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}

3. Dead in the Water (Updated)

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

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

Hope decays
Generations disappear
Washed away
As a nation simply stares
…

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

Linkin Park — The Little Things Give You Away

---

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

There was neither a buffer nor an excuse when I leaped out of Dean's arms at four in the morning, coated in a thick sheen of sweat that fooled me into believing it was blood until reality sunk in. It took forever to convince him that I was alright, that there was nothing to worry about. He didn't believe me, not by a long shot, but eventually, he fell asleep again. Despite the comforting warmth of his chest flush against my back, snippets of myself frantically dashing through trees and falling into a pool of blood played out behind my eyelids. Risking sleep meant risking getting trapped in another terror.

Six AM rolled around, and Dean began to stir. I was long since itching to get out of bed—to preoccupy my mind with anything else—but I didn't. I stayed in his arms, lightly dragging my nails over his hand to soothe my jumbled thoughts, and turning in his arms to pepper kisses along his neck as a good morning.

"Hi," he hummed raspily, throat vibrating against my lips.

"Hi," I replied, snuggling into his bare chest, absentmindedly rolling the amulet that hung around his neck between my thumb and pointer finger. Dean combed his fingers through my hair, staring at my scalp until he reached my back, tracing patterns up and down my spine.

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

"You don't have to be."

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

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

Dean lightly drummed his fingertips against my skin. "No, you're not," he stated, point blank. How did I expect him to call me out on my bullshit? "You're not fine," he added. "Just talk to me."

There was so much concern and love in his eyes that I couldn't look away, and the longer I stayed in those shades of green, the more the truth tugged at my chest. It had been weighing me down, fighting to come out. As of late, our being alone was a rare phenomenon; I'd be stupid not to take this opportunity.

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

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

Of course, nothing would skirt by him. "How much worse?"

"It starts at my old school, like always, and then goes through the woods." I shuddered at the memory and focused on the steady beat of Dean's heart below my palm to keep me grounded. "Then, it ends with me covered in blood. It all feels so real; that hasn't changed."

"Then what has?"

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

Apprehension simmered below the brave front Dean put on for my sake, but I chose to ignore it. I needed his strength to push through, more now than ever.

"Listen to me." Dean leaned on his elbow to be at eye level with me. "Nothing is gonna get to you. And if they wanna try, they gotta go through me first," he recited the exact words he told me in my first week living with them. He did it to make me smile, and it worked. Dean cradled my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb. "We got through this before; we'll do it again. I won't let anything happen to you."

I held his wrist. "I know you won't," I said, misty-eyed. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied, knowing I needed to hear it, and pressed his lips to mine. Dean's free hand slipped underneath my rib cage and brought me flush against him. Our legs intertwined, locking us together. Just before things got heated past the point of no return, the alarm I regret setting last night went off. "Ignore it," Dean mumbled into the kiss.

The loud, incessant buzzing grated on my already thin nerves. "I can't," I said regretfully, rolling over to slam on the clock's off button. I sighed heavily, rolling onto my back, and took Dean's hand, threading his fingers through mine. "We gotta meet up with Sam anyway."

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

"What about breakfast?" I challenged.

"That can wait, too."

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

"Not all night," he clarified.

"Maybe not the whole time, but definitely in between." I smiled.

"Well, I can think of something else I'd rather have."

I feigned shock. "More than food?"

"Oh… much more." He trailed kisses across my chest and down my stomach. Did I feel bad about making Sam wait? A little. But the guilt was quick to leave when Dean finally ducked beneath the sheets.

---

By the time we were finished and got ready, an hour and a half had passed. Outside, Sam was already waiting by the Impala, legs crossed at the ankles and hands stuffed into his pockets. He said nothing about us being way later than we originally agreed on meeting and slipped into the passenger seat after Dean unlocked the doors.

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

"Not long," Sam brushed it off.

Despite thinking our talk would dampen Dean's worrying, even just for today, the concerned glimpses he threw on the ride to the diner continued even after we sat at the counter and got our breakfast. Dean cared; that's why he was doing it, but I needed a moment to decompress. Even now, hours later, the nightmare wouldn't leave my mind; it sunk into the deepest parts of my brain and desperately clung on. The puffy, syrup-logged pancakes on my plate were easily shredded into pieces by my fork. Only a few bites made it to my mouth. I'm not even sure why I ordered anything, let alone something that required a topping having the consistency of the crimson pool I repeatedly fell into every night. Perhaps it was to appear more normal for the boys so they wouldn't fret any more than they already did, or I wanted to pretend everything was perfect—try to convince myself of it.

Beside me, Dean was going through a local paper he picked up from the stand outside the diner, reading obits and missing person reports, searching for a case. Absentmindedly, he chewed on his pen. I rested the fork down on the plate, and the clang of metal on ceramic called his attention to me.

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

He leaned over and kissed my temple, taking the writing utensil back. "By the way, since when do you not finish pancakes?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, gesturing to the whole serving of food in front of me.

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

"Okay," he said and returned to the newspaper, albeit reluctantly.

Sam came back, and he froze when he touched down in his seat. "Everything okay?" he checked.

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

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

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

"A- alright," she muttered, giving him a forlorn glance before turning on her red pumps and heading to the back room for the check.

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

Sam's blank face contrasted with the emotion swirling in his eyes; their inner gold flecks spun with unease that flittered into an outer ring of guilt-washed aquamarine. It'd barely been a month since Jessica's death. I'm sure he felt he'd be cheating on her, in a way. Dean didn't mean anything wrong by it; he just wanted to help, but his idea of helping wasn't, well… helping. So, sensing Sam's discomfort, I wanted to take the spotlight off him and hit Dean's leg with the toe of my boot to get his attention.

"We?" I inquired, popping an eyebrow when he looked at me.

"Huh?" Dean asked.

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

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

"Better not," I said pointedly. Sam sported a thankful smile.

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

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

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

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

"It's not," he argued. "Trust me; I could never."

"Sure."

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

"Dude," Sam scolded. Any sense of humor had fallen from his face. "What the–" Before he could finish, the waitress returned and dropped the check.

"Thanks," I told her, handing it over to Dean. "Your turn. Unless you wanna try and flirt your way out of it, Casanova."

"Oh, I could," he held up a finger and pulled out his wallet, "I just don't feel like it right now."

While Dean dropped enough cash to cover the bill and tip, I eyed the circled obituary for an eighteen-year-old girl from Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin, named Sophie Carlton, who died in a tragic swimming accident. I bit the inside of my cheek. "She drowned, huh?" I asked, tapping the page.

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

"What happened?"

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

"And the others?"

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

"A funeral?" Sam interjected incredulously.

"Yeah, it's weird," Dean said, bringing the pad he was scribbling notes on closer. "They buried an empty coffin. For, uh, closure or whatever," he waved a hand carelessly—seeing no point in that form of closure… or whatever.

"Closure?" Sam scoffed. "What closure? People don't just disappear. Other people just stop looking for them," he finished bitterly, words like a worm dangling from a hook, baiting us into a confrontation.

Dean peered around me. "Something you want to say?" he wondered.

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

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

"I don't know. Something. Anything," Sam insisted, eyes flicking to me in desperation. He wanted me to agree with him, but how could that happen when I spent countless nights trying to figure out the most minor details, of John's disappearance and the tiny clues he might have left behind on accident that could lead us to him—only to come up with nothing. Sure, after Jericho, a ton of possibilities seemed to open up. However, our hope was promptly squashed by the discovery of his journal. Even more, when he sent us somewhere, he'd never even been. Every day crept closer to an answer none of us liked; John didn't want to be found.

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

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

"You know what? I'm sick of this attitude," Dean said, his unhappiness with his brother's tone toward me on display. "You don't think we wanna find Dad as much as you do?" he accused, propping a hand on his leg and leaning forward.

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

"We're the ones that have been with him every single day for the past two years while you've been off to college going to pep rallies," Dean scowled. I nudged his shin—much less gently than before. There was no reason to belittle Sam for his decision. He had no idea this would happen with John. Dean had to let that shit go before we drowned in his pique. "We will find Dad, but until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there," he said, claimed down enough I didn't feel the need to interject again. "Okay?"

"Alright," Sam relented much faster than imagined, folding his loose arms atop the counter.

"Sounds like a plan," I said tautly. Whenever John came into the conversation, it all went downhill so fast. "How far is Lake Manitoc from here?"

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

"Well, with you behind the wheel, we'll make it there in no time."

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

"I'm not gonna flirt with a girl to get free stuff, Dean," Sam said uncomfortably, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder.

"Sometimes I don't even know how we're related."

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah," Will replied, eyes wrinkling as he thought of his sister. "She was a varsity swimmer." His fond smile turned bitter as he spoke—deep brown eyes locked on the water in resentment. "She practically grew up in that lake. She was as safe out there as she was in her own bathtub."

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

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

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

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

"What about, maybe, some weird tracks by the shoreline?" I asked. "Have you ever seen anything like that?"

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

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

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

"What about your father?" Sam asked, staring at the man still perched on the bench. "Can we talk to him?"

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

"We understand."

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

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

"Aw, your favorite." I smiled. Dean grumbled unintelligibly and climbed into the driver's seat. Oh, that boy and his issues with authority figures.

---

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

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

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

"Like what?" Devins balked.

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed with a laugh, leaning down on the back of my chair. Shoving my shoulder blade into his fingers, made his snarky grin slowly fade.

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

There was no way Devins knew anything we'd be interested in… right? The Sheriff's eyebrow twitched, his chin lowering. "Well, the dam, of course," he replied.

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

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

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

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

"No, it's fine," Sheriff Devins told her. "This is my daughter," he introduced. I didn't miss the way Dean's eyes darted down to me, silently marking the start of the inevitable before he smiled widely at the brunette.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Dean," he said, holding out a hand to her. Of all the people he could flirt with to get a rise out of me, he unknowingly picked a woman with a child. God, I can't wait to see his face when he finds out. A cynical part of me—the teenage one born purely out of frustration from my feelings for him when I was unable to act on them—couldn't wait to see this play out.

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

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

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

"Oh," Andrea mumbled, her eyes sad at the mention. There wasn't much time to linger on her sudden shift when the boy from the picture bounded next to her, peeking up at us through his eyelashes. This time, when a shit-eating grin spread across my lips, I allowed it to stay. Dean went pale and wide-eyed.

Seeing the look on my face, he straightened his spine and plastered on a confident, friendly smile. "Hey there," he addressed the boy. "What's your name?"

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

"His name is Lucas," Sheriff Devins shared.

"Excuse me," Andrea said and followed her son back into the other room.

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

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

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

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

Dean furrowed his brow in confusion. "Two–" he spoke slowly as though he'd never heard directions before, glancing back at me. The puzzled look he sported dropped briefly, and he winked at me before returning to the brunette. "Would you mind showing us?"

Andrea chortled. "You want me to walk you two blocks?" she asked incredulously. I couldn't believe Dean continued this even though she had a kid. I'd be damn impressed by his commitment if his horrible attempt at flirting didn't make us look severely incompetent.

"Not if it's any trouble." Dean smiled charmingly. Although she tried to hide it, Andrea softened under his gaze.

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" he wondered innocently.

"You're making a move on a Mom?"

"Because you think I can't," he retorted.

"Why would you? You wanna be a Stepdad?"

Dean blanched. "No."

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

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

"Oh, really?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah."

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

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

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

"I'm gonna get her number."

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

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

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

"Do what?" I asked.

"Flirt with another woman."

"Yeah, why not?" I shrugged. "I mean, she's not gonna take the bait." Sam's already tucked brows only ventured further down. "We used to do this all the time," I waved a nonchalant hand, referring to how we'd fill out boring non-hunting nights in bars vying to see who could get more numbers, "you remember."

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

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

"Whatever you say," he said, mumbling something about being the one to pick up the pieces when it all went south.

"So, cute kid," Dean told Andrea.

For a moment, she looked taken aback. Like any sane person would be. "Thanks," she finally replied.

"Kids are the best, huh?" Dean gushed. Where the hell did he think he was going with that? Sam stared at his brother, mouth agape. I stifled a laugh and flashed an expression that read, see? Hilarious.

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

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

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

A small squeak escaped my lips before pressing them into a tight line. Dean's jaw practically hit the concrete below. Andrea smiled almost knowingly at me as she moved past, heading back the way we came. "Enjoy your stay!" she called out over her shoulder.

"Oh my god," I breathed, spinning around to face her. "Thank you!" She'd never know the extra meaning behind my words, but it didn't matter because Dean still stood frozen in the same spot. I composed myself enough to push his mouth closed. "That was a nice try, baby."

Dean shot me a stern look. "I don't know what happened," he said.

"I told you already. You should've gone with that waitress."

"That still wouldn't have happened, it was me she wanted," Sam said. I snorted at his unexpected comment.

"When you wanted advice on girls, who did you go to?" Dean questioned his brother.

"Tori," Sam replied with a simple shrug.

"Well–" Dean scrambled. "Before her!"

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

"I love kids."

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

"I do."

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

"Of course!"

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

"Alright," Dean agreed quickly. Brows furrowed in thought, he lifted his eyes to the sky. I swore I spotted a vein pop in his neck from the strain he was putting himself under. Two seconds in, Sam was fed up and headed for the motel entrance.

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

"I'm thinking!"

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

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

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

"No–" he protested. Reaching into his pocket, I snagged the keys before he could stop me. "Hey!"

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

---

Retrieving the Impala and the full bag of dirty clothes from the trunk, I tucked the keys into my back pocket on my way to the room labeled with the number Sam texted me. Two knocks on the door were all it took for Dean to answer. He grimaced at the bag shoved into his arms. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

"You didn't get her number," I replied, making my way inside. At the table, Sam hardly looked up from the laptop before him.

"At least give me a day," Dean implored.

Halfway removing my jacket, I paused. "You need an entire day to get a girl's number?"

Dean crumbled, blinking rapidly. "No."

Tossing my jacket over an empty chair, I stopped before him on my way to the bed and kissed his cheek. "Baby, nobody likes a sore loser."

Begrudgingly, Dean dragged his feet to the bed, where he tossed the bag of clothes onto the other side of the mattress, beginning to sort through it while I sat back and mindlessly channel-surfed. Honestly, he could make a move on ten more girls as long as I got out of washing mud, blood, and god-knows-what-else-caked hunter's clothes.

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

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

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

"Ooh," Dean hummed, holding up the set of lacy black lingerie I purchased for our first night together. "I didn't know you still had this."

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

"I don't know." Dean shrugged, licking his lips and peering at me over the garment. "God, we didn't leave that room for two days," he said, eyes darkening in fond remembrance of those blissful nights. The memory pulled my bottom lip between my teeth. Dean was so flustered when I revealed that outfit to him. It never mattered what I wore, just that I got out of it, but this reminded me how important it was to surprise him with something a little more from time to time.

"Uh, guys… ?" Sam called, catapulting me from my increasingly inappropriate thoughts.

My cheeks flooded with color when I remembered we weren't alone. I reached for the fabric. "Give me that."

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

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

"How soon?"

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

"No," he quipped proudly. "So, what, we got a lake monster on a binge?"

"This whole lake monster theory," Sam began, alleviated by the subject change. "It just bugs me."

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

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

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

"Yeah." Sam scrolled up the page. "Christopher Barr."

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

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

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

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

"No wonder that kid was so freaked out," Dean said. "Watching one of your parents die isn't something you just get over." As he spoke, I placed my hand gently over his. Sadly, that was something we both had an experience with.

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

"How?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

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

"We have to try."

---

A quick five-minute trip and we reached the only park this town had. Many children played rambunctiously, running around the playground and swinging on the swings. They were so carefree, void of all worries. And in the middle of the joy was Lucas—his stiff, hunched posture closed-off and anxiety-ridden. With a crayon in hand, he scribbled on a piece of paper. Occasionally, he'd pick up one of the few plastic army men scattered beside him and play with that. It didn't last long, though, and he returned to the picture. Andrea sat on a bench about a yard away, her stiff body language screamed sadness.

What was their life before all this? It was difficult to imagine it any other way.

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

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

"Mind if I say hi?" Dean asked. Truthfully, his taking the initiative to speak with Lucas threw me; I thought it would've been Sam or me.

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

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

"It's not?"

"No. Everything this morning was just… bad timing," Dean admitted regretfully.

"Really bad," I added apologetically.

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

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

Fingernail dragging across her skin, Andrea was torn between wanting to give us permission and keeping her son sheltered from reality. "He won't talk," she finally said sadly, but sensing we meant no harm, she waved a hand of approval. "But you're welcome to try."

"Thanks," Dean said. Andrea watched him closely, not missing the hand he ran across my hip as he parted ways with us. I perched on the edge of the bench beside Andrea while Sam stayed standing.

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

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"Lucas's father," she clarified, not knowing we were already privy to that information. Andrea smiled fondly at the memory of her late husband. "He was a flirt. It always made Dad angry, but I knew Chris loved me. Kinda like your guy," she gestured to Dean. She was way more perspective than I gave her credit for.

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

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

"Worse," I joked. We shared a laugh until Dean's proximity to Lucas caught our attention. Quieting down to listen made no difference. It was far too noisy to hear.

---

DPOV:

It didn't matter to Lucas that someone was walking up to him. There was no doubt that he heard me, but he didn't stop drawing—didn't even bother to give a glance. Maybe this was the wrong move. Just before I reached the bench the boy was crouched over, I found Tori already looking my way, with an encouraging smile. Any hesitation faded away.

"How's it going?" I asked Lucas, sitting down on the opposite end of the bench. Among the scattered paper and crayons sat a few green army men. Seeing them made me smile. That damn ashtray in the Impala still didn't close all the way because of the one Sam stuffed into it years ago. "I used to love these things," I said, picking up one of the soldiers.

Lucas gripped another crayon tightly between his small fingers as he drew.

"So, crayons are more your thing? That's cool." I put the plastic toy back down. "Chicks dig artists."

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

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

Sitting here in silence all day wouldn't do us any good. I might as well say something, regardless of whether Lucas responds.

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

No matter how many years had passed or how often I forced myself to forget, whenever those memories resurfaced, that same wash of intense heat prickled across my skin, plunging me right back into that blistering room. Knowing everything that'd come after, I hurried to blink away the budding images of that burning ceiling and cleared my throat.

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

Lucas's crayon skirted the page a bit faster than before, but he didn't agree or decline my offer.

"Okay, no problem," I relented. He was stressed, and I didn't want to do more damage. He'd been through enough. "This is for you. This is my family." I told him, pointing to the crappy, mangled stick figures. "That's my Dad. That's my Mom. That's my geek brother and my lady friend, and then, uh, that's me."

He looked at them and still said nothing.

"Alright, so I'm a sucky artist," I said, putting the paper down. "I'll see you around, Lucas."

While making my way back to everyone, drumming up another plan should've been at the forefront of my mind. Some other way to gain information about what Lucas saw that day. Instead, all I could think about was that night twenty-two years ago. Three sets of questioning eyes watched me, but only one was insightful enough to know something more was happening. Tori's curious eyes never fell from me long after I shook my head no to her and Sam. Knowing her, she wouldn't let this go.

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

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

"What are the Doctors saying?" Sam asked.

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

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

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

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

"You know, he used to have such life. He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there. Drawing those pictures, playing with those army men. I just wish— Andrea stopped mid-sentence, her woeful expression turning upward into a forced smile. "Hey, sweetie."

Leaves crunched behind me, and Lucas approached with a paper in his grasp. Without looking up, he jutted out the page toward me. Andrea looked taken aback by his gesture, but she said nothing. The drawing was of a small, grey house. "Thanks, Lucas," I said. Unsurprisingly, he didn't respond and retreated to his bench.

Out of options, we said goodbye to a still bewildered Andrea. Tori followed me to the driver's side, calling for me. "What's up?" I asked, facing her.

"What did Lucas give you?" she inquired. That wasn't the real question she wanted to ask. Still, I handed it to her.

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

"What does that mean?" She gave it back and I carefully folded it up, stuffing it into my pocket.

"I got no clue. Maybe it doesn't mean anything."

Tori took my hand. "He likes you. You were good with him. "

A flush of heat rolled from my head to my fit at her compliment. "No, I–"

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

The car jostled beside us, expanding my tunnel vision to the reason for the movement. Sam leaned against the Impala, clasped hands resting on the roof. He sported a soft smile that he'd most likely been wearing while watching us the entire time. My initial reaction was to look for an escape from the situation; a few nights after Sam came to stay with us permanently, Tori told me about their conversation—how he approved of us. It wasn't that I worried about, not at all. Months of keeping our PDA to a minimum whenever Dad was around wasn't easy to break away from. I hated myself for it, but Tori didn't look upset. Instead, she patted my chest comfortingly and disappeared into the backseat.

---

TPOV:

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

The bag of scattered laundry still took over the rest of the bed. I pushed some of it aside so I could sit with him. "Lucas will be okay," I reassured.

"You think so?"

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

"I hope so." Dean stared down at his boots and took in a deep breath. He lifted an arm to beckon me to his side, bouncing out of his funk. I gladly accepted the invitation, always amazed—and consistently given whiplash—by Dean's ability to yank his emotions backward and forward. Over the years, he'd gotten more comfortable lowering his carefully constructed wall and letting me in. Still, sometimes old habits die hard, and his instinct to protect himself, and those around him from worry took over.

"It's a two-way street, you know," I spoke into his chest.

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

"I talked to you; you should talk to me."

"'Bout what?" he feigned ignorance.

"Dean," I lifted my head to look into his eyes, "you know what."

His barricade slipped enough for me to see his eyes flicker with fear and the flash of a flame in their emerald reflection. "I just don't want to talk about it," he said. "It's over, you know?"

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

"We've already talked about it."

"Yeah, then. This is now."

"It's the same. I swear to you, it is," Dean said, stroking his thumb against my chin. I didn't believe him for a moment, but instead of forcing the subject, I took his face gently between my hands and kissed him. His hurt, his pain—all that I could never truly take away—but I could be there to try to soothe the ache.

Dean's hands roamed through my hair and across my lower back, sliding underneath my shirt. Our kiss deepened, but it wasn't enough, I needed more and pulled away abruptly to take off my shirt and toss it to the side. When Dean tried to reach for me again, I guided his hands away, gently pushing him back against the headboard as I climbed on top, shifting my hips so they settled against his own. Dean let out a muffled moan, lifting his hips in a thrust while his hand cupped my backside, pulling me onto him to cause even more friction. A whimper escaped my lips at the sensation it caused. Bending downward to capture his mouth in a heated kiss, Dean's tongue parted my lips as his other hand traveled to cup my breast.

Without warning, the door swung open, and Sam rushed inside, boots screeching to a halt on the hardwood floor. "Oh my god!" he cried and turned around so fast he almost tripped over himself. I cursed under my breath and scrambled off Dean, folding my arms across my chest after landing cross-legged on the other side of the bed, blowing away strands of hair that fell into my face.

"Do you– should I– do you want me to come back later?" Sam breathlessly struggled through his uncertain question.

"Yes–" Dean barked while I answered, "No!" gaining a displeased look from the frustrated man beside me. I shrugged timidly, mouthing sorry.

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

"What?" I asked, the unexpected news making me forget all about covering myself. How on earth could he be dead? We just spoke to him this morning, and other than his mournfulness from the loss of his sister, everything appeared fine.

Dean sat up with a disheartened exhale to retrieve my shirt from the floor. "How?" he asked, tossing the article of clothing to me.

"Can I come in?" Sam wondered crackily.

Waited until my shirt was in place, and his arm was draped securely over his lower half, Dean finally answered, "Yes, you can."

Nervously peering into the room, Sam's face screwed up in disgust when he saw his brother's position. "I don't think I want to."

"Shut up." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Get in."

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

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

"What do you mean?"

"He drowned in the sink."

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

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

"No clue," Sam started, "but apparently, it's possible."

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

Sam's nose scrunched in revulsion. I spoke in hopes of keeping this conversation on track before it derailed again. "Then it can't be a creature. It's gotta be something else."

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

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

"So, the lake," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Looks like."

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My children are gone. It– it's worse than dying," Bill muttered, detached from the world. "Go away. Please," he requested. Sam was the first to concede, taking the lead in exiting the dock. Dean and I followed soon after, the former watching Bill closely as we left.

"What do you think?" Sam asked.

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

"I thought so, too," Dean said.

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

Dean opened his mouth to answer but froze, his eyes locked on something behind us. The only thing in our view was the Carlton's home. Nobody was there. "What is it?" I asked him.

"Maybe Bill's not the only one who knows something," Dean said, reaching into his pocket to show the drawing Lucas had given him. Somehow, we hadn't noticed before, but it was a near-perfect recreation of the home behind us.

---

DPOV:

Any number of things could've prevented Andrea from being home smack in the middle of the day; a grocery run, picking up Lucas from school, an outing with friends. Somehow, though, she was home. For a brief moment, the brunette looked hesitant to open the door when she peeked out of the window and saw us. As of late, everywhere she turned, we were there. If I were her, I'd be freaked out, too.

In spite of herself, Andrea cracked open the door. The scent of burning candles wafted out. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"Hey, Andrea," I started with a smile, "listen, we don't want to bother you, but… is it possible for me to talk to Lucas again?"

Her shoulders dropped, and she rested her weight on the door. "Why?"

"Because he could be a big help."

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

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

"He won't say anything. What good's it gonna do?"

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

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

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

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

Upstairs and in the first room on the left, sunlight streamed through white curtains, washing across a light-blue bedroom. At first glance, it looked like a typical child's room, but the longer you started at the various toys lying around, the more apparent the thick layers of dust coating them became. The only things that didn't have a spec of it were Lucas's drawing supplies scattered around him in the middle of the floor and the few army men he had with him at the park.

Knowing why I hesitated, Tori brushed her fingers across my hand as a gentle reminder that she was here. Inhaling a deep breath and letting it go propelled me into the room to crouch beside Lucas. From this angle, I could see what he was drawing this time: a red bicycle. "Hey, Lucas," I said. "You remember me?"

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

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

Of course, not even so much as a flinch in my direction; he just kept scribbling at that red bicycle.

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

Even from here, the tears that shined in Tori's eyes were apparent. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep them at bay. If that reaction came from anybody else, it'd cause nothing but shame. I didn't want pity; I didn't need it. But it was different with her. Everything was.

"And maybe your dad wants you to be brave too," I finally finished. Lucas suddenly dropped the crayon and looked up at me for the first time. His eyes weighed down with water-logged fear. Lucas shoved a paper into my hands and hurriedly looked away, snatching another crayon and starting on a fresh piece. On it were the beginnings of a near-perfect white church with a yellow house next to it. On the front lawn, beside a dark wooden fence, was a boy with a blue baseball cap and a red bicycle.

Maybe Lucas didn't want to talk, but that certainly didn't mean he had nothing to say. "Thanks, Lucas," I said.

---

TPOV:

From the second story of that house to the Impala, Sam kept his gaze on his brother, eyes overflown with empathy—the intensity of the emotion bringing out their blue hues. To receive a glimpse of the pain Dean experienced at such a young age had to be a revelation for Sam. Judging by how his breathing slowed as Dean recounted some of his memories, it was something Sam had never even thought of. Of course, Dean pretended to ignore the looks from Sam—he'd do that forever if given a chance. Feigning that something wasn't there was far preferable to addressing the elephant in the room for him; it always had been.

Inside the Impala, I leaned over the front seat to get a better look at the picture Sam was holding that Lucas had drawn for Dean. A white church, a yellow house this time, a boy in a blue baseball cap, and a red bicycle. Dean started up the Impala, pulling out onto the long stretch of road leading away from the Devins' home. "Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died," he said.

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

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

"Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow? I mean, it's only a matter of time before somebody else drowns," Dean said hurriedly. Each encounter with Lucas made him increasingly paranoid, and while their interactions were sweet, perhaps they shouldn't continue. "So if you got a better lead, please."

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

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

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

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

Rather than getting upset by his brother's teasing, Sam smiled. The expression his face settled into told me exactly what was coming, allowing me to brace myself on Dean's behalf.

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

Dean's eyes flicked to mine in the rearview before returning to the road. "It's no big deal." He shrugged. "We're not gonna have to hug or anything, are we?"

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

"Oh, gross," Dean wisecracked, shrugging my hand off, "I'll pass."

---

Thanks to Sam, it only took us a couple of hours to arrive at our destination. Despite being the second time it occurred, the shock of how similar the crayon scribble was to the real thing was astounding. Just like in Lucas's drawing, a little yellow house with a tall brown fence surrounding the property was perfectly situated behind a white church with thick trees. The only thing missing was the red bike and the little boy. Wasting time was not an option, so we marched up the pathway to the front door and knocked on it. Some shuffling came from the other side before an elderly woman answered, peering up at us through the sliver of the open door. "Can I help you?" she asked with curious, kind eyes.

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

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

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

"Mrs…" Sam trailed off respectfully.

"Sweeney," she informed.

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

Unable to resist the puppy-dog eyes Sam gave her her, the grey-haired woman nodded and stepped aside to allow us in. Her home was quaint, full of knick-knacks and personal belongings that undoubtedly held a lot of sentimental value. A photograph of a little boy wearing a blue baseball cap sat atop the fireplace mantle, similar to the child from Lucas's drawing.

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

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

"You never found out?" I asked.

"He just disappeared. And the police never–" she paused, swallowing hard. "Losing him—you know, it's worse than dying," Ms. Sweeney said, her voice shaking. Those words rang familiar, having just come from Bill Carlton earlier today.

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

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

"I'm so sorry," I told her.

"Me too, dear," Mrs. Sweeney said, melancholic.

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

"Those two were very close. They spent nearly every day together," Mrs. Sweeney informed. Even the day he went missing? I thought, sharing a look with the boys, who it seemed could read my mind. We thanked the mournful woman for her time and left to discuss this newfound information in the Impala.

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

"Bill sure as hell seems to be hiding something, huh?" Dean asked, putting the car in drive.

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

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

"Maybe Bill did something to Peter."

"What if Bill killed him?"

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

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

"Nope," Dean said, pulling out onto the road.

---

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

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

A low, rumbling rattle in the distance caught my attention, and I craned toward it. Across the lake, Bill Carlton drove his boat further and further out. My taking off toward the dock alerted the boys, who responded quickly and followed me. The wood creaked beneath our rushed footsteps as we called for Bill, to no avail. He completely ignored us. We could only stand there and watch as the water rose, flipping the boat over. Sam jumped into action and called the cops. Everything in me wished that when the boat floated back to its normal state, Bill would be clinging to the steering wheel. But he was gone—vanished into the lake much like his daughter days prior.

Upon his arrival on scene, Sheriff Devins requested we take a trip back to the station to talk. Did he figure we had anything to do with it? Probably not. He was just doing his job. Inside his office, we'd barely gotten to say more than two words to him before Andrea entered, holding Lucas's hand and a bag clasped in the other. Lucas looked… off, more so than usual. He sat down beside his Mom on the couch but never stopped rocking back and forth like a pendulum. Andrea attempted to fix his hair out of his face with each sway, but it fell back every time.

"Alright, this conversation is over," Sheriff Devins said, leading us out of the office.

"Oh, hi," Andrea smiled through her worry, standing to her feet. Since seeing how much her son liked Dean, she was far less apprehensive around us. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"What are you doing here?" the Sheriff asked.

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

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't really have the time."

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

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

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

Seeing him in such distress gave my chest a pang. "Hey, Lucas, it's okay," I bent down beside Dean, trying my best to help him comfort the frantic boy. For the first time, Lucas looked directly into my eyes. My breath hitched the fear etched into his irises. It scared me.

"I'm sorry," Andrea apologized, pulling Lucas away and outside. He stared at us the entire time, even through the glass door. The only thing that broke his terrified gaze was when he and his Mom rounded the corner. The whole indecent shook me to my core. Never, in all my years, had I seen a child so frightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get going," he ordered.

---

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

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

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

We'd only been driving for around ten minutes when the car jerked to a stop at a red light. It turned green, but we didn't lurch forward. To ensure Dean was okay, I tapped him on the shoulder. "Light's green, babe," I said.

"What?" Dean asked, blinking rapidly.

"It's green," Sam reiterated, pointing to the traffic light.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said, pressing the gas pedal just enough to turn the Impala right instead of left like he was supposed to.

Sam looked around. "Uh, the interstate's the other way," he said. "This job, I think it's over."

"I'm not so sure."

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

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

"But why would you think that?"

"Because Lucas was really scared."

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

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

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

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

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

Having zero clue of his reasoning, Sam laughed, "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled, putting his frustration into accelerating down the road. In just under ten minutes, we arrived back at Andrea's house. The moon cast a blanket of white light over the quiet property. If it weren't for the few lights on inside, I would've thought they'd gone to sleep for the night.

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

Ignoring him, Dean rang the doorbell impatiently. No more than a second later, Lucas flung the door open, his petrified eyes wide as softballs. "Lucas? Where's your Mom?" I asked, confused. He grabbed my arm, pulling it a few times before letting go and bolting for the stairs. It didn't take long to figure out why he was so scared. Water ran down the stairs, gushing out from underneath one of the doors Lucas pounded on. Dean gently moved the child over to me, so he was out of the way.

Despite his efforts to flee, with no real idea what was on the other side of that door, I held Lucas tightly. Judging by what happened to Will Carlton, I couldn't imagine it was anything good. One swift kick by Dean to the center of the door was all it took for its lock to crumble. Water flooded the white tile floor, pouring from Andrea's overflowing bathroom. Seeing some struggle was never a good thing, but in this case, it was the best possible situation. Andrea's desperate attempts to pull herself from the water signaled that she was still alive.

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

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

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

When each of them calmed down enough to part ways, I grabbed a towel for Andrea to throw around herself and helped her to her feet. We cleaned up as much water as we could while she went to get dressed and change Lucas out of his damp clothes. The whole time, Dean never stopped scowling at the bathtub. Eventually, we found ourselves back downstairs. I sat on the couch beside Andrea, wearing some comfortable clothes and a blanket draped around her shoulders. She nursed a warm cup of tea, taking slow, deliberate sips every few minutes. She hadn't spoken much, and I couldn't blame her. None of us wanted to pry, but we had to get to the bottom of this fast. I'm sure the spirit wasn't too happy about the fact that we put an end to its steady stream of revenge. There's no telling when it would strike next; we couldn't afford to wait.

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

"No. It doesn't make sense," she whispered, wiping her tears with her sleeve. Sam handed her a tissue from the box sitting on the end table that she accepted with a grateful sniffle, patting her cheeks. "I'm going crazy."

"You're not," I told her. "At all. Look, this might not be what you wanna hear, but whatever happened, it's not in your head. We need to know everything."

"I heard–" she paused to change her words, "I thought I heard… a voice."

"What did it say?" Sam asked.

"It said… 'Come play with me,'" Andrea said. She shook her head at herself, jostling a fresh set of tears. "What's happening?" she cried.

The sound of his footsteps called my attention to the doorway as Dean entered with a large, open book. I furrowed my brows in question, and he flashed his in response—the look on his face saying, wait till you get a load of this. The book was a photo album with several pictures of Boy Scouts smiling widely at the camera. "Do you recognize the kids in these pictures?" Dean asked her, tapping on one of them.

"What?" Andrea asked, confused. "Um, no. I mean, except that's my dad right there," she pointed to one of the boys, "he must have been about twelve in these pictures."

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

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

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

Dean was about to answer when something behind us caught his eye. "Lucas?" he called. In front of the large bay window across the room, Lucas started blankly outside. He didn't cast so much as a glance and walked to the door. Before he stepped foot outside, Dean was already tailing him. We all piled outside, blindly following the silent child down a short hill behind their home. He came to a stop between two large trees and looked to the grass, then over his shoulder at us.

"You and Lucas get back to the house and stay there, okay?" Dean told Andrea. Although skeptical, she complied and took Lucas by the hand.

---

While the boys went to retrieve a couple of shovels from the Impala, I stayed near the spot Lucas signaled to us so we wouldn't lose it. The freshly-cut-grass scented breeze wicked my skin with icicles. By now, the sun had slowly risen, casting coral hues across light grey clouds. The mixture of colors appeared eerie instead of calming, and Any other day, I'd probably enjoy it, but today, its beauty was lost on me. Returning with the necessary tools, Dean tossed a shovel to me, and we started digging. It wasn't long before Sam hit something with a loud clang. Unsure what it was but knowing it wasn't much deeper, we got on our knees to uncover the item by removing the thin layer of dirt with our hands. The soil was cold, but nowhere near as freezing as the metal my fingers came into contact with.

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

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

"Oh, I'm sorry; who dug out half of that shit?" Dean asked, pointing to the mound of dirt beside us. While they bickered, I reached back into the shallow hole, tugging on the cumbersome object.

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

Dean scoffed, "Barely."

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

With only a few mumbled comments under Dean's breath, the three of us grabbed ahold of it and gave one good haul to dislodge it. Along with freeing the rusted metal came a rush of misery that filled the atmosphere. Any immature tension between us crumbled away because covered in dirt and gime, was a red bicycle—the one from Lucas's drawing, the one from the photograph.

"Peter's bike," Sam muttered sadly.

"Who are you?" Sheriff Devins' unmistakable voice suddenly boomed. All longwinded, confrontational speeches tumbled away when we faced the gun he had trained on us. Sure, he wouldn't be happy with what we were doing, but that was incredibly unexpected.

Sam held his hands up in surrender. "Put the gun down, Jake," he instructed calmly.

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

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

The Sheriff's air of confidence was slipping. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he claimed, caught off guard, not expecting us to know as much as we did. Judging by how his eyes darted frantically to the bike—we were correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad, look at me," Andrea cried out. Jake turned to face her, sullen and disjointed. "Tell me you– you didn't kill anyone," she pleaded. I suppose he couldn't handle lying to her face again because Devins opted to turn away, training his eyes on the lake and lowering his gun. Andrea's answer lay within his silence, and a heartbroken sob escaped her lips before she clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle any more cries.

"Billy and I were at the lake," Devins explained monotonically. "Peter was the smallest one. We always bullied him, but this time, it got rough. We were holding his head under the water. We didn't mean to. But we held him under too long, and he drowned. Throughout it all, the only thing that stayed in my mind was Peter. He must have been terrified, clinging to life as his supposed friends took it from him. Devins turned back to the boys and me. "We let the body go, and it sank."

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

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

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

Andrea agreed, ready to head back to the house when her eyes drifted past us and went round, polluted with fright. Lucas was walking out onto the dock, heading for the water. Devins shouted for his grandson, rushing past us toward him. Dean easily overtook him, shouting for Lucas. We all did—but it made no difference. Lucas bent down at the edge of the dock, entranced by something within the water.

"Baby, stay where you are!" Andrea begged. Lucas finally turned his head to look at her, but as soon as he removed his eyes from the way, a discolored hand flew out from the depths and pulled him in. Andrea screamed, rushing for the water's edge. I dashed after her, grabbing her arm to stop her. "Let me go!"

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

Andrea clutched my forearms so tightly that bruises would appear in the shape of her fingertips. It didn't matter if it brought her some solace. The boys came up for breaths of air, one right after the other, both empty-handed. They dove under again. Devins pulled off his jacket, dropping it to the ground as he went to the shallow part of the lake.

"Jake, what are you doing?" I asked.

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

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

"Jake, stop!" I shouted.

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

"Daddy, no!" Andrea sobbed in my arms.

This man had a daughter and a grandson that needed him. What he did was horrible, but after all this time, you could tell the deep regret he felt. He'd have to live with what he'd done for the rest of his life. Guilt eats you up from the inside out; it torments you. And that would be payment enough. I turned Andrea around. "Stay here. If you go in there, he'll just take you, too, and Lucas needs you, okay?" I said. Andrea nodded and collapsed to the ground when I let her go.

Following in Jake's footsteps, the erratic, freezing water soaked straight through my jeans and penetrated my bones. I dragged in a deep breath of salty air, letting it expand my lungs almost to a painful degree, and plunged in. The further down, the less visible the water became. By pure luck, I managed to spot Devins' arm and grabbed it. Attempting to pull him out was like lifting a ton of bricks. My grip on his arm was slipping. No matter how deeply I dug my nails into his flesh, it didn't seem to matter; Peter didn't want to let go. My chest burned, the fire spreading into my throat as I ran out of breath. The deeper we plunged, the more pressure built, filling my ears with stabbing pain.

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

---

DPOV:

Somehow, I found Lucas drifting toward the more shallow part of the lake and broke through the surface with him in my arms. Although a little palid, he seemed to be breathing. Depleted from navigating the rough water and weighed down by my sopping wet clothes, I tiredly trudged up the shore carrying the boy. An eager Andrea met me halfway. She clutched her son tightly, kissing the top of his head. Scanned the immediate area, Sheriff Devins—and, more importantly, Tori—were missing.

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

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

The exhaustion that was ready to completely take over moments before had vanished, and I dove back into the now nearly calm water. Panic rose, constricting my already tight chest, making holding my breath while swimming an even harder task. Nothing but negative thoughts flew through my head. What if something happened? What if I couldn't find her? No, I couldn't think like that. If my fear took over, it would eat up everything. Being brave was more important now than ever. I pushed deeper, ignoring the burning in my limbs. Though the water was muddy, a whisp of blonde hair struggling against the current about a yard from the shore broke through its grit. The closer I got, the better I could determine what was happening. I would've let out a relieved breath if my lungs weren't already burning. Tori was alive, holding what appeared to be Devins's arm. He was quickly drifting to the bottom of the lake, eyes shut and body completely still, dragging her down with him.

When my hand gripped her arm, Tori's head whipped around, eyes wide and terrified until it registered who had had a hold of her. I almost tried to help her pull Devins until I took in her appearance; a deep blue shade tinted her lips—her skin was ashen. The only thing that mattered anymore was getting her out of here. The adrenaline that kicked in allowed me to break her grip on him. Despite her struggling to clasp him again, I anchored an arm around her waist and started for the surface. Eventually, Tori gave in and swam with me, gasping for air when we broke out of the water.

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

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

"But–"

"No, Tor," I said sternly, permitting my fear at the thought of losing her to show. "Please."

Fortunately, Tori gave in and swam back to the shore with me. Sam, whose tense posture was moments away from propelling him into the water after us, had finally relaxed and he helped her out of the water, barely waiting until she was steady on her feet before he hugged her.

---

TPOV:

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

"Hey, you ready to head out?" Dean asked gently from across the room. I blinked a few times, only realizing then how zoned out I'd become.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe," I agreed. Perhaps he was right, but it didn't feel that way.

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

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

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

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

"Hey," Dean smiled as we approached the two.

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

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

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

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

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

"So… how are you?" I asked Andrea hesitantly, unsure I wanted to know how she truly felt—especially not toward me.

Andrea's face relaxed into an unplaceable expression as she thought it over. "It's just gonna take a long time to sort through everything, you know?"

"I'm sure," I glanced down to the ground, "Andrea, I'm sorry," I said. I should've told her this morning, but I found it difficult to get the words out right after it happened. Then Lucas started talking again, and it didn't seem right to burden her with my measly apology.

Her eyebrows lifted quizically. "About what?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry about that," I told her.

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

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

"Alright," Lucas replied happily.

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

"Of course," Sam replied with a smile.

Lucas stepped over, waiting for me to kneel down in front of him. "You gonna be okay?" I asked.

He nodded confidently. "Yeah."

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

Lucas beamed, and he wrapped his arms around me. The smile never left his face even after he pulled away and returned to his Mom. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Dean watching me with a soft-eyed gaze.

"You know, you two will make great parents one day," Andrea complimented innocently. The moment the words left her lips, I felt it. All the color drained from my face, turning me white as a sheet. Still, I had the wherewithal to check on Dean, who had totally frozen in place. Much like Sam, Andrea had a sneaky smile on her face the entire time we were making fools out of ourselves. However, unlike Sam, she wasn't making fun of us. It was as though she knew something no one else did.

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

Sam rolled his eyes but obliged. Dean gave Andrea a pained smile and waved at Lucas before getting into the cab. Somehow, I forced a smile even though my lips felt tight like a stretched balloon, and through them, I squeaked out a "Thank you" that tilted upward at the end like a question. I jumped into the backseat and shut the door. The force of it blew my hair into my face, and the split seconds the strands covered my eyes were heaven—shielding me from the embarrassment. At least, within the safe confines of the Impala, I could collect myself and started to do just that until Sam wore a teasing smirk—like a sly cat circling its prey.

"Still love kids, Dean?" he asked.

"Stop it," I scolded exasperatedly, not-so-gently pushing his shoulder. Sam laughed. The goodbye smile he gave Andrea was cut short by Dean backing out of the lot. The faster the Impala traveled down the long stretch of road leading away from Lake Manitoc, the more our awkwardness diminished. Not entirely, but enough to think back on it without cringing. At least, not too violently, anyway.

The reason behind my reaction was widely different from Dean's. A perfect, little family, that wasn't really part of his plan—not that he had one. On the list of things that resembled normal, having kids was the one that freaked him out the most. Other than marriage, and white-picket fences. Dean reacted in fear of how little he wanted it, and I responded in fear of how much I wanted it.

Suddenly, the deepest depths of my mind lingered on what it would be like to have an idealistic life with him. What our kids might look like, who they would favor—what color eyes or hair would they have. But those were things I had no business thinking about. It was impossible for us, and having it with anyone else wouldn't be worth it. Dean looked from the road to catch my eyes in the rearview mirror, as though he knew I needed it. The tension in my shoulders released, and I returned his contented expression. There's a reason we fit so well together. I'm not cut out for that life any more than he is; I never was—relatively safe to say I never would be. So, maybe it wasn't in the cards, but that was okay. We had each other; that was enough.

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