restart the song," I said.

"It was just getting to the good part," he pouted.

I pushed my long blonde bangs behind my ear and looked at him. "Listen, Dean, I haven't said anything because you were so excited–"

"Whoa," Dean interrupted, mumbling, "I'm not excited."

I stared at him blankly, rolling my eyes as I returned to the road. "Fine. You're not," I conceded. I had more important things to discuss than him avoiding his emotions. My lungs expanded with a whiff of the Impala's leather-scented air. "I don't know about all this."

"About all, what?"

"Doing what we're doing. We should head to Jericho. Just us."

"Hm," Dean hummed through pursed lips, thinking it over for a fraction of a second before quickly saying, " No," and reaching to turn the volume back up, blaring even louder than before.

I set my jaw and reached over to turn the music down again. "Yes, we should," I argued. As much as I missed him, as much as I wanted to see him again, there was no doubt in my mind that Sam was finally happy. He didn't need us showing up on his doorstep with all this—no matter how dire the situation may turn out to be.

" No , we shouldn't," Dean retorted, looking over at me before returning his eyes to the empty road. "He needs to know."

"Why, so he can worry over something he can't do anything about? So, he's forced to come back into… this ?" I questioned, gesturing outwardly at nothing in particular.

Dean raised an incredulous eyebrow. "What's wrong with this ?" He questioned, throwing out a hand of his own.

My shoulders fell, and my eyes drifted back to the trees the Impala was speeding past. He just didn't get it. "We can figure it out ourselves, Dean," I insisted.

Dean didn't take his eyes off the slick blacktop as he spoke. "Really?" he asked. "'Cause, we haven't made any headway. You're gonna tell me that voicemail didn't worry you?"

"Of course it did," I affirmed vehemently. "You know it does. It all does." I fidgeted with the small pendant hanging from my neck, moving the cold, silver metal-encased opal between my fingers. That voicemail, the urgency in John's voice, his words— it all terrified me. But I couldn't let my fear get in the way. "But we haven't really tried. And Sam, we need him, yes. But because he's family, not because he's a hunter."

"Yeah, exactly," Dean replied quickly, glancing over at me from the dark road ahead. Relief began to fill my chest until he added, "That's exactly what he is; a hunter. It's time he stops trying to run from it."

An exasperated breath left my lips, and my hand collapsed to my lap, opening and closing like a claw in frustration. "You only registered, like, half of my sentence, Dean," I complained.

"Of course, we're family," he answered plainly. Despite facing the road, I could still make out the roll of his eyes. "But, what do you want me to do right now? Send him a letter?" Dean scoffed sarcastically, putting on a nasally, mocking voice. " Hey, bro, Dad's gone missing. Hope you're having a good 'ole time at college. Love ya .'"

"No, Dean. Why would you ever tell someone you care about that you love them?" I jabbed and folded my arms across my chest. Dean sighed, his grip tightening on the steering wheel to the point that his knuckles turned white. My words were a stupid blow born out of frustration that I instantly regretted. We shouldn't be fighting; it wouldn't help anyone—certainly not us . I allowed my rigid limbs to loosen, and I softened my tone. "This just doesn't seem like the right way to go about it. That's all I'm saying."

"Well, it's what we're doing," Dean asserted, his voice trailing as he continued. "So…"

Even though I wanted to argue for Sam's sake, I couldn't make myself. Not when I saw the look in Dean's eyes. Since John had gone off the grid, he wasn't the same. He tried to be, but behind the poorly constructed wall of flippancy, there was I noticed whenever I got a good look into his ordinarily bright eyes. We could get lost in moments and have segments of blissful ignorance. I felt like I made him happy, and that made me happy. However, reality always slapped us in the face. Dean tried to hide it, but I could see how adrift he'd become in this unsteady sea we found ourselves in. It only worsened yesterday morning when he received that voicemail from John.

And then, this morning, it was like everything changed and clicked into place. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine why Dean felt that way.

---

Hours ago…

After spending most of the night at some random bar in Holbrook, Arizona, we stumbled back to our motel room. Emphasis on the 'stumbled.' I can't remember the last time I drank that much. I just needed a moment to let my mind slip, to forget about our troubles, if only for the night. We were setting off for Jericho, California, and I feared what we would find—or lack thereof—when we arrived. Our inebriated states didn't stop us from eagerly fumbling our clothes off as soon as our room door was shut. I'm not sure either of us locked it before falling onto the bed. With no concept of time, I last remembered hearing birds begin to chip outside before I passed out on Dean's chest. Hours later, I awoke groggy and missing the warmth of Dean's body underneath the covers.

Even though my head pounded, I pushed up on an elbow and searched the room with lagging eyes, finding him packing our stuff into a duffle bag atop the dresser. Dean glanced back over his shoulder, probably having heard me moving around. "Morning," he said, returning to his task.

I lazily bunched the thin white sheet lying over me under my arms in a half-assed attempt to cover myself—not that it mattered—and sat upright, leaning against the headboard. "What time is it?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"Nine," Dean replied.

Removing my hands from my eyes, I watched him sloppily fold a shirt and stuff it into the bag through a kaleidoscope of colors. "How long have you been up?" I wondered with a yawn. I couldn't imagine how he was already up and at 'em when I probably needed another few hours of sleep to recover from the last night's damage.

Dean shrugged, still facing away from me. "Couple hours."

"A couple hours?" I repeated, eyes widening at his back. "Aren't you tired? Or, I don't know, hungover?"

"Well, I didn't have as many shots as you," Dean teased, glancing at me with a lifted eyebrow.

"That's true," I chuckled, groaning instantly as the vibration reverberated through my already throbbing head. Grimacing, I massaged my temples, trying to calm the aching pulse.

With a bottle of rattling pills and a sloshing bottle of water, Dean made his way to the bed and sat beside me. I raised an eyebrow at the two bottles offered. "I figured you'd need it," he replied to the look I was giving with a simple shrug.

"My hero," I teased, gratefully taking the items. I poured out a couple of ibuprofen and knocked them back with the water, not realizing until I started drinking how thirsty I was and finished the entire thing. Dean's eyes widened slightly, and he took the empty bottle from me when I was done, crushing it and tossing it in the trash bin. I pushed a particularly annoying messy wave of hair that fell just below my collarbone back over my shoulder when a thought popped into my foggy mind. It very well could be the reason he was so full of energy. "Did you hear something from John?" I asked hopefully.

"No," Dean mumbled sadly. An unexpected flash of excitement in his eyes caught me off guard. "Come on, we gotta get going," he urged with a smile, playfully smacking my sheet-covered thigh as he stood.

"Whoa, wait," I shut my eyes briefly to still the spinning room. "Right now?"

"Yeah, right now," Dean said, leaning down to place a kiss on top of my head. "We have a detour to make."

"A detour–?" I paused, narrowing my eyes at the scheming look in his. "I don't like that look."

"What look?" Dean asked innocently, turning back to the dresser.

I sat up a bit straighter, ignoring the throbbing in my head. "What is it?" I pressed, stopping his stride.

"It's just a quick pitstop," he told me with a smile.

"For?"

Dean's grin grew. "Sam," he stated. I froze in shock as his words registered. The thought of seeing Sam made my heart leap with excitement, but then the guilt hit and washed it away. How could we show up after all this time and with such terrible news? What good would that do anyone?

---

Present

The sound of Dean turning up the music again plummeted me back to the present. It was at a slightly more acceptable volume—for him, anyway. It didn't rattle my brain around quite as much. An average person would probably still take issue with the heavy bass shaking through the cab of the Impala, but in my years spent with the Winchesters, I'd gotten more than used to my eardrums rattling. It was when the car was silent— that's when I worried.

After Dean announced his plan, I assumed he would change his mind—whether it was halfway to California or five minutes from Stanford. I assumed he would come to his senses and realize this wasn't the right thing to do for his brother's sake. I assumed wrong.

But I couldn't blame him, as crazy as I thought this was. Although I missed Sam, it was not to the same degree as Dean. He changed the night Sam left. Not having his baby brother in his life was like missing a limb—it derailed Dean's day-to-day routine, even with the most minor things. He could try and deny it, but I knew the truth; I saw the pain in his eyes and heard it in his voice if ever Sam did come up in these past two years. It didn't often happen, usually on quiet nights after a hunt when either Dean or John got a couple of drinks into them. Their reminiscing would end as soon as it began when they both realized what they were doing. John had taken it hard, Sam leaving. But sometimes, I found it difficult to be sympathetic to his pain when he was the one to tell Sam to stay gone . It didn't have to be like this; it shouldn't be like this.

Every once and a while, I'd suggest that Dean call his brother, but of course, he declined. "Sam won't pick up ," he'd say. And hell, for all I know, he could be right. Sam might not have. Stubborn and Winchester go hand in hand; there was no changing that.

Pulling his eyes from the road, Dean looked at me with a smirk and gestured to the dial. "Touch this again, and I'll kiss you to death, Cherry Pie," he threatened jokingly. I couldn't stay mad at him for long, and he knew it. I took that as a challenge and pursed my lips, reaching for the off-limits dial. Dean quickly grabbed my wrist and glanced over at me. "Babe, seriously? I love this song."

"I just wanted to see if you would hold up your end of the bargain," I teased, pulling my hand from his grasp.

Dean gestured to the road and exclaimed, "I'm driving!"

"Excuses, excuses," I tutted playfully, drumming my fingertips on my knee.

"Yeah, well, you'll see what an excuse it is when we stop," Dean retorted playfully, a suggestive grin on his lips.

"We'll see," I muttered, a wry smirk on my lips.

About an hour later, we stopped to fill up the Impala at a nearly abandoned gas station. Not even two seconds after the car was parked at the pump, Dean acted out his supposed threat, which meant another hour was spent in the backseat of the Impala and not on the road to Sam or Jericho like we should've been. Sometimes it was a little too easy to get lost in each other, but I certainly wasn't about to complain. It was another well-needed break from reality.

If the amount of traffic upon entering Palo Alto on our way to Stanford didn't signal that this was indeed a college town on Halloween night, the students stumbling in and out of various bars in campy costumes certainly did. It's funny how I could see Dean here and not Sam.
Rambunctious parties were never his thing. The one time John actually allowed him to go to a party back in high school ended rather abruptly, with Sam returning not even an hour after heading out. Of course, he refused to tell us why. Not knowing the reason for Sam's departure did nothing to stop Dean's relentless teasing, though. I wish I had been more present in those moments. That I didn't just roll my eyes and look away when Sam and Dean started throwing playful insults at each other. If I'd known what I know now, I would've cherished it more. Things would never be that way again.

The closer we got to our designated location, the more my stomach flopped around restlessly. My tense legs tingled like a thousand pins were pricking them at all once. It seemed I hadn't relaxed since we left the motel this morning—save for a small nap I took after the large breakfast Dean got for me in hopes it'd help my hangover dissipate faster. It did. But the stress that kicked in after made me wish I was still hungover. I'd take that headache over this painful nausea any day. We passed by the first entrance of an apartment complex, and I again assumed wrongly that Dean would continue past the second driveway to find a motel. But instead, he pulled into the parking lot and drove around the back of the building. The front was adorned with tidy, trimmed shrubbery and bright blooming flowers, while the rear was bare of color, weeds sprouting from underneath the concrete foundation and crawling up the wall.

It was definitely a metaphor of some kind, but I couldn't be bothered to try and figure it out right now. I was far too preoccupied with Dean shutting off the engine and reaching for the door handle. "What are you doing?" I questioned, my voice stilling his movements.

Dean cocked his head to the side with an obvious look. "Getting Sam…?"

" Get –" I scoffed and checked my watch, looking up at him incredulously. "It's three-thirty in the morning."

"Yeah, so?" He asked nonchalantly.

" So ?" I balked. There was no way he wanted to go marching up there, knocking on his brother's door in the middle of the night.

"This place is a party town; he's probably awake," Dean said with a shrug, shoving the car keys into his pocket.

My eyebrows flew upward, nearly disappearing into my hairline. On what planet would Sam stay up to party on a Monday night, Halloween or not? "Are we talking about the same Sam ?" I wondered aloud.

"Gigantic, nerdy kid; needs a haircut?" Dean rattled off playfully, flashing an eyebrow.

"Yeah," I chuckled and shook my head. "That one."

Rather unexpectedly, the mood shifted from giddy to somber in the second Dean's expression fell serious as he peered up at the looming building through the windshield. "I can't believe Sam's in there," he murmured so quietly I barely even heard him.

I turned in my seat to face him. "Yeah, me either," I replied, my lips falling into a loose line as I took in the forebodingly tall structure raised before us. With layers of concrete, bricks, wood, and metal separating us—we were so close to Sam and somehow so far away. It was a strange feeling, to say the least.

A moment of silence passed until Dean's teeth audibly clenched, and he swallowed hard. "You know what? You're right," he said suddenly. "Maybe it's too late."

My head snapped back in shock. "What?" I asked. I couldn't fathom why he lost interest when not even thirty seconds ago, he wanted to go in guns blazing.

"He's probably asleep, so…" Dean trailed off, keeping his gaze away from mine as he bit the inside of his cheek. "We can come back later," he finished, fishing the keys from his pocket.

When he moved to stick it in the ignition, I grabbed his wrist to still his movements. "Why?" I asked, keeping a gentle grip on his arm until its tension was released. Finally, I let go, and his hand flopped to the seat with a quiet thud against the leather. "Dean, what is it?" I pressed, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of his eyes.

Dean's eyebrows drew downward, hanging heavily over deepening emerald eyes. "You think he's gonna be happy to see us?" He asked quietly. For the first time since Dean bombarded me with—and unabashedly carried out—this ill-advised plan, the cocky persona he held came crumbling down. Beneath it was someone nervous and scared at the possibility that his little brother, the person he had spent his entire life caring for and protecting, would turn him away.

"Well," I began with a sigh and scooted over in my seat, threading my arm through his. I weaved our fingers together and lifted our hands on my lap. I wanted to bring him comfort, but I didn't want to sugarcoat anything, either. That wouldn't do anyone any good. "I think that, maybe, at first, he'll be… confused. And yeah, probably upset. But if you explain why we're here, I think he'll understand."

Much to my dismay, Dean still looked so unsure, the corners of his lips pulled down into a frown. "I don't know," he mumbled, absentmindedly stroking my thumb with his as he stared at our intertwined fingers.

I kissed his shoulder and leaned my temple against the spot my lips had been as I spoke. "No matter how much time has passed, no matter what has happened—you're his brother. And he loves you."

Dean pressed his lips to the top of my head, mumbling, "You think so?" into my hair.

Carefully, I lifted my head to peer up into his eyes so he could see the conviction in mine. "I do," I affirmed, gently squeezing his hand. He doubted himself and how much people cared for him far too often; I'd always make it a point to try and convince him otherwise whenever I got the chance.

Any remaining unsure despair that had been swirling around his green irises was gobbled up by excitement. He smiled brightly, pulling his hand from mine. "Let's go," he said, clapping once before opening the door.

I sat there, slightly stunned, watching him jump out. I grabbed the steering wheel and slid into the driver's seat, peering up at him through the open door. "Dean, hold on a second–"

"We don't have a second, Tor," Dean insisted, adjusting his jacket and popping the collar.

"You were just about to leave!" I threw out a hand to the car and rolled my eyes.

"Hey," Dean held up his hands in playful defense. "You're the one who talked me out of that," he said while pointing a lazy finger at me. I scoffed, mouth hanging open in disbelief. I gripped the leather-covered steering wheel tightly. "Come on, clock's tickin'; we gotta get a move on, get on the road," he added, holding the door wider, silently trying to coax me out.

I didn't take the bait and tilted my head to the side. "Dean, don't you think it'd make more sense to catch him in a, I don't know, better mood?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Dean shrugged, waving an indifferent hand. "Come on, he'll be fine," he said, gesturing for me to leave the car again.

"Not if you wake him up," I huffed but relented and dragged myself out of the Impala, planting my boots on the ground. Sam was always a little bit grumpy upon first waking up. Not as bad as his brother, but still. There were at least a million other ways to go about this.

On the bright side, I guess it couldn't get any worse.

A crisp breeze rippled through the air, tossing my hair around. I shook it out of my face and secured it behind my ears before stuffing my hands into my pockets. My stomach formed into a tight knot. Dean gave the building another glace, but this time when he looked back at me, his eyes weren't darkened and suffocated; they were light and unconfined. I couldn't find it within me to take that away, so I threw away my qualms about the time of night and muttered, "Come here," as I turned him toward me, reaching to flatten the collar on his jacket and straighten out his shirt underneath—at least somewhat.

"You gonna fix my hair, too?" Dean quipped with a smirk.

"Shut up," I laughed, tugging his shirt a little harder than necessary. "Alright, let's go," I said, heading for the front of the building when Dean reached out and grabbed my arm to still me. I stumbled slightly from the sudden halt, looking back at him with wide, questioning eyes.

Dean placed a gentle hand on the small of my back to steady me before asking, "Where are you going?"

"Inside?" I replied, pointing behind me. The mischievous expression on his face instantly set off alarms in my head. I slowly raised an eyebrow. "Dear God, what now?"

"Well, I was thinking of something else…." Dean trailed off with an innocent shrug.

"Yeah, I can tell," I grumbled, eying him up and down. "Like, what?"

"Fire escape," Dean said proudly, pointing to a massive hunk of metal hanging off the side of the building. It looked like it was hanging on by a shred, and I stared at it, mouth agape.

It couldn't get any worse; famous last words.

"We are not climbing up that, Dean. It's a death trap!" I hissed. Waving me off, Dean began walking over to the rickety steps, so I grabbed his arm and quickly pulled him back to me. "Why don't we go in through the front? You know, like normal people."

"Babe, we can't just waltz in through the front door at three-thirty in the morning," he said in a sarcastic yet spirited manner.

"Oh, but breaking in through his window, possibly giving him a heart attack in the process, is perfectly fine?" I questioned, folding my arms.

"Hell yeah," Dean replied quickly with a toothy grin. He turned on his heel, heading to the fire escape. "And, I gotta know if he's still got it."

"Still got–" I huffed, begrudgingly following along. "He's gonna kick your ass."

"That nerd's gonna kick my ass?" Dean pointed to himself incredulously. He scoffed, "In his dreams," as he grabbed the railings to gauge their sturdiness.

"Be careful," I instructed as he hopped onto the first step.

As soon as he put a fraction of his weight on it, a loud creak shook through the rusted metal, and it buckled slightly. He stilled until it stopped making those awful noises, glancing over his shoulder at me. "You can stay in the car if you want," Dean suggested.

I almost took him up on that until the very thought of being out here alone, even in a locked car, sent a chill down my spine. I've faced many things that go bump in the night without so much as a wink, but a dimly lit parking lot of an apartment was suddenly too much for me? I wanted to laugh at myself, but the unsettled feeling that washed through me when I peered back out to the dark parking lot sucked away any of my amusement. I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching us.

"No, I'm coming," I announced. "I wanna watch Sam toss you through a wall."

Dean looked back at me and held up a pointed finger. "Not gonna happen!" He asserted defensively.

"Alright, just go," I said, gesturing for him to begin climbing. With bated breath, I watched as he started up the rickety fire escape, only releasing my breath when he reached the platform. Dean peered through the opening and beckoned for me to follow. I nodded and cautiously grabbed the freezing metal, placing a boot on the first step as gently as possible. Considering Dean was considerably heavier than me, the metal made significantly less noise as I ascended, but there were still enough squeaks and crackles to worry me.

As I neared the top, Dean held a hand out to me, and when I finally got within reach, I took it, and he assisted me up through the square opening. With two more staircases to climb to reach Sam's floor, I went first this time. It felt like we spent an eternity on all those rungs, but we finally made it to Sam's apartment in one piece. The blinds were shut, so there was no way to peer inside, no way to know what we were walking into.

A new wave of nerves crashed over me, filling my mind with doubts. "Wait," I called, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder to still him as he reached for the window sash.

Dean sighed and looked over at me. "What?"

"You're sure this is him?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Dean nodded, rolling his eyes as he looked away.

Already on edge, that small gesture rubbed me the wrong way, and I narrowed my gaze. "Oh, yeah? Because if it's not him and it ends up being some random dude, I'm bailing on your ass and leaving you in there to fend for yourself," I said, stubbornly crossing my arms.

With pursed lips, Dean turned away from the glass pane to face me. "Would you really leave me?" He asked with a pout.

I looked him dead in the eyes as I put on my poker face. "Yes," I stated.

Dean bent down, placing a quick kiss on my lips, grinning as he pulled back with a knowing look on his face. "You dirty little liar," he murmured.

"If that's what you wanna believe," I said nonchalantly, attempting to hide my smile as he returned to his task. Sticking his fingers under the lower sash of the window, he tried to lift it to no avail. It didn't budge.

Dean moved to the top of the window with a huff, pushing it with the heel of his palms. It also didn't move. He grunted and allowed his arms to fall back to his sides, looking at me in exasperation. "What dumbass locks their windows?"

"Everyone," I answered in wide-eyed simplicity. "Every dumbass locks their windows. It's, like, one of the main things you do before bed. Lock your door, lock your windows…." I trailed off as Dean pulled a knife from his back pocket, flicking it open and pushing the blade in the gap of the window, wiggling it against the latch. "Just in case your psychotic brother tries to break in," I added through barely opened lips, folding my arms.

Dean's movements stilled, eyes snapping up to me. "What?" He asked, forehead creasing.

"Nothing," I muttered quickly, waving for him to continue. "Carry on."

With each blade flick, the latch shifted closer to its unlocked position. I kept my eyes on the fragile piece of plastic, unable to move them away as it loosely wobbled. Imagine if, after all this, it broke. Part of me wished it would. We'd have an excuse to leave. Unless, of course, Dean would be fine with smashing the glass. Mere seconds later, the lock popped, and the window's tight seal audibly loosened. Dean smugly shut the knife and stuffed it back into his pocket. I smiled when he looked my way, hoping it didn't look as tightly wound and constricted as I felt inside. Despite believing my previous statement when I said it, I began to worry that Sam would, in fact, not understand our reason for being here; that he'd simply be upset and nothing else.

This time when Dean pushed the window, there was no resistance. It immediately opened, allowing a gust of wind into the apartment, blowing the light blue curtains around. "Alright," Dean breathed, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Just be quiet," I instructed in a hushed tone.

"Oh, yeah, totally," Dean agreed with a nod, speaking just as lowly. He swung one leg into the apartment, promptly stomping it into the floor. I flinched at the sound echoing across the floorboards and tiredly narrowed my eyes at him. Dean winked at me and brought in his left leg, keeping the noise of his heavy boot landing on the floor to a minimum this time.

With his whole body inside, Dean reached a hand back out to me. I remained where I was, beginning to chew on my bottom lip as my eyes searched the dark room on the other side of the wall. There were no lights on; the only thing illuminating the space was the moonbeams shining through the now uncovered window. It felt like stepping in there would be stepping into another world—one I might not be ready for. We hadn't seen Sam in such a long time, and now we were breaking into his home like it was no big deal. It felt wrong.

"I don't know about this," I mumbled, stuffing my hands into my back pockets as I rocked on my feet.

Dean's eyes rounded at my admission. "It's a little late for that!" he replied in a strained whisper.

"I told you before!" I hissed right back. Dean's shoulders slumped as he released all the air in his lungs in a frustrated huff. Whether I liked it or not, we were too far into it now. It's not like we could leave. I'm sure Sam heard something. And I couldn't just stroll back down the fire escape and leave Dean. I mean, I could. But I wouldn't.

So, albeit begrudgingly, I gripped the window frame and swung my legs into the room while Dean held the curtain aside and softly lowered my boot-cover feet onto the hardwood floor. Dean gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up, to which I responded with an unimpressed grimace. Unaffected by my lack of eagerness, Dean began leafing through a stack of mail atop the side table. The paper shuffling and scraping across the wood in the quiet room sounded like raking leaves in an echo chamber. Dean read one of the envelopes, and the corners of his lips pulled down into a shrug. I would've laughed in their face if someone had told me just a few days ago that I'd been standing in Sam's tidy apartment in California after having broken into said apartment. This whole thing seemed like a ridiculous dream; I half expected to look down and find myself in my underwear.

I'd never tell Dean, but I was a little scared. Not scared of seeing Sam, necessarily—that wasn't all of it, at least. In fact, I was excited to see him. I missed him. But I was terrified of dragging him back into a life he didn't want, a life he'd obviously done a pretty damn good job getting out of. Sure, the apartment was tiny and could probably use some de-cluttering. But Sam never had the chance to have clutter, let alone his own space to fill with it. The room I stood in exuded warmth and comfort, smelling of vanilla and caramel. Soft blankets lay draped across the couch, several pillows propped up on the cushions. A recliner was positioned beside it, having its own blanket spread across. A plush rug was underneath an oval-shaped coffee table in front of the rest of the furniture, the source of the scent sitting atop in the form of a gently burning candle. It was cozy and comfortable, something Sam never really had.

Dean tossed the envelope back onto the table with a disgruntled humph and looked at me, nodding toward an adjacent room. It didn't feel right, snooping around Sam's place like it was just another case we were working. It felt like the bottom of my boots were glued to the floor, taking a good thirty seconds before I successfully unstuck them. I followed Dean into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and ducked inside, pushing around its contents. I peered over his shoulder, finding an organized interior that screamed Sam. Everything was in its place.

"What the hell?" Dean mumbled, plucking a head of lettuce from the middle shelf. He stood upright, turning to me with disgust as he held it up.

I furrowed my brow in question and shrugged. "It's lettuce, Dean," I whispered.

Dean pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at me slightly. "I know that," he replied haughtily. The faint footsteps entering the room we'd just been in called his attention away. Dean curiously looked over my shoulder, handing me the lettuce on his way out. I grimaced at the cold, slightly damp vegetable now stationed in my hands and put it back into the refrigerator, shutting the door.

Several grunts echoed from the living room, followed by a heavy thud hitting the hardwood floor that catapulted any peaceful vibes directly out of the still-open window we'd come in through. I was in no rush to find one of them pinning the other to the ground, leisurely moving to the doorway to see what exactly had happened. Much like I'd expected, Dean was holding a very shocked Sam to the ground. "Whoa, easy tiger," he said with a smile in his voice.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his tone confused and constricted. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust his eyes to the sight before him. Dean released a cocky laugh, and Sam glowered angrily. "You scared the crap out of me!" he exclaimed.

"That's cause you're out of practice," Dean replied. Sam responded by quickly getting out of his brother's grasp and flipping him over, pinning Dean to the floor in the spot he'd just been in—all in about a second flat. He didn't put him through a wall, but he certainly wiped that arrogant grin off his face. Dean shrugged. "Or not," he uttered approvingly.

"Okay, that's enough," I announced, stepping into the room to make my presence known before their friendly fighting took a turn.

Sam glanced back at me with wide, surprised eyes before looking down at his brother again. He pushed to stand, pulling Dean up with him. "What the hell are you guys doing here?" Sam wondered, his gaze momentarily darting between the two of us before settling on me.

"Well, I was looking for a beer," Dean said, pointing back toward the kitchen with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head disapprovingly at Dean while bringing a remorseful gaze to Sam. "Sorry for scaring you," I apologized, knowing his brother wouldn't. I shifted my weight from one foot to another. "It's good to see you, Sam."

Never in my life did I think I'd be this awkward around him. I was experiencing a lot of firsts today—none of which I was happy about. Rather unexpectedly, Sam closed the gap between us and wrapped me in a big hug. "It's good to see you, too," he said. I was stunned but recovered as quickly as possible and hugged him back so tightly that the muscles in my arms began to strain. I didn't care. This was something I never thought I'd get to do again.

I could practically hear Dean's eyes rolling around in his head as he sighed. "Alright. We gotta talk," he stated.

Sam pulled away from me slightly to address his brother. "Uh, the phone?" he said in an obvious tone, dropping his arms from around me.

"If I called, would you have picked up?" Dean questioned, tilting his head slightly. He and his brother locked eyes, silently challenging the other to look away first, utterly oblivious to the light flicking on in the room across from us.

In the doorway appeared a pretty, tall blonde dressed in sleep shorts and a tight crop top with The Smurfs printed on it. "Sam?" She asked, eying Dean and me suspiciously. The boys' heads turned simultaneously at the sound of her gentle voice. Dean's eyebrows flew up as soon as he laid eyes on her, and a cocky grin took permanent residence upon his lips. I preemptively rolled my eyes for whatever stupid was waiting to escape his mouth.

"Jess. Hey," Sam breathed, looking like he wished he could blink and have us disappear. I shared a similar sentiment. "Dean, Tori—this is my girlfriend Jessica," he introduced.

I almost couldn't believe what I heard. Sam had a girlfriend. Little, dorky—not-so-little or dorky anymore—Sam, had a girlfriend. Bouncing from emotion to emotion all day was taxing. In nine hours, I'd gone from worried, to nervous, to relieved and back again. It was exhausting, but I'd do it all over to end up where I am now. The happiness that took over when Sam uttered the word girlfriend was like a beam of light in this otherwise bleak time. I was thrilled and tried to keep my excitement to a minimum, but I probably failed miserably.

"Wait, your brother Dean?" Jessica gestured to Dean with a small but friendly smile.

"Yeah," Sam nodded his head once in response.

"And this is the Tori I've heard so much about?" She gestured to me, eyes lighting up. Sam nodded again, wearing a smile of his own this time.

Dean's cheeks sunk in as he looked up at his baby brother. "Didn't tell her much about me, huh?" he questioned with a flash of his eyebrows, looking miffed.

"It's not like that," Sam clarified.

"Right," Dean nodded sarcastically, unconvinced.

Sam sighed, already exasperated with his brother. "It's not," he insisted.

Dean didn't hide his hurt as well as he thought; even though his smirk bounced back into place when he returned his gaze to Jessica, it wasn't as carefree as before, and I could see straight through it. "I love The Smurfs," he said, softly gesturing to her shirt. Dean shoved his hand back into his jacket pocket. "But, you know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my brother's league."

Jessica glanced around, letting out an awkward chuckle. "Just let me put something on," she said, pointing back to the bedroom.

"No, no, no… I wouldn't dream of it." Dean said, stopping her. Jessica grimaced, eyes darting over to me before returning to him as he added, "Seriously."

"Sorry," I apologized to Jessica, elbowing Dean hard in the ribs. He let out a quiet ' ow ' that I completely ignored. "He's desperate. It's a problem," I added and glared up at him, the look on my face clearly telling him that he had gone too far this time.

It was one thing for him to be flirtatious to get a rise out of me—I was guilty of doing the same thing. Dean was horrible at it most of the time, and watching him strike out was hilarious. Even if not, the most important thing was that I knew he wouldn't go through with it at the end of the day. But this? This was entirely different. She wasn't just some bar skank; she was Sam's girlfriend.

Surprisingly, Dean flashed his eyebrows in agreement with me, looking back up at Jessica with a much smaller and less cocky smile. "Well, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here," he nodded to his brother as he stepped back beside him. "Talk about some private family business…." Dean trailed off. "But, uh, nice meeting you."

"No," Sam insisted adamantly, walking over to Jessica. He put a confident arm around her, pulling her to his side. "Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her," he stated, looking down at Jessica for a moment, then back to us.

"Okay," Dean sighed incredulously, glancing over at me with his jaw locked in slight annoyance. I shrugged. If that's how he felt, what could we do about it? Dean returned his eyes to Sam as he announced, "Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

"So, he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later," Sam shrugged nonchalantly. He didn't get it, and I didn't blame him; it wasn't unlike John to go out and not return immediately. But this has gone on far too long without a single word, and after that voicemail… it wasn't normal. Something was wrong.

"It's not quite like that, Sam," I explained.

Dean filled his lungs with a deep breath before returning his gaze to his brother. "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days," he said pointedly.

It was obviously the exact moment the weight of Dean's words hit Sam like a ton of bricks. He let his arm slip off of Jessica and back to his side. "Jess, excuse us," he said stiffly. "We have to go outside."

The confusion in her eyes as she watched Sam pluck his jacket from the coat rack beside their front door was palpable. Jessica opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure of what to say, if anything. Sam reassured her he'd be right back as he slipped on his jacket and headed for the door. Dean gave Jessica one last friendly smile, following his brother. They exited the apartment, but not before Dean glanced back to ensure I was coming.

As I passed by her on my way to meet up with the boys, Jessica placed a gentle hand on my arm, stilling me. "Is everything okay?" She asked, concern filling her blueberry eyes.

I plastered a comforting smile on my face and nodded. "Yeah, no worries," I uttered so convincingly that I almost believed it myself.

"Okay…" She muttered, flashing a slight smile. "It was really nice meeting you. Putting a face to the name."

"It was nice to meet you, too," I replied. She'd never really know much it meant to me seeing Sam like this. "See you around, Jessica."

By the time I'd reached the boys, a hushed argument was already in full swing, echoing through the quiet stairwell. I sighed and kept my distance as we descended to the parking lot. "Because, Sam," Dean stated, thinking he'd left no room for argument.

" Because ?" Sam balked, of course, finding a sliver of space to argue. "Come on; you can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you."

That point was valid now and when I made the same statement not even twenty minutes ago. Would it be nice to have Sam along for the ride? Of course. But it wasn't what he wanted, and trying to coerce him into it was wrong. But Dean had this whole plan of action set up in his mind, and practically nothing short of someone inflicting bodily harm would change that. "You're not hearing me, Sammy," Dean insisted. "Dad's missing. I need you to help us find him."

Sam stalled. "Why do you need me? You've got each other!" He exclaimed, gesturing between me and Dean, who had disappeared from view as he hadn't stopped when Sam and I did.

"I said the same thing," I shrugged. Quickly realizing how that sounded, I added, "No offense."

"None taken, trust me," Sam said, letting me off the hook.

"So, what, you didn't wanna about this?" Dean questioned from the flight of stairs below.

Sam just threw his hands in the air. "Dean, I'm not saying that, but–" he huffed when he realized his brother wasn't stopping or listening. Sam uttered an irritated grunt and continued his trek down the stairs. "Dean, you remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He's always missing, and he's always fine."

"Not for this long," Dean said as we reached the bottom of the steps, standing in the small lobby in front of the exit door. Fluorescent fixtures attached to the building outside shined in through the designs on the iron door, casing a swirl of shadow and light over us. I stood before the boys as they faced each other, Dean to my left and Sam to my right. The former looked at the latter expectantly, asking, "Now, are you gonna come with us or not?"

"I'm not," Sam replied vehemently.

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes so hard that I thought they might get stuck. "Why not?" He questioned.

Sam shook his head tiredly. "I swore I was done hunting," he persevered, voice stern—not backing down from his brother's hard gaze. "For good."

"Come on," Dean scoffed. "It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad. Right?" He asked, looking at me for confirmation.

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head, but I quickly looked away to somewhat hide my reaction from Dean. I'm not quite sure how he came to the conclusion that it wasn't bad. Parts of it were good. I felt psychotic for even thinking it, but a little fun. It had its moments, but all in all, it certainly wasn't summer camp. How many times had we gotten hurt? How many bones had we broken? Too many to count. When I didn't answer, Dean huffed and shook his head disparagingly.

Sam regained control of the conversation. "When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45!" He argued.

"Well, what was he supposed to do?" Dean asked ignorantly. I rolled my eyes at his obviousness. I couldn't fault him; it was how he was raised. He had no sense of what a normal childhood felt like. I had no clue where Sam got it from. All the books he always had his nose stuck into, maybe. However, John was considerably less hard on him than Dean regarding most things. Perhaps that had something to do with it, too. Analyzing what did or did not mess any of us up was moot. There were many possibilities, and it'd' take far too long to pinpoint anything—like looking for a needle in a stack of slightly duller needles. Useless.

"I was nine years old!" Sam exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air and letting them fall back to his side with a quiet smack that echoed up the dimly lit stairwell. "He was supposed to say, don't be afraid of the dark."

" Don't be afraid of the dark ?" Dean repeated incredulously. "Are you kidding me? Of course, you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there."

"Yeah, I know, but still. The way we grew up after Mom was killed–" Sam began. Dean flinched slightly at the very sore subject. Sam either didn't notice or didn't care about his brother's reaction because he kept going. "And Dad's obsession with finding the thing that killed her—dragging Tori into it. Oh, and we still haven't found the damn thing that took Mom. So we kill everything we can find."

Dean's chest heaved a heavy breath as he visibly tried to tamper down his aggravation. "We save a lot of people doing it, too," he asserted, using that excuse as a shield—just like John always did. But it was a defense I couldn't argue with and really one of the only good things in all this mess.

"You think Mom would have wanted this for us?" Sam asked, looking his brother in the eyes. "You think Tori's parents would've wanted this for her? You know, the weapon training and melting the silver into bullets?" He ticked off a list. "Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors."

Whether Sam did or not, I could see Dean getting incredibly upset and worried he'd do or say something he'd regret later when he sobered from the anger. To avoid this, I took Dean's arm in my hand as I passed between the boys, pushing the iron door open to step out into an open corridor with Dean in tow. The concrete blocked the cool air outside, stopping it from whipping around as harshly. Stalking up another smaller set of stairs, we arrived at the otherwise empty back section of the parking lot, barely a yard from the Impala.

"Seriously?" I asked Dean, an irritated eyebrow cocked. "You had us go up that thing–" I jutted a resentful finger at the fire escape. "When we could've just gone in through there?" I pointed back from where we'd just come.

"I had no idea!" Dean exclaimed. The look in his eyes betrayed his words, telling me that he did, in fact, have an idea of the stairwell.

"You went up the fire escape?" Sam asked with wide, worried eyes. "It needs to be fixed!"

"Yeah," I scoffed. "I noticed."

"Whatever," Dean waved a dismissing hand, beginning to walk again. "We're fine, aren't we?" He asked, holding his arms out to the side. I'm not too sure, I thought.

"Dean–" Sam began.

"What, Sam? What are you gonna do?" Dean asked suddenly, stopping at the trunk to face his brother. "You're just gonna live some normal, apple-pie life? Is that it?

"No. Not normal. Safe." Sam replied. I thought it was so far out of the cards anymore, but seeing how Sam got away gave me a strange hope that I definitely did not need to possess. I wouldn't even know how to live a normal life anymore, not after everything. Hell, I was barely even good at it before all this. Not to mention, how could I go on living side-by-side with everything out there and not do anything about it? I wouldn't be able to.

"And that's why you ran away," Dean accused. I sighed and sat on the Impala's bumper, training my eyes on a particularly dark chunk of asphalt. I certainly wouldn't classify what Sam did as running away. Usually, when we were alone, and the conversation came up, I could eventually get out of Dean that that belief was a load of bullshit. Deep down, he knew. But then, he'd let that little voice in his head—that I had a sneaking suspicion sounded a lot like John—convince him otherwise.

"I was just going to college," Sam replied quietly. Sadness dripped from him into a puddle at his feet as he no doubt recounted that rainy night he left us. "It was Dad who said if I was gonna go, I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing."

"Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it," Dean said, his tone taking on a hint of desperation. "We can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can," Sam insisted, his eyes darting between us. They briefly landed on me, silently asking again what the hell was happening. He knew Dean wasn't one to ask for help, but I couldn't tell him the real reason for all this; Dean was scared. Without John here, he was being crushed under the weight of how much he missed his brother and how much he needed family around. At least, I couldn't tell him right now, not in front of Dean. I wouldn't embarrass him like that.

"Yeah, well, we don't want to," Dean uttered, speaking for me. He knew that wasn't true. He knew I wanted to leave Sam out of this… but they were having some type of moment here, and I couldn't find it within myself to break that up. So, I stayed silent and added it to the list of things I'd tell Sam later, provided I got the chance.

Despite how his entire life had been and the harsh words John said to him in their last moments together, Sam relented. "What was he hunting?" He asked, returning his gaze to us from the ground.

Dean tried and failed to hold back a happy smirk as he turned to unlock the trunk. Sam gave me a knowing look over Dean's ducked head as I pushed up to my feet. I nodded in response. I should've known better than to think he'd be oblivious to his brother's feelings. Dean lifted the spare tire compartment, propping it open with a shotgun from the arsenal underneath. "Alright, let's see, where the hell did I put that thing?" He mumbled to himself, sifting through all the papers he'd been collecting there for the past month.

"So when Dad left, why didn't you guys go with him?" Sam wondered casually.

"We were working our own gig. This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans," Dean replied, brow furrowed at the manilla folder he pulled out, leafing through its contents.

Sam's eyes practically bugged out of his head. "Dad, let you guys go on a hunting trip by yourselves?" He questioned.

Dean peered up at his brother over the folder. "I'm twenty-six, dude." He said, then nodded to me. "She's twenty-four."

With his eyebrows raised so high in shock that I thought they'd fly off his face, Sam looked to me for confirmation. "Yeah, it's true," I told him. "We've been doing that for, what about a year now?" I asked Dean.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, tossing the folder and reaching for another.

"So, just the two of you?" Sam asked, his shocked look suddenly turning suspicious. "Alone?"

"Yeah," Dean said, cocking his head to the side. "Got a problem with that?"

"What?" Sam asked sharply. He breathed out a scoff and shook his head. "No."

Moving a few sheathed machetes in the trunk, I found the folder Dean was looking for lying in the exact spot he had put it earlier in the day. He smiled sheepishly at me as I handed it to him with a smirk. "Where would you be without me?" I teased.

"Lost," Dean said with a smile. Sam watched us closely, lips pressed into a line. Dean saw this and cleared his throat, cracking open the folder. "Alright, here we go. So, Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, and this guy–" he paused, handing the missing poster to Sam. "They found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA."

Sam looked up unconvincingly, giving the page a quick once over. "So maybe he was kidnapped," he said, trying to provide a logical explanation.

"If only it were that easy," I commented, leaning against the Impala.

"Here's another one in April," Dean said, tossing another missing person's printout down in the trunk. Sam looked it over while Dean dropped others for each date he stated. "And another one in December '04, '03, ninety-eight, ninety-two. Ten of them over the past twenty years," he explained. Dean took the most recent missing poster from Sam, stacked it with the others, stuffing them back in the folder. He tossed it into the trunk, where it landed with a soft thud.

"They were all men. And they all disappeared from the same five-mile section of road," I informed a still unconvinced Sam.

"It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough." Dean said, grabbing a tape recorder from the trunk. "Then I got this voicemail yesterday." He pressed play on the small device.

Through the static crackled John's voice. "Dean… something big is starting to happen… I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may… " he cut off, only to come back seconds later with a new sentence. " Be very careful, Dean. Take care of Vic. We're all in danger."

Each time I listened to the scratch, distorted recording—which was way more than I probably should've since Dean received it—goosebumps instantly raised across my skin. Behind John's assertive voice was a faint, eerie whisper of a woman. Normally, it wouldn't be too worrisome. John could handle himself; he knew what he was doing. But the urgency in his voice—the fear—changed everything. As the recording came to a stop, Sam furrowed his brow in concentration at the player. "You know there's EVP on that?" He asked, pointing to the device.

I couldn't help but smile along with Dean, who beamed at his brother. "Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn't it?" He asked. Sam attempted to appear indifferent to Dean's proud comment, but he failed when the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips. Maybe he wasn't celebrated by his brother for what he wished—like good grades or getting a full ride to a great college—but Dean's pride in any capacity made him happy. Even if they weren't on the best of terms.

"Alright. So, I slowed the message down. I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got." Dean said, playing the edited recording.

With John's voice hidden in the background, a woman's voice filtered through, quiet as a whisper. "I can never go home..." she uttered in despair.

"Never go home," Sam repeated thoughtfully. Dean tossed the recorder in the trunk, which clattered against all the other stuff lying inside the arsenal on its way down. Sam looked up at me, brows tucked in contemplation. "What does that mean?"

"Well, we're not really sure," I said with a shrug. Dean shut the compartment and trunk, absentmindedly wrapping an arm around my waist and tucking me to his side. Judging by the look on his face and how fast I could feel his heart beating against me, Dean did it more for his comfort than anything else. I certainly didn't mind, snaking a supportive arm around him. I didn't miss the wide-eyed, slack-jawed look that crossed Sam's face as he watched us. I feared his reaction until he smiled—a sincere, happy smile.

Either Dean didn't see or chose to ignore the look on his brother's face because he didn't address it, opting to finally bite the bullet he'd been avoiding like the plague, a final answer. "You know, in almost two years, I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing."

Sam sighed and peeled his eyes off us; his brows furrowed in contemplation. I honestly had no idea what he'd say. Would he say no, after all of that? Dean would try to hide it, but that would break his heart. If Sam had any idea of the damage a denial from him would cause his brother right now, I know he'd say yes in a heartbeat. But he didn't know, and I wouldn't necessarily blame him for declining the outlandish offer.

"Alright," Sam relented. A multitude of emotions zoomed through me, unsure of which to land on. I was happy, nervous, and scared all at once. This could either open up a world of possibilities or completely crumble what little was left of the brittle bridge between us. "I'll go. I'll help you find him," he finished. Dean's heart thumped faster at Sam's agreement to come with us. I gave Sam a small smile, mouthing, thank you. He nodded discreetly so his brother wouldn't see. "But I have to get back first thing Monday," Sam added as he turned back to the apartment building. "Just wait here."

"What's first thing Monday?" Dean inquired.

Sam stopped short and faced us again. "I have this–" he paused. "I have an interview."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What, a job interview?" He shrugged. "Skip it."

"It's a law school interview," Sam explained sternly. "And it's my whole future on a plate."

A rush of pride bolted through my chest. It felt like the day he sat me down at that beat-up old table in Bobby's kitchen and revealed he'd gotten a scholarship to Stanford all over again. I was ecstatic for him then, and I held the same amount of excitement now. This was everything he wanted; how could I not be happy? "That's amazing, Sam," I told him sincerely.

Sam's face lifted with a smile that finally met his eyes until Dean muttered, "Law school?" disapprovingly, effectively knocking away his happy expression.

"It's great, Sam, really," I insisted, patting Dean's side a couple of times to silently tell him to cut it out.

Thankfully Sam didn't seem to take Dean's opinion to heart, bouncing back to the conversation at hand. "So, we got a deal or not?" He asked pointedly.

I nodded quickly, answering before Dean got the chance to make another snarky comment. "Yeah, we do," I confirmed.

"Alright," Sam said, walking backward a few steps. "I'll be right back."

"Okay," I said, watching Sam disappear into the building.

Dean broke away from me to lean against the Impala. "Law school," he uttered again, this time in disgust.

"What's wrong with law school?" I wondered, folding my arms.

"What's not wrong with law school?" Dean scoffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets again. "Lawyers are scumbags."

"Hey, watch it. You might need one someday," I teased. Dean chuckled, staring down at his boots. I sighed, gesturing back to the building. "It's what he wants. Why is that so bad?"

"It's not bad–"

"It's just not what you had planned, huh?"

Dean peered up at me underneath furrowed brows. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, straightening his posture.

"You want him to be a hunter–"

"He is a hunter," he interjected pointedly.

Somehow, I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. "Fine. But why can't he also be… this? I mean, is it so terrible that he doesn't want to hunt for the rest of his life, Dean?" I asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Really?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. He couldn't be serious.

"We help people, Tor," Dean stated like it was the most simple thing in the world. There it was again. The same answer every time. Helping people is important, yes. Of course, it is. But when does it begin to outweigh your own life? Your own wants or needs? When does it become more important than the people you love?

I dropped my arms and sighed, mumbling, "Yeah," and heading to the backdoor of the Impala.

Dean grabbed my hand before I got too far. "What's wrong?" He asked, softly running his thumb over the top of my hand.

"Nothing," I said, giving him a small smile. "Just tired."

That wasn't a total lie. So much had happened this past month, and I was drained. Thinking daily about John and where he could be, what could be happening to him. And seeing Dean so strung out with worry. I held it together pretty well, I think. I tried to be strong for Dean; I had to. It seemed he was losing everything at every turn, and I wouldn't let him lose me, too. No matter how stressful it was. But something about his vehement arguing with Sam tonight about the wonders of being a hunter irked me. Yes, I loved hunting; because I loved helping people. I'd been told a million times that it was just in my nature. It was who I was. These past ten years of my life, doing what we did, were arguably the happiest I'd ever been. I finally found my purpose, my place in this world. But sometimes, when I allowed my mind to dwell on the future, I did wonder if there could be non-hunting-related things in store.

My stomach churned and twisted almost as if on cue, telling me a hard no. I crossed my arms again, attempting to put some pressure on my abdomen to relieve the ache, but it was no use. "You cold?" Dean asked, an eyebrow raised at how tightly I had wrapped my arms around my torso.

"Yeah, a little," I lied.

Dean pulled me back into his arms without a word, tucking my head underneath his chin. I sighed contentedly and closed my eyes. This is when thoughts of an idealistic life away from hunting no longer mattered. I was happy right here; this was enough.

Another ache wound through me, and I squeezed my already shut eyes even tighter, trying to will away the feeling of burrowing in the pit of my stomach. The intensity reminded me of a time in my life that I spent so long trying to forget. I didn't want the memories to resurface when they'd finally been dormant. If there was one thing I learned, it was that I shouldn't—and didn't—need to shoulder these things by myself. Just as I was about to lift my head and tell Dean how I felt, the door handle clicking echoed through the quiet lot, alerting us to Sam's return. Not wanting to burden him with this, I made a mental note to talk to Dean about it whenever we got time alone. With a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Sam's feet strumbled slightly when he saw us, but he recovered quickly and walked over to the car.

"Took you long enough," Dean quipped, letting me go.

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded to the Impala. "Come on," he said. Dean rounded the back of the car, getting into the driver's seat.

Sam waited by the passenger door, opening it and stepping aside as I neared. "No, you take the front seat," I said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You need the legroom," I teased, getting into the backseat. Sam entered the car, both he and Dean shutting their respective doors at the same time. The simultaneous clicks filled me with a nostalgia I couldn't quite place. There were only a handful of times before Sam went off to college that the three of us were in the car without John. Those small, fleeting moments of freedom were inexplicable. We actually had fun. But things were different now. John wasn't off on a solo hunt; he was missing—possibly hurt... or worse. However, if he were here, Sam wouldn't be. I'm not sure how to feel about that.

The Impala pulled out onto the empty two-lane blacktop, and we were off.

---

Several shards of something pricked my back, piercing my skin as I shifted, trying to avoid the unpleasant sensation. An ice-cold breeze fluttered by, nipping at my exposed arms and legs and bringing the rich, earthy smell of soil with it. My hands inspected what was below me; the root of it was luscious, but the ends were sharp like a blade. Out of instinct, I pulled away, clutching my hands to my chest as my eyes snapped open to a pitch-black sky sparsely sprinkled with dull stars. Where the hell am I? Taking in a large breath, I leaned up and looked around. The grass I laid upon wasn't a usual emerald green. Instead, it was a deep grey. I blinked a few times, hoping to clear my vision, but it didn't work. In the distance was a strangely familiar brick building. My view of it was fuzzy, almost obstructed. I squinted to focus, only worsening the blur. Around me, abandoned cars and yellow buses littered the parking lot, smoke trailing up in thin whisps. Where children usually lined up to wait for their parents, scattered school supplies lay in their wake, water-logged and ripped from a recent storm. What am I doing here?

The sickly feeling of being watched clouded over me. I scrambled to stand on shaky legs, my bare feet sinking into the frigid soil. The cold traveled through my body, making me shiver. When I wrapped my arms around myself, I realized I was only in shorts and a tank top—certainly not appropriate clothing for this weather. Being all alone, I've never felt so watched. Unlocking my legs, I tentatively began walking in the opposite direction, away from the dark tree line, when a twig snapped in the woods behind me. I peered over my shoulder, finding nothing. I picked up my speed, my paranoia increasing tenfold. But when I returned my gaze forward, the building and cars were gone—replaced with a fog-filled field. My stride faltered, but with nowhere else to go, I kept moving to the other side of the clearing. Overhead, thunder rumbled, and the wind picked up. Deep gray clouds formed, interrupted only by abrupt bolts of lightning that filled the sky with blasts of deluded yellow. Now sprinting, I finally made it to the other patch of woods just as the clouds suddenly tunneled, plummeting toward me. It encapsulated me, filling my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Fear coursed through me, exiting in the form of a blood-curdling scream

A light shone through my shut eyelids, the warmth searing into my irises. My eyes snapped open; an immediate rush of fear overtook me, locking my already bent legs into their hooked position. It took me a few ragged breaths to realize I was lying in the backseat of the Impala. It was just a dream, I told myself. Thankfully, the rock-hard grip on my heart slowly faded into a dull clench. Deep down inside, no amount of diversion could affect the reality of the situation. That wasn't a one-off nightmare; I had those horrifying images seared into my brain. They used to pull me under for a considerable time, but I had gotten better at controlling my reaction to them, and eventually, they stopped—at least, I thought they did. I couldn't imagine why they'd come back now, but I suppose it was foolish to think I could go the rest of my life without them resurfacing. However, the abruptness terrified me. Regardless, I had to carry on as though nothing had happened. That's how I got through it before, and that's how I'll get through it now. I'd talk to Dean about it if I had another one.

Groggily, I unlocked and stretched my legs as much as possible without kicking the front seat. As I moved, my folded jacket that I vaguely remembered tucking underneath my head last night fell to the floorboard. I realized then that there was another jacket draped over me, instantly knowing it to be Dean's. I sighed contentedly, breathing in the warm and comforting aroma of sandalwood and leather clinging to the fabric. The severity of the nauseous feeling I experienced last night had dwindled considerably. But even now, I could feel its lingering effects. Especially after that nightmare.

The scent of gasoline that blew in through the open passenger door didn't help, but it did let me know we were stopped at a gas station. I tucked my face back underneath the jacket, trying to combat nausea with a reassuring scent.

"Morning," Sam said with a small smile, glancing back at me over the top of the seat. There was a strange look in his eye, but I couldn't quite place what for. When he saw my face—well, half of it—his brows tucked down in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," I spoke in a slightly raspy, muffled voice. Foregoing the possibility of falling back asleep, I sat up. Dean's jacket fell to the side, but I caught it before it hit the floorboard and half-ass-ed folding it. "What time is it?" I asked, placing the article of clothing on top of the front seat.

Sam put the cassettes he was holding back into the box of the others that sat atop his lap and checked his watch, peering back at me. "Ten-thirty," he announced.

"Damn," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes tiredly.

"Yeah, you were out like a light," Sam said, a mischievous grin appearing on his lips. "Sawing logs, too."

"Shut up," I playfully smacked his shoulder. "I was not."

"I mean…" he trailed off with a shrug. " Kinda ."

"Rude," I laughed, tossing my hair into a messy ponytail.

"Hey, does Dean actually still listen to this crap?" Sam inquired, holding up another cassette.

I peered over his shoulder to see a Led Zepplin tape in his hand. "Are you kidding? I'm surprised it still plays," I said. Sam flashed his eyebrows and tossed it back in.

Before I could get the chance to inquire what he and his brother talked about while I was sleeping, Dean exited the convenience store with multiple bags of chips, a candy bar hanging from his mouth, a couple of bottles of soda, and a cup of coffee in his hand. He stopped at the back of the Impala, leaning around to address Sam. "Hey, you want breakfast?" He offered.

Sam sneered at the bags, shaking his head slightly. "No, thanks."

Dean shrugged and reached for the gas nozzle under the license plate, catching my eye and winking at me. I smiled and righted myself in the seat, jerking back in surprise when I found Sam twisted around, practically leaning over the top of the front seat to stare at us, mouth held slightly agape.

"What?" I asked defensively.

"Huh?" Sam blinked a few times. When my question registered, he waved me off with a gentle smile and returned to a normal position. "No– nothing."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. If he had something to say, I wished he would just get it over with. Preferably while Dean was out of earshot. "Sam?" I called his name questioningly.

Pulling in a deep breath, he looked back at me again. "Well, it's just that–" Sam's voice was cut off by Dean knocking on the rear passenger door's window, all the things he put down on the trunk back in his hands again.

I reached over and pushed the door open for him. "Morning, Cherry Pie," Dean said, handing me the warm cup of coffee as he leaned down to kiss me on the forehead. I shut my eyes at the much-welcomed comfort. He didn't know how much I needed it right now.

"Thanks," I replied quietly and with a soft smile. Sam raised an eyebrow and threw his brother an astonished look. Unlike last night, Dean definitely caught this one because he promptly cleared his throat and ducked out of the car, shutting the door with his hip.

The force of the slam sent my long bangs flying back. I sighed, blowing away a strand that fell back into my face. I know Sam wasn't used to seeing Dean acting that way—not really. I knew that if he came with us, it would only be a matter of time before something like this happened. As Dean rounded the car, Sam looked unsure whether to be an annoying little brother who'd tease Dean about how he was acting towards me or do nothing at all. I hoped he chose the latter. Dean might not even look at me for the remainder of our trip together if Sam pushed too hard. Bringing the cup to my lips, I snickered at the thought. Because of our past difficulties with John, I couldn't really blame Dean for being so awkward about it all. Still, I felt like we'd finally gotten to a good place and deflated at the very idea of it changing. I took a small sip of the hot coffee, praying to whoever was listening that my stomach would calm the hell down, so I didn't pull an Exorcist in the car. I'd never live that down.

Thankfully, Sam decided not to say anything about us. Not right now, at least. So that freed some of the tension in my shoulders. "So, how'd you pay for this stuff?" He inquired knowingly as Dean slid into the driver's seat. "You guys still running credit card scams?"

"Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro ball career," Dean said, putting the items in his hand on the seat between him and his brother. "Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards."

"Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?" Sam asked, closing his door.

"Uh, Dad's idea. Burt Aframian," he smirked. "And his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal."

"That sounds about right," Sam laughed, nodding his head disparagingly. Picking up and dropping another cassette into the box, Sam huffed and said, "I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection."

"Why?" Dean asked, glancing over at him doubtfully. I smiled at the total cluelessness behind his simple question.

"Well, for one, they're cassette tapes," Sam uttered obviously. "And two," he began, picking up a cassette for each name he listed. " Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica ?" He questioned distastefully. Dean immediately snatched the Metallica cassette out of Sam's hands. That was his pride and joy, right there. "It's the greatest hits of mullet rock." Sam finished.

"Well, house rules, Sammy–" Dean began. "Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole." He finished with a haughty, lopsided grin, tossing the cassette tape into the box and starting the engine. I sipped on my coffee, enjoying listening to them bicker like two old women. This was how plenty of days and nights were spent until John put a stop to it when it started to go too far. That familiarity was like a breath of fresh air in such unpredictable times.

"You know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old." Sam pointed out, putting the box on the floorboard between his feet. "It's Sam, okay?"

Dean turned the volume up, blasting music through the speakers. "Sorry, can't hear you–" he all but shouted, gesturing to his ear. "The music's too loud!"

Sam looked back at me, brows tucked together. "How do you deal with this?" He wondered loudly.

Also, speaking at a heightened volume, I simply shrugged. "You get used to it!"

It's not like there was much you could do anyway.

---

We'd been on the road long enough for the sun to begin setting in the sky, casting auburn hues across a pastel white and blue background. About twenty minutes ago, I was desperate for something to do and tapped Sam on the shoulder, requesting the map sitting in the glove compartment. Armed with the missing reports folder, I spent some time trying to figure out if they all disappeared from the same exact spot on the road or different ones. The answer didn't do much for the case, but it certainly stopped me from dying of boredom.

A few miles into Jericho, Sam got out his phone and called the local hospital and the morgue to inquire if either had encountered someone matching John's description. "Thank you," Sam said, snapping his cell shut. "Alright. There's no one matching Dad at the hospital or morgue. So, that's something, I guess."

Relief washed through me. "Yeah, that's good," I nodded. At least he wasn't dead, and if he was hurt—I just hoped he stayed put long enough for us to find him.

The bridge we neared was blocked off by three cop cars and a few sheriffs standing around a civilian vehicle at the center. Dean glanced over at his brother, who was staring down at his phone and tapped his arm to gain his attention. "Check it out," he said, gesturing to the scene ahead of us.

Stopping the Impala a considerable distance away, Dean reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a box full of fake IDs. He picked up two wallets containing our IDs, opening one to ensure the other he handed me was mine. Sam watched on, mouth held slightly agape in shock. Dean shut the box and gave his brother a smug smile. "Let's go," he said, getting out of the car.

"Seriously?" Sam asked me. "Fake IDs?"

I scooted to the edge of the seat, patting his shoulder. "A lot has changed, Shorty," I said, using my old nickname for him. That name once fit when he was about thirteen, but it became an ironic joke after a growth spurt that catapulted his height to nearly a foot taller than me. It slipped out, and just when I thought he'd get upset, a genuine smile fell across his lips.

Smoothing out my hair, I got out of the car and followed Dean to the bridge. Sam trailed behind me, no doubt nervous we were gonna get caught. We'd done this countless times by now and hadn't gotten found out yet. I saw no reason as to why that day would be today. A deputy leaned over the railing, yelling his question to someone below. "You guys find anything?"

"No! Nothing!" Was the distant reply.

Walking back to the car, the look on the deputy's face was one of stupefaction. He looked lost. An equally confused colleague crouched at the open driver's side door. "No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints," he mumbled. "Spotless. It's almost too clean."

The closer we got, the clearer their conversation became. "So, this kid Troy. He's dating your daughter, isn't he?" The uncrouched deputy asked.

"Yeah," the other man replied, still partially hidden on the other side of the vehicle.

"How's Amy doing?"

Amy's father shrugged sadly. "She's putting up missing posters downtown," he said, nodding to the bridge's other end.

Dean didn't bother to hang back and listen, stepping onto the crime scene. To keep up our cover, I kept in stride with him. Sam lagged behind, but only slightly. Confidence was undoubtedly crucial when passing off a lie as truth. Thankfully, Dean had enough for all of us. "You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?" He interrupted the deputies haughtily.

The nearest deputy straightened his back and faced us, and I was able to see his nametag that read, Dep. Jaffe. "And who are you?" He questioned, hands holding onto his belt buckle defensively.

Dean pulled the wallet out, flashing the fake ID inside quickly as he stated, "Federal marshals," and swiftly tucked it back into his pocket.

"You three are a little young for marshals, aren't you?" Deputy Jaffe questioned, a suspicious eyebrow raised.

"Thanks," Dean laughed it off, adding, "That's awfully kind of you," as he moved to inspect the vehicle. The driver's side window was smashed, and jagged pieces of glass littered the front seat. "You did have another one just like this, correct ?" Dean asked, pointing to the car.

"Yeah, that's right," Jaffe relented. No matter their doubt, people always seemed to give in. I suppose they feared retaliation from whatever governing body we claimed to be from if they didn't give us the information we asked for. Either way, it worked out in our favor. "About a mile up the road," he said. "There've been others before that."

"So, this victim, you knew him?" Sam inquired, easily falling into the rhythm of asking questions.

The deputy nodded. "Town like this, everybody knows everybody."

Dean circled the car, nearing the back end with his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Any connection between the victims besides that they're all men?" He asked. Sam joined Dean, both boys stopping their strides near the trunk.

"No," the Deputy replied. "Not so far as we can tell."

"Do you know what we're dealing with here?" I asked Deputy Jaffe as I leaned down slightly to peer into the open passenger door, looking around the cab for some clue that could lead us to the source of all this. There was nothing but pieces of glass and ripped seats.

"Honestly, we don't know," Jaffe mumbled. You never do, I thought to myself, somehow managing to keep a cordial expression on my face as I straightened upright, and he continued with an unsure shrug. "Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?"

"Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys," Dean quipped with a cocky smirk, one that quickly disappeared from his face when Sam very obviously stomped on his foot. I pursed my lips and let out a quick, frustrated breath from my nose at the childish scene they were making, turning my body away from the deputy so he couldn't see the wide-eyed look of complaint I shot the boys.

"Thank you for your time," Sam said, giving Deputy Jaffe a respectful, tight-lipped smile. "Gentlemen," he nodded to both cops as he stalked away. Dean not-so-subtly stomped after his brother, leaving me to clear my throat and give the befuddled cops a quick, courteous smile before turning on my heel and practically sprinting the hell out of there.

Sam was far ahead, his long legs carrying him briskly back toward the Impala. Still, it didn't take long for Dean to catch up, and when he did, he smacked Sam across the back of the head with a loud thwap that echoed through the air. "Ow!" Sam cried, glaring down at his big brother. "What was that for?!"

"Why'd you have to step on my foot?" Dean whisper-yelled through gritted teeth.

"Why do you have to talk to the police like that?" Sam hissed back, jutting his head toward Dean angrily.

"Hey, hey!" I called in a quiet but firm voice, hurrying to push myself between them. "Stop it!" I scolded, keeping a hand on each of their arms to still their movements.

Dean pointed to Sam in frustration. "He started it."

"Both of you," I said sternly, looking pointedly between the two of them. "You shouldn't fight in front of cops. And I shouldn't have to tell you that."

"Come on, they don't really know what's going on," Dean said, gesturing back to the deputies.

"They never do. It's nothing new."

"Yeah, so we're all alone on this. I mean, if we're going to find Dad, we've got to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves."

"You're right," I agreed because he was. We were on our own here, which meant being extra careful—not even more reckless. "But you can't fight like five-year-olds while we're posing as feds, okay?" I added.

Of course, Sam was the first to relent. "Yeah," he nodded understandingly.

When he looked in no rush to answer, I shook Dean's arm, and he grumbled, "Yeah, yeah."

"Alright," I said, releasing my grasp on them. It wouldn't be long before their next spat, but hopefully, it'd be more than five minutes. Or at least until we got the hell away from this bridge and the cops stationed on it. That'd be preferable, considering the Deputy was already suspicious. We certainly didn't need him crawling all over us for however long we were here.

Behind Dean approached a male Sheriff wearing dark sunglasses flanked by two male FBI agents. My slightly widening eyes darting over his shoulder and Sam clearing his throat were enough to make Dean turn around. "Can I help you three?" The Sheriff inquired, tiling his hat-covered head to the side.

"No, sir, we were just leaving," Dean answered. "Agent Mulder. Agent Scully," he nodded at the FBI agents as we walked past. They glanced back at Dean for a brief moment but, thankfully, otherwise ignored him and continued.

Waiting until we were a bit closer to the Impala, I addressed Dean out of the Sheriff's earshot. "That mouth on you is gonna get us in trouble," I said.

"Oh, you know it can do a lot more than that," he uttered suggestively with a tongue click.

"Yeah," I plastered a smile on my lips. "Especially when you're in prison," I quipped. The cocky grin instantly fell from Dean's face, replaced with a scowl. I opened the back door of the Impala and slid inside, waving for them to follow. "Come on."

---

There was only one viable option for finding out any more information on the recently missing man, and it was in the form of his apparent girlfriend, Amy. Parking the Impala alongside the street, we began our search for Amy. The suffocation of living in a town smaller than a pinprick on a map was something you never forget. Memories could fade, and you could repress them, but the moment you step foot into another one, it all comes rushing back. Walking down the near-empty sidewalk and passing by the little family-owned shops, an itty bitty movie theater, and one of the few restaurants certainly did the trick. I was immediately teleported back to a time when my Mom, Rose, and my much younger self would spend the weekends hanging out in the small town square. We'd go shopping, get ice cream, and usually meet up with Peter, my Dad, for dinner.

A time when life was simple. A time before, I turned into a burden for them. Before…

Dean gently bumped my shoulder with his, drawing me out of my overcast state of mind. I peered up into his concern-laden eyes, attempting to give him a reassuring smile. The corners of my lips turned upwards, but the smile by no means met my eyes, something he definitely noticed. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a girl a few years younger than us stopping in front of one of the stores a few feet away. Her curled brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, blowing around with the slight gust of wind that moved by. She pulled a missing poster from the stack tucked underneath her arm and taped it to the building. A string of the same papers littered storefronts in the direction she'd come from.

Unsurprisingly, Dean saw her as well. "I'll bet you that's her." He said, pointing to the girl.

"Gee, what makes you think that?" I teased.

"Just a hunch," Dean said with a wry smile, taking a few more significant steps ahead of Sam and me to reach the brunette, stopping in front of her. "You must be Amy."

She looked him up and down with a suspicious gaze from her black shadow-rimmed eyes before tentatively replying, "... yeah."

"Yeah, Troy told us about you. We're his cousins," Dean said and introduced us. "That's Tori. I'm Dean; this is Sammy," he used the nickname simply to irk his brother, and judging by Sam's pursed lips—it worked.

Amy furrowed her brow. "He never mentioned you guys to me," she muttered, beginning to walk again, her high ponytail bouncing as she put up more fliers along the way.

"Well, that's Troy, I guess," Dean sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as we followed her down the sidewalk. "We're not around much; we're up in Modesto." He lied effortlessly.

"So, we're looking for him too," Sam interjected. "And we're kinda asking around."

"Right," Amy replied, beginning to look a little uncomfortable.

"We don't mean to bother you," I told her honestly, breaking away from the boys to match her stride. Amy glanced over, relaxing slightly when she looked into my sincere gaze. "It's just hard on everybody, Troy being gone like this," I added.

Before Amy could reply, another brunette with equally heavy black eyeshadow combined with a stark black lip bounded over. Her worried gaze trained on Amy. "Hey, are you okay?" She asked, placing a hand on her friend's arm.

"Yeah," Amy replied.

"Hey, do you mind if we ask you a couple questions?" Sam inquired.

"Well…" Amy trailed off, sharing a strained look with her friend.

"We just wanna try and figure out what happened," I explained gently, hoping she'd give in.

Amy took in a deep breath and nodded. "Okay."

With Amy and her friend, who introduced herself as Rachel, leading the way, we found ourselves at a table in the cafe across the street. The three of us sat opposite the girls. I couldn't help but notice the warm and welcoming feeling inside of this place and its complete contrast to our conversation. It was never easy talking to people about their missing or deceased loved ones; it never would be.

"So, the night Troy went missing, what happened exactly?" I asked, choosing my words carefully so as not to upset anyone right off the bat.

Amy started first, sighing as she began. "I was on the phone with him. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and… he never did."

"He didn't say anything strange or out of the ordinary?" Sam inquired.

"No," she shook her head. "Nothing I can remember."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sam's gaze rather blatantly trained on Amy's chest. Unless he changed drastically in his two years away from us, that was very out of character for him. I followed his line of sight suspiciously, finding a pentagram on a silver chain hanging from Amy's neck. Sam softly gestured to it. "I like your necklace," he said.

Amy took the pendant between two of her fingers, looking down at it fondly. "Troy gave it to me," she uttered, looking back up at us with a smile, still grasping the piece of jewelry. "Mostly to scare my parents with all that devil stuff," she finished with a chuckle.

"Actually, it means just the opposite," Sam announced. "A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful," he said. By the startled look on her face, Sam must've realized that what he said might have been a little too heavy-handed, especially given the situation. He quickly attempted to take the edge off by laughing it off and shrugging, saying, "I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing."

Dean glanced over at his brother, popping an irritated eyebrow. "Okay. Thank you, Unsolved Mysteries," he quipped, rolling his eyes. Dean ignored the glare Sam shot his way and looked at the girls, clasping his hands together atop the table. "Here's the deal, ladies. The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything..."

Amy and Rachel exchanged a timid glance. I sat up straighter, asking, "What's the matter?"

"Well, it's just…." Rachel began reluctantly. "I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk."

"What do they talk about?" Both Dean and Sam asked simultaneously. Oh god, I thought, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. It didn't take long for that to start again.

"It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like, decades ago," Rachel suddenly stopped, looking at us like we'd think she was crazy. Sam quickly nodded for her to continue. "Well, supposedly, she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up?" She paused, glancing over at Amy sadly. "Well, they disappear forever…."

---

We parted ways with the girls, thanked them for their time, and headed to the library, barely two minutes from the cafe. Like most—if not all, libraries—this one was filled with dry, slightly musty air from the thousands of dust-covered, leather-bound pages that sat untouched at the very top of the large stacks lining most of the one-story building. At the center was a string of desks and a few sporting computers. The three of us gathered around one of them, the bright light from the monitor in front of us almost blinding in the otherwise dimly lit space. I leaned down behind Dean, one arm resting on his shoulder and the other on the arm of the chair as he typed in Female Murder Hitchhiking into the search engine. Zero results came up on the screen, so he tried replacing Hitchhiking with Centennial Highway and got the same result.

"Hm," I hummed. "Weird."

"Let me try something," Sam suggested, reaching his hands for the keyboard.

Dean flicked his brother's hands away. "I got it," he insisted brashly. Knowing all too well how fast they escalate, I stepped back and out of the line of fire just as Sam shoved Dean's chair, effectively rolling him back a good foot or two, and moved his own chair in front of the computer. "Dude!" Dean exclaimed quietly, hitting Sam on the shoulder. "You're such a control freak."

Sam ignored him completely, looking back at me. "So, angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?"

I nodded and replied, "Usually," stepping back behind their chairs.

"Well, maybe it's not murder," Sam said, replacing the word murder with suicide in the search engine. Right away, an article popped up entitled Suicide on Centennial, dated April twenty-fifth. "This was 1981," he scanned the page and read parts of it. " Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge—drowns in the river ."

"Sylvania Bridge? That's where we just were," I said, resting on the back of Dean's chair, leaning in to get a closer look at the article Sam was scrolling through. Attached to it were multiple pictures, the first being a black and white photo of a dark-haired woman smiling happily at the camera. The others were her grieving husband, Joseph, and the bridge. The bleakness radiating through the photographs sent a chill fluttering down my spine. Constance looked so full of life, so joyous. What on earth could've driven a seemingly happy individual to such a horrible fate?

Apparently, I wasn't the only one wondering. "Does it say why she did it?" Dean inquired.

"An hour before they found her, she calls 911," Sam said, squinting at the bright screen. "Apparently, her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's terrible," I murmured.

"'Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it,' said husband Joseph Welch.'" Sam quoted from the article.

My heart stung for her and the pain she must have gone through. I couldn't begin to fathom it. I sighed and stood upright. "She definitely has a reason to be vengeful," I said.

"What, are you giving her a pass?" Dean questioned lightly, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course not," I folded my arms. "But her kids died, Dean. It's sad."

Dean nodded slightly in agreement. "But hey, at least we know where to start," he said, pointing to the photograph of the bridge.

---

The radical transformation of the atmosphere above made it feel like we weren't even on the same bridge as earlier when the rich, golden-orange sun cast wisps of coral throughout. Now, it was a deep, stale blue, with no variation of color save for the ever-darkening grey clouds strewn across a starless sky. Barely the slightest sliver of the moon could be seen through them. It was suffocating. Or maybe that was the elephant that planted itself on my chest and wouldn't move since I peered over the thin railing at the slowly lapping waves hitting the shore of mud and dirt. The darkness surrounding us made the drop look incredibly foreboding. Knowing what happened here didn't help, either.

"So, this is where Constance took the swan dive," Dean said rather uncouthly, leaning on the railing, unabashedly gazing out over the river.

"So, you think Dad would have been here?" Sam asked, joining us.

"Well, he's chasing the same story, and we're chasing him." Dean shrugged, brushing a reassuring hand against mine as he moved to continue our trek down the bridge.

"Okay," Sam began expectantly, straggling behind us. "So, now what?"

"Now we keep digging until we find him," Dean stated simply. "Might take a while."

The sound of Sam's boots coming to a sudden halt caused me to stop. And my stopping made Dean stop. It was a pile-up of sorts, the outcome looking no better than a car crash as Sam's lips tightened in frustration. "Dean, I told you," he said. "I've gotta get back by Monday–"

"Monday," Dean nodded slowly, mouth contorted in a sardonic smile. "Right. The interview. Yeah, I forgot," he mumbled indifferently, head tilted to the side."You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?"

There was a tinge of—dare I say it—jealousy in his tone. I know for sure there was a part of him that was envious of Sam for always being able to push against John and his policies, and it was on full display.

"Maybe. Why not?" Sam asked defensively.

"Does Jessica know the truth about you?" Dean questioned condescendingly. "I mean, does she know about the things you've done?"

Sam took a confrontational step closer to him. "No," he said sternly. "And she's not ever going to know."

"Well, that's healthy," Dean scoffed a sarcastic laugh. He glanced over at me with a raised eyebrow. "Don't you think?"

I chewed the inside of my cheek, debating whether or not to say how I truly felt. Ultimately, if Sam wanted something long-term with this girl, he had to be honest. "He has a point," I finally answered. Sam huffed, shoulders slumping in annoyance at my response. "Sam, if she's the one, she won't care," I insisted.

"And if she does care?" Sam asked, raising an expectant eyebrow. "You know, like any normal person would?"

"Then she's not the one," I answered simply. Sam's jaw locked, and he dropped his gaze to the ground.

"You can pretend all you want, Sammy," Dean began. "But sooner or later, you're going to have to face up to who you really are." He finished and turned on his heel, beginning to walk away.

Something about his words set Sam off, and he stalked after him. "And who's that?" Sam snapped. I pulled in a breath to steel myself before following along. The last thing we needed was the two of them fighting like children on a no-doubt haunted bridge.

"You're one of us," Dean answered.

Sam moved in front of him, stopping his stride. "No. I'm not like you," he insisted. "This is not going to be my life."

"You have a responsibility to–"

"To Dad?" Sam interrupted, gesturing a hand out at nothing in particular as he continued. "And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures, I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like," he added sadly. At the mention of their Mother, Dean's jaw clenched, and he swallowed hard. It was clear that he was getting upset, but Sam kept going. "And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back."

Suddenly, Dean grabbed Sam by the collar and pushed him past me, shoving him up against the bridge's railing and supporting beam with a loud metal rattle. It took a second for me to register what even happened, but when I did, I hurried to them.

"Don't talk about her like that," Dean warned in a low, threatening tone, his grip tightening on Sam's jacket. They both breathed heavily, staring each other down.

"Dean," I warned, placing a hand on his arm. His clenched fingers loosened, but only slightly. My heart pounded in my chest, eyes darting back and forth between the two as the tense moment slowly de-escalated. It felt like forever before another gentle push on my part to Dean's arm made him release his grasp. He turned and walked away with one last hard look aimed at Sam, who ran a frustrated hand over his mouth, cheeks drawn inward in residual anger. Even in this open space, the air was thin and weighed down by tension.

I folded my arms across my chest, looking up at Sam. "You okay?" I asked quietly.

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, jaw clenching briefly as he swallowed hard. Neither he nor Dean wanted to hurt the other, but sometimes it was like they didn't know how not to.

No more than two feet away, Dean suddenly came to a halt. "Guys?" He called in a hushed tone.

Looking his way, my eyes caught sight of a dark-haired woman in a white dress standing on the railing halfway down the bridge from us. My breath caught in my throat as the wind whipped around, and her body swayed. Seeing someone, spirit or not, linger on the thin barrier sent a chill down my spine that shot into my legs, locking my knees. She wavered, swaying backward slightly before falling forward. We ran for the falling woman, arriving just in time to see nothing. No one was here.

"Where'd she go?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam answered, leaning the entire top half of his body over the rail. For whatever reason, my pulse skipped a beat, and I was seconds away from grabbing the back of his jacket and pulling him away when the Impala's engine roared to life, headlights suddenly brightening the dark area.

Dean stared at the vehicle. "What the hell?"

"Who's driving your car?" Sam inquired. Dean pulled the keys out of his pocket, jingling them in front of us to drive home the fact that there could be no one else behind the wheel. No one living, anyway. The Impala lurched forward with its tires squealing, speeding straight for us. Sam grabbed my arm, coaxing me forward as he shouted, "Go! Go!"

We took off sprinting as fast as our legs could carry us, which—while relatively fast—would never be quicker than a charging vehicle possessed by a ghost out for blood. My lungs burned, but I kept going. There really wasn't another option unless you were Sam, I suppose. Because he suddenly announced, "We have to jump!"

"What?!" I shrieked. That was not, and never would be, an option for me. I'd rather get run over.

Everything that took place in the next few seconds happened in a blur. The boys jumped over the railing, and as the car careened closer, I realized I was the furthest out of options as one could possibly get. I checked out to the best of my ability and jumped over the railing, slamming into the large pipe extending across the bridge. I desperately tried to catch a grip on something, only for a sharp pain to scratch through my palm as it dragged across a stray piece of jagged metal. Then, before I could even react, a hand clutching my forearm snapped my eyes upward and onto Sam, who was crouched atop the vast metal pipe, leaning against the railing. "I got you," he smiled through heaving breaths.

A nervous laugh scattered through my lips. If he hadn't caught me when he did… I was able to get a good grip on a piece of rebar and helped him assist me to the sturdy metal piece he was perched on. Feeling somewhat stable, I searched the area for Dean, my gaze zeroing in on the violent, dark blue ripples. Slick sweat coated my skin, freezing in the chilled air as the panic of not being able to find him overtook me.

Sam tapped my arm, quickly uttering, "Look, look," as he pointed to the rock-covered shore where Dean was pulling himself out of the water.

"Oh, god, Dean?!" I called worriedly. Dean panted loud enough for us to hear him as he collapsed onto the ground and rolled over onto his back, appearing to be covered in… what I hoped was mud.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked loudly, leaning over a little too far for my liking, so I pulled him back.

Dean held up an A-OK sign, "I'm super," he puffed, letting his arm fall to the sludge in exhaustion, where it landed with a wet plop. Through a grimace at the sound, I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever happened was nothing a shower—or four—couldn't fix.

Chuckling, Sam scooted to his feet, getting a good hold of the railing before offering a hand to me. I gripped it probably a little too tightly as he assisted me onto shaky legs. Even though I felt ridiculous for needing it, Sam helped me over the railing. And even though he definitely didn't need it, I helped him over as well. With us both on solid ground, I could breathe again. At least somewhat. I'd feel better once we retrieved Dean and got the hell off this god-forsaken bridge.

"Whoa, what happened?" Sam asked, gently taking and lifting my left hand. It wasn't until I looked at it that the throbbing pain from the cut in my palm resurfaced. I'd completely forgotten about it and hadn't noticed the sticky tracks of warm blood trailing out.

"Eh, it was time for a tetanus shot anyway," I said, inspecting the wound with a shrug. It was a little deep, but nothing too bad. I've certainly had worse. I bunched my jacket into my hand to try and stop the bleeding until I could wrap it with the extra gauze in the trunk. Seeing that Sam was unconvinced, I tried to quell his worries. "I'm good. Really."

Sam flashed his eyebrows in disbelief. "Okay," he uttered.

"Come on, let's go get Dean," I said, patting his arm as I passed by.

About fifteen minutes later, Dean, still covered in sludge, had just finished a third circle around the Impala to inspect for any scratches and was now peering under the hood to ensure everything was in order. I leaned against the front side, peering into the engine. I had no idea what he'd do if the car were damaged; he'd probably throw himself back off the bridge.

"Is your car alright?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems alright now," Dean said, shutting the hood with a click that echoed in the night. "That Constance chick, what a bitch!" He shouted into the nothingness, sitting down on the front of the car.

"Well, she doesn't want us digging around, that's for sure," Sam said, settling on the hood beside his brother. "So where's the job go from here, genius?" He asked.

"Fuck if I know," Dean shrugged and threw his arms up in frustration, flicking mud off his hands.

One of the chunks of goop narrowly passed me, landing on the ground beside my boot. "I do," I grumbled. Dean looked up at me expectantly. "A shower," I stated, much to his dismay.

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a sneer aimed at his brother. "You smell like a toilet."

---

Arriving at the nearest motel, the boys headed inside to get a room while I stayed in the Impala. I figured it'd try and get some of the gunk off of the interior since Sam, understandably, immediately shut down Dean's plan of stripping bare-ass naked before he got in the car. I scrubbed at the dried mud with the rag for some time, getting a good amount of it off before noticing that it was taking Sam and Dean an awfully long time. My paranoia-strung mind feared something had happened with the credit card, and cops were about to pull up any second, but instead of freaking out first and asking questions later, I climbed out of the Impala and headed inside to see what was going on.

The boys glanced back at me as the bell above the door dinged when I entered. They didn't seem to be in duress, so I relaxed considerably. Sam returned his gaze to the older clerk behind the desk. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"I had another guy," the man replied, glancing down at the credit card in his hand. "Burt Aframian. He came and bought out a room for the whole month."

My airways constricted at the very thought that John might be here. A million different scenarios—the why's, the hows, all the questions I had—flew through my mind, but only one thing stuck. I just wanted to see him. It felt like forever since I last saw him. The clerk gave us the room number but refused our request for a key. I suppose I could understand, but my impatience made the fact that we now had to break into John's room all the more frustrating. Outside the door, I tapped the toe of my boot onto the concrete as Dean and I stood watch while Sam worked on picking the lock. Of course, he successfully released it in no time, and the sound of a quiet click from behind called my attention to him opening the door. A proud smile spread across my lips as I slipped past him and into the room. I didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this …

Every vertical surface had various papers, maps, newspaper clippings, old and new photographs, and notes pinned to them. The books scattered, some open and some not, on the desk and nightstand, were accompanied by general crap and trash littering the floor and bed. The entire place smelled of musty, stale beer and dust. No one had been here in quite a while. I turned to gauge the boys' reactions just in time to see Sam reach outside to grab Dean—who was seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were inside— by the back of the jacket, yanking him into the room. Dean stumbled in his brother's grasp, nearly breaking the ring of salt poured about a foot from the entrance. When he righted himself, his eyes filled with desperate confusion as they darted around the cluttered but definitely abandoned room.

"Whoa," Sam mumbled in shock, fully taking in the space around us. He hurriedly shut the door just in case someone were to walk by. I could barely make sense of it; I couldn't imagine how a normal, everyday person would react.

Cautiously, I stepped over the salt to inspect the books on the nightstand. I grimaced, plucking a stray wrapper up off the page and tossing it onto the floor so I could read the print. It was an old book about ghost possession, and judging by the small slip on the inside when I cracked it open, John had checked it out from the library we'd been in just hours ago.

Across the room, Dean turned on the light sitting atop the dresser. Underneath was a half-eaten burger he picked up and sniffed, instantly recoiling in disgust. "I don't think he's been here for a while," Dean deduced, putting the rotting food back down.

Sam ran a couple of fingers through the ring of salt, looking up at us from his crouched position near the entrance. "Salt, cats-eye shells… he was worried," he said. "Trying to keep something from coming in."

"Then why leave?" I asked. "I mean, if you're worried about something getting in, why go out ?"

"Maybe he didn't have a choice," Sam said sullenly, pushing up to stand. The very thought made my stomach churn. John wasn't the kind of person whose hand could be forced by much; it'd have to be something pretty bad to make him leave and keep him on the move.

Dean headed over to one of the four paper-covered walls. "Huh," he mumbled, closely examining each flier posted there.

"What have you got here?" Sam wondered aloud, going to his brother's side.

"Centennial Highway victims," Dean replied, keeping his eyes trained on the papers. I joined them at the wall for a closer look. Sure enough, each piece was either a missing person flier or a printout. Below those were information about each man. "I don't get it," Dean began. "I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right?" He asked, glancing at Sam and me in question. "What do these guys have in common?"

"Nothing that I can tell," I replied. They were all wildly contrasting. No piece of information matches any of them. Sure, some shared some similarities, but nothing concrete. Other than the fact that they were men. My head spun from all of the information John had collected. The fact that he'd probably holed himself up in this room, staring at all these papers for hours on end… I just didn't know how he did it without losing his mind. But maybe that was because it was already long gone.

Sam flicked on another light near the bed, illuminating yet another wall full of papers. He looked at them briefly before announcing, "Dad figured it out."

I shared a bewildered look with Dean, who asked, "What do you mean?"

"He found the same article we did," Sam explained, pointing at the printed-out article stapled to the wall. "Constance Welch. She's a woman in white."

A smirk spread across Dean's lips, and he looked back at the missing posters. "You sly dogs."

"Well, I guess we found what connects them all," I said in displeasure, folding my arms as I looked over the photographs of the missing men again, this time in a new light. While they met a fate no one should, they weren't totally innocent. A woman in white's only target was an adulterous man. It was bitter revenge born from their actions after finding that their own husband had been unfaithful.

Sam scoffed in disgust. "Yeah."

"So, if we're dealing with a woman in white," Dean began, turning back to us. "Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it."

"She might have another weakness."

"Well, Dad would want to make sure," Dean added, walking over to his brother. "He'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?"

"No, not that I can tell. If I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband." Sam said, tapping the black and white photo of Joseph Welch that no longer only painted a grieving widower; it was of a man filled with regret. Constance didn't leave her children in the bathtub and return to find them dead—she drowned them herself, and when she sobered from the anger, guilt consumed her, forcing her to take her own life.

"No reason he shouldn't be alive now," I said, mumbling, "Unless the shame ate him up."

Sam nodded, looking through the things on the bed. Dean was busy inspecting a picture below the Herald article of a woman in a white dress. "Alright. Why don't you, uh, see if you can find an address? I'm gonna get cleaned up," he announced, looking down at his mud-covered self.

"Good idea," I teased. Dean pulled a face, rolling his eyes at me as he started for the bathroom.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam called, stopping his brother in his tracks. He took in a breath, letting it out as he spoke. "What I said earlier about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry–"

Holding up a hand to stop him, Dean shook his head. "No chick-flick moments," he said with a slight smile.

Sam laughed it off. "Alright," he paused, hesitating a moment before spitting out a playful, "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean replied instantly with a smirk. My heart swelled, and I couldn't help but smile at the fond memories those words conjured. I never thought I'd hear that again. Reaching the bathroom door, Dean paused and turned around. "Tor?" he called.

"Yeah?" I asked, going over to him.

Despite being in his pocket, the car keys Dean held out to me were coated in dried mud as well. "Would you get me some clothes?" He asked. I nodded and carefully plucked the keys from his hand so I wouldn't get any dust on me. "Thanks, babe," he smiled, leaning down to kiss me.

My nose scrunched, and I bent backward out of his reach. "No," I said, shooing him away. "Shower."

"Mm-hm," Dean hummed through pursed lips and disappeared into the bathroom.

Passing Sam on my way to the door, I stepped out into the warm rising sun and headed to the Impala that was parked a few spots away. Inside the car, I grabbed whatever clothes were lying on top of all the folded items inside Dean's duffle bag and locked up before heading back into the motel room. Sunlight filtered through the open door and glinted across the mirror attached to the dresser, reflecting on beads hanging there. Sam stood there, staring at the photographs between the mirror and the wood. One was of John, Dean, and Sam when the boys were little, and the other was all of us. John was standing behind Dean, whose arms were around Sam and me. We all had big smiles on our faces. We actually looked like a normal family. Happy.

I had been with them for about a year when it was taken. I still remember it like it happened yesterday. No one argued; no one fought. There were no monsters to worry about, at least not for those few hours. It was one of the rare times that John allowed us to be exactly what we were—kids. Sam plucked the second photo from the mirror, his shoulders slumping in desolation as he looked at it. I cleared my throat to make my presence known, and he jumped slightly.

"Sorry," I apologized with a slight smile on my way to the bathroom.

"It's okay," Sam chuckled lightly.

I knocked on the bathroom door, hearing Dean shout, "It's open!" through the wood.

Popping open the door, I was smacked in the face with steam. I waved it away as best I could to see the counter I was setting the stack of clothes on. "Jesus, Dean, is it hot enough in here?" I complained.

"Thanks," he quipped, peeking out from behind the shower curtain with a wag of his eyebrows and a smirk.

Reanimated from the water, dark droplets of runny goop dripped down from his hair and onto his face creating streaks where they landed and rolled down. I cringed at the sight of them. "Yeah, you're gonna be in there a while," I said.

"Yeah," Dean mumbled dejectedly, ducking back into the shower. "I don't suppose you wanna jump in and give me a hand?" He asked in a hopeful, suggestive tone.

My response was briskly stepping out of the bathroom and shutting the door with an audible click. Back in the main room, Sam was still holding the photograph. When he saw me, he tucked it into his pocket and sighed. I made my way over, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, Sam," I insisted. I didn't know exactly what was going through his head or how he felt right now. But he was always there for me, and I'd return the favor any chance I got.

"Yeah," Sam breathed, turning from the mirror to face me. "Hey, listen, I didn't get to say much before, but I– I really missed you," he uttered with a soft chuckle, almost like he was afraid to say it.

"I missed you, too," I replied, trying to tamper down the wetness building in my eyes. "I wanted to call you," I cleared my throat and averted my eyes, allowing them to bounce around the room unsurely. "But I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me."

Sam's brows tucked down, and he quietly exclaimed, "Of course, I would! You didn't do anything," he insisted and shrugged. "I'm sure that would've made things hard for you with Dad. And Dean. How did they– I mean, how was it for you… after I left?"

"It was fine," I said. Fine was a slight lie. Supporting Sam's decision to leave got me in moderately hot water with John, who was especially angry to learn that I'd known for as long as I did and never said anything. Eventually, he got over it. Right around the time, he started taking trips out to California. He even gave me a half-assed apology about how he acted, which nearly knocked me on my ass. As for Dean, he wasn't happy either, but he didn't stay upset with me. We patched whatever rift opened between us that same night. He was hurt more than anything, and I knew that. I couldn't fault him for it.

But at the end of the day, it wasn't his decision. Or John's. Or mine. It was Sam's life; it was Sam's choice to make.

" Fine ?" Sam repeated incredulously.

"Yeah. I mean, things were–" I took a breath, searching for the correct words so Sam wouldn't feel guilty. "Things were weird. With you gone, it was like– like no one knew what to do," I admitted, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "But everything worked out eventually. We got into a groove."

A small smile cracked across Sam's lips, and he looked to the ground. "Yeah, you sure got into a groove, alright," he said, breathing a laugh through his nose.

My brows instantly lowered in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, tilting my head to the side.

Sam met my eyes again, lips pursed playfully. "How long has this been going on, you and Dean?"

"What makes you think anything is going on?" I deflected with a shrug.

"Oh, come on. Do you think I'm blind? I see how he looks at you," Sam said teasingly, taking a seat beside me. "I mean, if you ask me, he's always been a little creepy about it…" he jested, playfully nudging my arm with his. I couldn't help but smile. Finally, Sam sobered up, looking at me pointedly. "But it's different now. Like… more free."

"Yeah… it is," I admitted fondly. A partial weight lifted off our shoulders when we finally confessed our feelings to ourselves and each other. The rest came off when John found out. None of those things were easy, especially not the latter, but I'd do it again if I had to. It was all worth it.

"So, when did it happen?" Sam pressed expectantly.

"Well, after you went to college, things got pretty serious," I muttered, looking over at him. I could see by his eyes that he didn't buy it. I sighed, relenting. "Some things kind of started before you even left."

Sam's eyes widened in excitement. "I knew it!" He exclaimed. The force of his smacking his hands on his knees bounced the mattress.

I quickly caught one of the books before it slipped onto the floor and put it on the side table. "Alright, alright," I snickered, gesturing for him to calm down. "You did it, Sherlock."

Releasing a short laugh, Sam rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, looking down at them for a moment. "What about Dad? Does he know?" He inquired, worry flashing in his eyes.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was thinking back years ago when John essentially ordered Dean to stay away from me—threatened, even. I never really knew what happened during that conversation, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. "Yeah, he knows," I replied.

Sam's eyebrows disappeared underneath his bangs. "He knows?" He repeated in shock. "And Dean's still breathing?"

"He was pissed—trust me," I said, trying not to think of the fury in John's eyes when they bore into Dean after he found out about us. The situation in which it came out was ultimately out of our control. If that didn't happen, I'm not sure either of us would've had the guts to tell him ourselves. I cleared my throat and continued. "It's kind of a story for another day, but, uh, after what happened… happened, I guess he realized how serious we were about each other, and I don't know. He changed his mind."

"Wow," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, we were pretty surprised, too," I chuckled, looking down at my feet.

A beat of silence passed between us before Sam spoke again. "But Dean, he– he's good to you, right?" He asked. I looked up, seeing concern filling his hazel eyes. "Taking care of this Woman in White, he's not gonna be in trouble, is he?"

"Subtle," I teased, bumping my shoulder into his. I shook my head. "No, he won't. He's good. Really."

"Okay, good," he nodded, letting out a relieved breath. "Man, I never thought I'd see him do the whole commitment thing," he muttered in astonishment.

"We're not exactly rocking a white picket fence," I said, the smile slowly slipping from my face. "Are you– are you okay with this?" I asked tentatively, biting the inside of my cheek.

Sam's brows tucked together. "Why wouldn't I be?" He asked.

"I didn't know if you'd think it's weird."

"No," he insisted, smiling. "I'm happy for you guys."

Ease washed through me at the sincerity I saw shining in his eyes. Even though I knew deep down Sam wouldn't mind, I always worried that if he ever did find out, he'd think I crossed some sort of a line. So, needless to say, I was more than relieved that not only did he not feel that way, he was happy for us. "Thanks, Sam," I smiled gratefully.

"At least now, I don't have to deal with all those gross, longing glances you two always gave each other..." Sam commented teasingly with a laugh.

I lightly elbowed him in the ribs. "It wasn't that bad," I argued.

"It was pathetic," he said dramatically. I huffed out a laugh and rolled my eyes.

The loud sound of water hitting the tile that assisted in keeping our conversation quiet from Dean stopped. Standing up, I stacked some of the books on the bed and moved them over so I could sit down. Leaning against the headboard, I realized too late that this was probably the worst thing I could've done as an ache I hadn't noticed before burned deep in my legs. Sam pulled out his phone at the foot of the bed, clicked a few buttons, and pressed it to his ear. The bathroom door unlocked, and Dean exited in a cloud of steam, now completely mud-free. I'd hate to see the state of the shower, that's for sure.

"Well, look at you," I commented coyly, leaning forward on my thighs. "Don't you clean up nice?"

"I try," Dean shrugged nonchalantly, smirking playfully as he grabbed John's jacket that was draped atop the dresser to slip into. "I'm starving." His stomach grumbled loudly as if on cue. "You wanna go grab something to eat in that diner down the street?"

"Sure," I nodded, swinging my feet off the bed and getting up. "You coming?" I asked Sam on my way to meet Dean at the door.

"I'm good," he replied.

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You want us to bring you something back?" He asked.

"No. Thanks," Sam mumbled, looking a little upset.

I gently patted Dean on the back, letting him know I'd be out in a minute. He nodded understandingly and ducked out of the room. Once he was outside, I waited for Sam to finish listening to a voicemail before asking, "Everything okay?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Sam said, shutting his phone. "Jess was just checking in."

"Is she alright?"

He shrugged, finally looking up at me. "I hope so."

I nodded slowly, rocking on my feet a few times. "Was she upset about you coming with us?" I asked, fearful of the answer. She didn't seem to be, but I had no idea what she was like behind closed doors. And if she were bothered by all this, well, I couldn't blame her.

"No, she was fine with it," he said, a tender smile creeping onto his face. Nothing but love and affection poured into his eyes when he spoke of her, and it melted my heart. "She was kind of happy about it, actually," Sam informed me. "I mean, a little worried because I wouldn't tell her why, but she thought it was nice that I would be spending time with you guys. Finally."

"She seems really sweet," I told him honestly.

"She's great."

I smiled. "I'm glad."

"Do you–" Sam paused, jaw clenching. "Do you think I'm doing the wrong thing, not telling her the truth?"

"Sam, if you see a future with her, a real life … things will come out eventually. It's probably best to tell her now rather than wait and risk her getting upset because you kept it a secret for so long."

Sam thought it over for a moment before nodding sadly. "You're probably right," he mumbled.

"Probably," I agreed playfully.

The cell Sam tossed on the bed beside him vibrated, and he picked it up, reading the caller ID. "It's Dean," Sam announced, putting the phone to his ear. "What?" he asked. I heard Dean's muffled voice sputter over the other end. Whatever he said caused Sam to stand up abruptly, a worried look crossing his face.

"What is it?" I asked, my back going rigid at the change in his demeanor.

"What about you?" Sam asked. He looked down at his phone in annoyance. I could make out the Call-Ended text just before he pushed it into his pocket.

"What the hell happened?" I inquired as Sam briskly moved over to the window, pulling the curtain back a bit. I followed along and peered out just as Deputy Jaffe slammed Dean down on the hood of the police car, cuffing him behind his back. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I complained.

"Come on, we gotta go," Sam said, gently coaxing me from the window.

We hurriedly made our way to the bathroom, and though the window in there was significantly smaller than the one in the other room, we'd have to make due. It was still big enough that we could squeeze through. It'd be nowhere near comfortable, but sucking in our stomachs and not breathing for a couple of seconds sure beat the hell out of all three of us getting arrested. Sam quickly opened the window and ducked through, hopping out to the other side with ease. I tossed him the bag and took hold of the windowsill, hiking myself up onto it, swinging my leg out as I went. Since my mine were considerably shorter than his, Sam helped me down. We cut into the wooded area behind the motel and headed away from the building, where we hid in some thicker brush, waiting for the cops to vacate the area. After a minute or two, one of the police vehicles passed by, and though they were speeding, I could make out someone in the back seat.

Never in a million years did I think John wouldn't be here, and now he was gone. And while I should've expected Dean to get arrested at some point in our lives, I wasn't prepared for it to happen now. The hole we found ourselves in kept getting deeper and deeper, and I wasn't sure we'd make it out. Everything was tipped over, and I couldn't help but worry when someone else I cared about would disappear completely.

"What the hell are we supposed to do?" I asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Sam replied.

"Well, we can't just ditch him. I mean, we gotta–"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Gotta what?"

"I don't know, Sam, but you know what they do to pretty boys in jail, right?"

"He's not going to jail," Sam chuckled but quickly sobered up when he saw the serious look in my eyes. "Tori," he began, placing his hands on my shoulders. "We'll figure it out, okay?"

"What if we don't? John has been gone a month, Sam. A month. We haven't gotten anywhere near finding him," I rattled off, three weeks' worth of bottled-up worry seeping out of me in mere moments. "What if we never do? What if– what if we can't get him out?"

"Hey, hey," Sam called, squeezing my shoulders gently. "When Dad and Dean went on hunts and needed something figured out, who did they ask?"

"Bobby," I replied quickly.

"No," he shook his head in exasperation. "No. Us. We figured it out."

There was a string of about a year where I stayed back with Sam while John and Dean did all the heavy lifting. If there was something new, something they needed more information on, and Bobby was unavailable, the responsibility of figuring it out landed on my and Sam's shoulders. Eventually, I weaseled my way into actual hunting, tired of being holed up in cheesy motel rooms all the time. Sam didn't care much for the physical part of it, but I wanted to be in the thick of it all. What an idiot I was.

"I don't know, Sam…" I trailed off.

"We got this."

Sam's pep talk helped a little, and I knew he was right deep down—way, way, deep down. "Yeah, we do," I agreed, trying to trick my mind into believing it.

"Alright. So, instead of sitting around, we should work the case. See where we can get."

"Right, yeah. Good idea," I nodded. "You go talk to Joseph Welch; I'm gonna hang here. I don't know what else John left in that room, but I wanna get to it out before those cops do."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. "What if you get caught?"

"I'll be quick," I said. Sam agreed with a single nod, turning back for the motel. I took one last look at the road the police cruiser disappeared down before following Sam to the parking lot.

"Great," he huffed as we arrived at the Impala, and he attempted to open the door. And, of course, it was locked. "Are we gonna have to bust into this thing? Dean's gonna kill us."

"I mean, he can get over it–" I paused when something shiny lying underneath the front driver's side door caught my eye, and I bent down to retrieve it. "Well, what do you know, he is kinda smart," I smiled, standing up with the keys dangling from my fingertips.

"He has his moments," Sam joked wryly.

"Here," I said, tossing him the keys. "Take it."

"What about you?"

"I'll figure something out," I shrugged. It wouldn't be my first time hotwiring a car, and it's probably for the best that I don't have a car they'd recognize just in case my leaving overlapped with the cops' return. "Come on, go," I pressed, waving a hand. Sam glanced down at the Impala nervously before returning his eyes to me. I rested my hands on my hips. "What is it? Are you scared to drive it or something?"

"No," Sam nearly gulped.

"It'll be fine, Sam. We're running out of time," I pressed, gesturing to the vehicle expectantly.

With pursed lips, Sam unlocked and opened the door, slipping into the driver's seat. "I haven't been behind this wheel since Dean taught me how to drive," he said with a fond smile, gripping the steering wheel gently.

"That's sweet," I commented with a playful smile, patting him on the shoulder. "Remember, hands and ten and two."

"Yeah, thanks," he scoffed, starting the engine.

"Try not to hit anything," I teased, shutting the door. Sam shot me a look through the window and pulled out of the parking lot.

---

Back in the motel room, I grabbed an empty duffle bag in the corner of the room and started quickly gathering anything that held extensive information these people should be privy to. The photo Sam left in the mirror, the rosary wrapped around its frame, a couple of clippings from the walls, and a few books. On the side of the bed closest to the window, I reached across for one of them when my foot hit something underneath the bedframe. It skidded across the dusty floor. I almost left it, but something in me said not to. So, I put the duffle bag down on the mattress and got on my hands and knees to reach for it. The tips of my fingers connected to a soft but worn leather-bound spine coated in a layer of dust. I dragged it close enough to retrieve it and sat back on my haunches with the book in hand. My heart thumped. This wasn't just any book; it was John's journal. It was full of information, seemingly endless pages, and notes on everything he knew about monsters… and then some. But the weight didn't only come from its contents. He wouldn't just leave this thing lying around; he was never careless with it. It was practically attached to his hip at all times. In my ten years with the Winchesters, I never saw him without it. What on earth could've happened that would force him to leave it? Nothing good, I'd imagine.

A car horn honking outside brought me back to the present. I didn't have the time right now to dwell on the thousand what-ifs and possibilities. I had to get out of here before I got caught, too. I stood on shaky legs and stuffed the journal into the duffle bag along with a few other items I snatched up on my way out. Slinging the heavy bag over my shoulder, I briskly cut across the motel's lot to another one across the street. In the back of the run-down convenience store, I checked my surroundings to ensure no one was watching before picking the lock of a beat-up, abandoned-looking car that, hopefully, no one would miss. I removed the plastic cover and located the correct cords, stripping the casing from them and gently tapping the exposed wires together. One… nothing… two… nothing… I pulled in a deep breath, holding it in my lungs as I touched the wires together a third time, and the engine finally roared to life. My shoulders fell in relief. "Thank god," I breathed, pulling out of the lot.

With the sun nearly set in the sky, the streetlight-less road was nearly pitch black, just light enough for me to make out the lines painted on the asphalt with the car's dim headlights. My knowledge of small-town life finally came in handy when I searched my brain for a way to get Dean out of the police station. I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialing 911. In my best panic-stricken voice, I frantically told the operator that I heard gunshots near Whiteford road, a fifteen-minute drive from the station. If this town was anything like the place I used to call home, they'd take something like that so seriously that the entire police force—all five of them—would hopefully head over there, giving Dean enough time to escape. At the station, I parked down the street near the wooded area behind the concrete building. Looking through the windshield at the murky sky, my knee bounced. What if he couldn't get out? What the hell would we do then? It's not like I could waltz in; they already knew we were faking.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a figure heading toward the treeline. Relief flooded through me, and I got out of the still-running car, hurrying through the thick vegetation to meet Dean before he got too far. Upon hearing my voice when I quietly called his name, he stopped and turned around, a smirk on his face. "You didn't," Dean said.

"Didn't, what?" I asked innocently.

"A fake 911 call?" He questioned with a playful eyebrow raised, pulling me to him. "Are you sure you're not the one who's gonna need a lawyer, Cherry Pie?"

"Yeah, well, I couldn't leave you to rot in jail. And trust me, if I go down, I'm taking you with me," I teased, patting his chest. "We gotta get out of here before they get back," I said, stepping out of his grasp.

Trudging our way out of the dense forest, we finally reached the dimly lit sidewalk, thanks to the streetlight being blown out. At least it gave us extra cover. Dean looked around, then over to me. "Where's the car? Where's Sam?"

"He went to talk to Joseph Welch," I said, rounding the front of the car. I nodded to the passenger side. "Get in."

"You stole a car?" Dean questioned, feigning shock. "Slippery slope," he tutted playfully.

"Alright, I'm leaving," I asserted jokingly, slipping back into the driver seat while Dean chuckled and got into the passenger. I debated waiting to show him, but what was the point? He should know.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, instantly picking up on the shift of my mood from spirited to somber. I swallowed the lump in my throat, reaching into the duffle in the backseat. When what I drew from the bag registered, Dean looked like he'd been sucker punched. He took the journal from me with hesitant hands, keeping his unblinking eyes trained on it. "Where did you find this?"

"John's room. I went back to grab some stuff, and it was just… there," I explained. Dean ran a hand over the top of it, fingers lingering long after the dust was removed. I'm sure he was thinking everything negative thought I had—probably worse. I placed a comforting hand on his arm, trying to feign optimism for his sake. "Everything's gonna be okay, baby. We'll figure it out."

"I know," Dean nodded, flipping the magnetic flap and opening the journal. The leather creaked, stiff pages spreading open. I watched as Dean turned through the pages until he stopped suddenly. "What the hell?" he murmured, furrowing his brow.

"What's that?" I asked, leaning over to get a better look in the dark car. Dean tapped the large print on the page that read DEAN 35-111. I peered up at him, an eyebrow raised. "Are those–"

"Yeah," Dean smiled with relief.

"So, what, John skipped town and left this so we could follow him?" I questioned, sitting upright.

"Yeah, I think so."

"But… why?" I wondered. I mean, sure, I suppose it made sense. But if something was going on, why not just call us? Why be so cryptic?

"I don't know, but we need to figure out where this leads," Dean said, pointing to the coordinates.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, handing it over to Dean so I could drive away from the police station. He flipped it open and put it on speaker. "Hey, how did it go?" Sam asked.

"Alright," I replied.

"Is Dean there?" He wondered tentatively.

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean said.

I could practically feel Sam's ease through the phone when he heard his brother's voice. "Okay, good."

"Listen, we gotta talk."

"Tell me about it," Sam breathed. "The husband was unfaithful. He tried to hide it, but the guy's a mess. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should have been Dad's next stop– "

"Sammy, would you shut up for a second?" Dean asked abruptly. He glanced at me with an eye roll as Sam kept talking, completely ignoring him.

"I just can't figure out why Dad hasn't destroyed the corpse yet."

"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you. He's gone. Dad left Jericho."

"What? How do you know?"

"Tori found his journal," Dean muttered, holding up said journal for a second before letting it fall back to his side.

Sam sighed. "He doesn't go anywhere without that thing."

"Yeah, well, he did this time."

"What's it say?"

"Ah, the same old ex-Marine shit when he wants to let us know where he's going," Dean said, flipping through the pages of the journal.

Peering down from the road, I saw a string of numbers written in bold marker on one of the pages. "Coordinates," Sam said knowingly. "Where to?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"I don't understand. I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job? What the hell is going on?" Sam wondered aloud.

Tires screeching filled the speaker, followed by a deafeningly loud static. I instantly knew where I had heard that exact sound before. John's voicemail. "Sam?" I asked breathlessly, praying he'd answer. Nothing.

"Sam!" Dean yelled into the phone. Again, there was no response. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, and I pressed the gas pedal as far down as it would go. Dean snapped the phone shut. "We gotta get to that house," he said in a constricted voice.

I'd never forgive myself if we dragged him back into this only for something horrible to happen, and I know Dean wouldn't either. I could see by his eyes that was all he was thinking. "He's gonna be fine," I reassured, trying to hide the shake in my voice.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

---

Speeding to the now crumbling and abandoned Welch house, I was shocked to find the Impala parked out front. The silhouette of a dark-haired woman could be seen hunched over someone in the front seat. I barely even put the car in park before Dean flew out, gun in hand, rushing to the Impala. I followed along, and the closer I got, the better I could make out the scene before me. A ghastly version of Constance straddled Sam in the driver's seat. With her hand plunged through his chest, he strained in agony. Without a second thought, Dean shot straight through the window at her, glass blowing into the car's cab. The bullet hit Constance, sending her away in a puff of smoke.

Sam sat upright when she reappeared in front of the Impala, much to our surprise. "I'm taking you home," he said, throwing the car in drive and crashing it straight through Constance and into the house. Dean froze in place, mouth hanging open at what just occurred.

Leaving him where he stood, I stepped through the gaping Impala-sized hole in the wall, waving the dust and debris kicked up into the air out of my face. "Sam?!" I called as I neared the driver's side door.

"Yeah?" Sam replied weakly.

"Oh, thank God," I breathed.

Dean wasn't far behind, finally getting over his shock as he hurried to the passenger side, leaning in through the open window. "You okay?" He asked a slow-moving Sam.

Sam nodded. "I think..."

"Can you move?"

"Yeah. Help me?" Sam asked, holding out a hand.

I rounded the front of the Impala, opening the door Dean unlocked so he could pull Sam from the vehicle. "There you go," Dean said, patting his brother's arm. I shut the door and helped Sam stay steady on his feet, checking him over for any serious injuries. Finding none, I brushed some debris and glass shards off his sleeve.

Across the room, in front of a staircase, Constance stood with a large framed photo in her hands, glaring daggers at us. With a growl, she threw the picture to the ground, shattering the glass into pieces around what I now could see was a photograph of her two children. Before we could move, a dresser slid across the floor, pinning us to the side of the car. The edge of it hit my leg, digging into my skin. Each time we tried to move the furniture away, it only pressed against us harder. The already dim lights began flickering wildly. I swallowed hard, trying to find a way out of this. I couldn't reach my gun, so that opinion was out. The full arsenal in the trunk taunted me, as there was no way to get to that, either. Constance's expression contorted into fear. Her eyes darted around, finally settling on the top of the staircase where a small boy and girl appeared, dripping wet. Water gushed down the steps, rippling at Constance's feet.

"You've come home to us, Mommy." They spoke in unison, appearing beside Constance in the blink of an eye. They grabbed her arms, and she released a blood-curdling scream that pierced my ears, her image flickering away in static before melting into a bloody puddle on the floor along with her two children.

Now that Constance was gone, the invisible hold keeping us fixed to the car was released, and we could finally push the dresser over. Able to move freely, we gathered around the puddle that now appeared to be nothing but water. "So this is where she drowned her kids," Dean said.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied.

"That's why she could never go home," Sam said. "She was too scared to face them."

"You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy," Dean smiled, slapping Sam on the chest right on the spot Constance had injured.

"Ow." He managed to laugh through the pain. "I wish I could say the same for you," Sam said, turning to face his brother. "What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?"

"Hey, I saved your ass," Dean said, pointing a finger at him.

"And busted the window," I pointed out, massaging the spot on my leg the dresser had hit.

Noticing this, Dean asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Want me to check it out for you?" He wondered suggestively.

I chuckled. "Maybe later," I said, gently pushing him away and toward the car.

Stopping at the passenger side, Dean inspected the Impala closely, running a finger over a scratch in the paint. "I'll tell you another thing," he began, looking over at Sam. "If you screwed up my car? I'll kill you."

Sam laughed, cringing as he did so. I gently snaked an arm around him so I didn't cause him any more pain. He threw an arm around my shoulder, trying not to lean on me too much as we stepped over stray planks of wood from the wall on our way to the car.

---

Even with the busted window and broken headlight, we were back in the safety of the Impala with Dean behind the wheel as we traveled down another long, dark road. The only light within the Impala came from the flashlight Sam held over an open map, trying to locate where those coordinates led. I traced absent-minded patterns on the front of the leather journal in my lap. John left it for a reason—he left it for us. Dean was convinced that his father was fine, simply dropping breadcrumbs for us to follow. I wish was that optimistic. To me, it made an already bleak outlook even more dismal.

"Okay, here's where Dad went," Sam announced suddenly, pointing to a spot on the map. I looked up at him from the trance I'd fallen into. "It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado," he said.

"Sounds charming," Dean commented. "How far?"

"About six hundred miles."

"Hey, if we shag ass, we could make it by morning," Dean said with a hopeful smile. I opted to look out of the window to stare at the blur of dark trees whooshing by, not wanting to see the disappointment on Dean's face when Sam declined. I knew this conversation was inevitable, but that didn't prepare me for it anymore.

Sam hesitated for a moment, unsure. I couldn't help but notice how just yesterday, he had no issues blurting out his denial to stay, and now he seemed to struggle. "Dean, I…" he trailed off.

"You're not going," he said. Though I wasn't looking, I could hear the tightness in his jaw.

"The interview's in, like, ten hours. I gotta be there." Sam said with a slight sadness in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever," Dean mumbled. He tried not to show it, but we all could tell how let down he felt. "I'll take you home."

The flashlight Sam was using to look at the map flicked off, plunging us into near-total darkness, and the leather seat squeaked as he leaned back. For the first time this trip, uncomfortable silence fell over the three of us. Dean turned on some music to try and eradicate the suffocating air, but the vibration it bumped throughout the cab only worsened the feeling. I wasn't surprised when no other words were spoken for the rest of the drive. What else could any of us say? I'm sorry? I'll miss you? Nothing seemed appropriate right now. Silence was best.

A few hours later, we arrived at Sam's apartment building. Dean was still sulking and probably would be for the foreseeable future. His shoulders slumped down even further than they already were as he watched Sam exit the Impala, as though he was holding out a little hope that his brother would decide to stay at the last second. I hopped out of the backseat to switch to the front. Sam almost immediately pulled me into a tight hug, one that I happily returned. "Good luck tomorrow," I said, breaking the embrace.

"Thanks," Sam replied.

"You're gonna ace that interview; I know it," I encouraged.

"Hopefully," Sam muttered with a soft chuckle. I slipped into the passenger seat, and Sam shut the door for me, leaning through the open window, looking between Dean and me, asking, "Call me if you find him?"

Dean just nodded, not saying a word. I placed a hand on Sam's folded arms. "Of course, we will," I reassured.

"And maybe I can meet up with you guys later, huh?" Sam said optimistically. I patted his arm, trying to focus less on the bitter and more on the sweet of this poignant moment. Things changed, but I had to believe for the better. Maybe now it all didn't have to be so black and white. There was a grey area in between, and that's where we could reside. We didn't have to wait years for something tragic to happen to talk. We just could. Our differences didn't make or break us. That's how it always should've been.

"Yeah, alright," Dean replied through barely open lips, not even trying to hide his disappointment anymore. I wished Sam being in his life, no matter what he wanted to do with his own, could be enough for Dean. But that didn't seem to be in the cards. Maybe he'd get used to it, I thought. It may very well be that he has no other choice. Sam wasn't about to change his mind. It'd simply come down to accepting your brother for who he is or never seeing him again. I couldn't imagine a world where Dean would ultimately choose the latter.

With nothing left to say, Sam nodded and walked away. Dean took a deep breath and leaned over, throwing his arm over the back of the seat, his hand hanging over my shoulder. I gently held it, knowing he probably needed the comfort. "Sam?" He called out. At the sound of his brother's voice, Sam came to a quick halt and turned around. "You know, we made a hell of a team back there," Dean said.

Sam smiled fondly. "Yeah..."

My stomach fluttered as Sam turned around for the final time and disappeared into the building. I subconsciously squeezed Dean's hand a little tighter than before as a sharp pain stabbed through me. I quickly let go, hoping he wouldn't notice. But, of course, he did—his eyes quickly falling from the building and onto me. "What's the matter?" Dean questioned.

"Nothing," I hesitated, cringing through a sudden onslaught of cramping pain in my abdomen. It rolled through me, up into my chest, constricting my lungs.

"Tori, what's going on?" He pressed. When I didn't reply, Dean gently took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look him in the eyes. I wasn't sure what he saw in mine, but he blanched and hurriedly started the engine, mumbling something about taking me to the hospital.

My head spun, and my mouth went dry. The car had barely even moved an inch when I felt my stomach turn. "Dean. Pull over," I said, putting my hand over my mouth.

Hitting the brakes so hard that I slid forward in the seat, Dean threw the car in park and got out, coming to the passenger side as I opened the door and leaned out of the car. He held my hair out of the way as I leaned with my hands on my knees, waiting for actual sickness to occur when all that came out were dry-heaving-induced coughs. After a few moments, I put my head between my knees until the painful feeling somewhat subsided, and I finally felt well enough to sit up straight. Random spasms still moved throughout my abdomen, but the more severe cramping stopped.

Dean crouched in front of me and brushed away the few stray pieces of hair that had fallen into my face. "What was that?" He asked, wide-eyed.

"I don't know," I mumbled, rubbing my face tiredly.

Even in my murky state, I caught Dean doing a double take at his watch, and I followed his intense gaze to the frozen face. It had stopped ticking entirely, all three hands unmoving. Before I could comment about how strange that was, a bright orange flicker through one of the apartment windows drew my attention. It took a moment to realize what I saw and where it was taking place. My heart crashed into my barely-recovered stomach, nervous ripples starting that horrid feeling all over again. Dean glanced over his shoulder to look almost at the same time as I did, and without a word, he bolted to the building. I ignored the tension rising in my abdomen and followed, forcing myself to run across the slippery, damp lawn to the door.

If there was doubt that it was Sam's apartment, smoke plumed underneath the door when we arrived. Dean kicked the door in without hesitation, and as soon as it swung open, heat and ash smacked us in the face. It was unbearable.

"Sam!" Dean shouted for his brother, hurrying through the thick fog and into the apartment.

Searing heat lapped across my flesh, prickling where it touched. The kitchen was the first place I thought to find the source, but it was untouched and unscathed. Heavy smoke bellowed from the bedroom, exiting at the top of the open doorway. Inside, Sam was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling in absolute horror. Never in a million years could I have fathomed what I saw there. Pinned to the ceiling was Jessica, her face frozen in silent terror as blood poured from her stomach and her body engulfed in flames. Dean barely even glanced up, like he already knew exactly what he'd find if he did. Instead, he grabbed Sam, pulling him off the bed and dragging him out of the room, even though he struggled against him, crying out desperate pleas for Jessica.

Flames began rapidly filling the room, devouring nearly everything in their path. Somehow, even with Sam in his arms, Dean grabbed me and pulled me with him to the safety of the hallway. I coughed from all the soot that filled my lungs but was more concerned with Sam, who, at this point, was kicking and screaming for Dean to release him so he could " go save Jess. " It was impossible, and I knew that. I took hold of Sam and helped Dean remove him from the apartment building. On the front lawn, I pulled Sam to me, holding him tightly in part to comfort him and also keep him down here.

I couldn't get the image of Jessica out of my mind—the look on her face. It sent a chill down my spine and raised goosebumps across my skin. None of the Winchesters were incredibly forthcoming with details, but after so many years, I eventually received the information from Dean. This was exactly to a T how Mary died. The wound in her stomach, the flames surrounding her. For the longest time, I thought what John was searching for would never be found, but now I wasn't so sure. It couldn't be a simple coincidence, right? But why Jessica, too? Why now? So many questions raced through my mind, none of which had any plausible answers.

Eventually, the building was surrounded by cops and firemen. They put out the fire, but everything—and everyone—in the apartment was gone. Since the first fireman exited the building with a drawn-in look, Sam's entire demeanor shifted. It was like he was still holding out hope until that moment. He opened the Impala's trunk and took out a shotgun, making sure to keep it low and out of view from the police. Wrath coated his features as he stared down at the weapon with such voided eyes that I'd only ever seen once before in John. Dean watched Sam with an almost far-off, familiar look in his eyes. When he first explained what happened to their Mom, he admitted that he remembered a lot from that night twenty-two years ago. And now, he was right in the middle of it again—reliving the memory of his father's breaking point through his brother.

Sam glanced back at us, sighing heavily as he threw the gun back into the compartment. "We got work to do," he announced coldly, slamming the trunk and stalking around to the car's passenger side, sliding inside. I exchanged a look with Dean, who trudged to the driver's side door, where he waited for me to enter the vehicle before he got in and started the engine.

Not even an hour ago, the scale in our lives tilted to the positive end of the spectrum. It felt like things were about to be okay. And then suddenly, the scale tipped and plummeted everything into darkness. There was no bright side, no way to spin this. Everything changed… but not for the better.

---

Once again, thank you!

Tumblr: phoenixwritesfanfiction (lots of content here. Manips, gif edits, playlists, etc)
Twitter: phoenixwrites79
Instagram: phoenixwritesfanfiction