No words were spoken about what happened back in Rockford. It's like we all quietly decided to act as though it never happened. It tore at me right now, but it was probably for the best in the long run. There was far too much on our plates to dwell upon things a victim of possession was coerced into saying—and doing—even if that victim was family and even if their words held any truth.

A trill of a phone ringing echoed through my otherwise empty—and for once, nightmare-less—brain, rattling it until I woke. Trying to salvage whatever sleepiness I could, I groggily snuggled deeper into the pillow, hoping to drift off again despite the noise. "Hello?" Sam answered the phone in a gravely tired voice. "Dad?" he perked up instatnly. "Are you hurt?"

Shock jolted me into a sitting position; the sudden movement made my head spin and my heart pound, but I ignored it. I locked eyes with an equal part surprised, relieved, and angry Sam, who clutched his phone tightly. I nudged Dean, trying to wake him. "Tor, stop," he grumbled in his sleep, batting my hand away.

I pushed his shoulder into the mattress and hissed, "Wake up, Dean."

He squinted at me and slurred, "What is it?"

"John," I replied. Dean sat up faster than I had moments before, his breathing shallow and uneven.

"We've been looking for you everywhere." Sam's jaw clenched on and off as he spoke. "We didn't know where you were—if you were okay."

"When did he call?" Dean asked.

"Not even a minute ago, I guess," I said, rubbing my eyes.

"We're fine," Sam answered. "Dad, where are you?" There was a pause as his father answered, but whatever he said seemed to upset Sam. "You're after it, aren't you? The thing that killed Mom." Sam's face drained of color. "A demon? You know for sure?" My stomach twisted; all my muscles tensed, and the already stiff mattress beneath me turned to stone. Never in a million years would I think the thing that ripped apart my world did the same to them. I tried to tell myself that it was something else—it had to be—but when was John ever wrong?

"What's he saying?" Dean asked his brother.

"You know where it is, then let us help," Sam insisted and huffed when he received an answer he didn't like. "Why not?"

Dean scooted closer to the edge of the bed, anxiously reaching an arm out. "Give me the phone."

"Names? What names, Dad? Talk to me; tell me what's going on!" Sam's teeth clenched as John spoke on the other end, and his brow went rigid. I faintly made out John, telling him this was an order and to take down a list of names.

Again, Dean asked for the phone, and when Sam didn't give it up, he reached across the beds and grabbed it. "Dad, it's me. Where are you?" he asked. The questions and concern in Dean's eyes quickly shifted into obedience as John spoke. I leaned in to hear what he was saying.

"I can't tell you that, Dean," John replied. "Listen to me. There are people—couples—going missing somewhere near Bukitsville, Indiana. You three have to go there and figure out what's happening."

Dean didn't give the request a second thought. "Yes, sir."

Taking a pen and notepad from the dresser, Dean readied himself to write down whatever information his father was about to give. He hurriedly scribbled them down a few sets of names and states. John's voice began to shrink away, signaling the end of the conversation until he asked Dean to put me on the phone. I hesitantly pressed the cell to my ear. "John, where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," I spoke through gritted teeth.

"Vic, you kids don't understand–"

"Then make us understand," I implored. What was the point in calling just to be vague?

"I can't. It's too dangerous," he said. I wanted to push and keep asking until he told me or hung up, but I didn't. John's usually solid voice's hint of wavering fear kept me from further prying.

I nodded, though he couldn't see. "Okay."

"You gonna do the job?"

"Of course."

"Good," he said. "I have to go. You keep those boys in line."

"I will."

There was no goodbye, just a dial tone on the other end. I watched the screen light up with a call-ended message before it went blank. While Sam stewed in frustration, Dean sprang out of bed, ready to charge headfirst into whatever John was sending us. For him, that short amount of time speaking to his father was enough, even if it was spent with him tossing out directives. It let him know John was alive and alright—at least, somewhat—and that'd hold him over for a while. Sam, on the other hand, was fuming. That small interaction wasn't enough because he got nothing out of it. He wanted answers, not another job. I understood both sides; I wanted to know more about what John knew—why demons were involved and what they'd done. Us being apart like this didn't make much sense to me. However, John sounded scared. Never had I heard so much unease in that man's voice. Something about it all made my stomach churn. So, I certainly wasn't enthusiastic about sprinting toward the danger he was running from. If he wanted us to stay away, then for now, that's what we'd do.

While Sam questioned the legitimacy of this case and thought there was a perfectly reasonable explanation behind all of these disappearances, the more we looked into it, the less plausible his theories were. Just like he'd said, the names John had given us linked back to missing person articles over the years. All of the couples had taken cross-country trips from different parts of the US and vanished around the same area of Indiana at the same time of the year. Whether Sam liked it or not, that was no coincidence; this was a job.

"So, Dad is sending us to Indiana to go hunting for something before another couple vanishes?" Sam asked, hands tightly grasping the steering wheel.

"Yahtzee," Dean replied, eyes fixated on the stack of papers in his lap. "Can you imagine putting together a pattern like this? All the different obits Dad had to go through?" he wondered, astonished. Even though he was on the run, John somehow managed to string all this fragmented information together. It was pretty amazing. "The man's a master."

Unexpectedly, the car jerked, veering to the side of the road. I searched for the obstacle Sam must've dodged and found nothing but a dark, empty road before us. "What happened, Sam?" I asked.

"We're not going to Indiana," he replied stoically.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "We're not?"

"No. We're going to California. Dad called from a payphone—Sacramento area code." Sam hurried to continue before either of us could object, "If this demon killed Mom and Jess, and Dad's closing in, we've gotta be there. We've gotta help."

"Sam, John doesn't seem to want our help," I pointed out.

"I don't care."

"He's given us an order," Dean said firmly.

"I don't care! We don't always have to do what he says."

"Sam, Dad is asking us to work jobs—to save lives; it's important."

"Alright, I understand, believe me, I understand," Sam softened his tone, trying to coerce his brother. "But I'm talking one week here, man, to get answers. To get revenge."

"Alright, look, I know how you feel."

"Do you?" Sam challenged incredulously. "How old were you when Mom died? Four? Jess died six months ago. How the hell would you know how I feel?"

"You heard him," I said. "It's not–"

"Safe," he finished with a petulant scoff. "When have our lives ever been safe?"

"He obviously knows something that we don't," Dean argued. "So if he says to stay away, we stay away."

"I don't understand the blind faith you have in the man. I mean, it's like you don't even question him!"

"Yeah, it's called being a good son!" Dean barked, the volume of his voice breaking through the tense air. Sam angrily whipped the door open and stomped out onto the wet asphalt. As soon as he was gone, Dean's eyes showed his exhaustion. I often bought into Sam's reluctance, but it was unwarranted right now. Without more information, we'd be going in completely blind. Not only did it put John in danger, but us as well.

The Impala bounced as Sam dug around the trunk for his things. Reluctantly, I got out. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," he replied, strapping on a backpack.

"You're a selfish bastard; you know that?" Dean told his brother as he approached. I didn't even hear his door open. "You just do whatever you want. Don't care what anybody thinks."

Sam wore a cynical smirk. "That's what you really think?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well," he slung another bag over his shoulder, "then, this selfish bastard is going to California."

Reality finally set in as he turned his back and began walking down the road. "It's the middle of the night!" Dean shouted, jaw clenched in frustration. "Hey, we're taking off; I will leave your ass, you hear me?"

Sam turned around and shrugged petulantly. "That's what I want you to do!" he said without care. They stared, each waiting for the other to give in. Neither was about to; both were far too stubborn for that. Tonight mirrored another—one that took place three years ago. One I'd much rather forget.

"Goodbye, Sam," Dean declared, slamming the trunk. The sudden shockwave of sound propelled me forward after Sam, narrowly missing a water-filled pothole on my way. Unlike all those years ago when he left, Sam wasn't running from John and his crusade; he was gunning toward it. And this time, I didn't carry a green light. Now, it was blaring red, and I was about to do what I never thought I would: try and make him stay.

"This is ridiculous," I implored when I caught up.

"I'm not being ridiculous. I'm getting answers," Sam declared.

"This isn't the way. John doesn't want us there–"

The whites of Sam's eyes shined in the moonlight as he rolled them. "Since when do you care what Dad thinks?"

"I've always cared what your father thinks," I bit back. He scoffed and started walking again. "Hey," I called, trying to keep up with his pace. He wasn't about to stop, so I reached out to grab his arm and spun him to face me. "Listen to me for just one second. You can bicker with your Dad all you want. I don't care, but I think you need to listen this time. Please, just get back in the car, Sam."

"Why?"

"Because maybe John's right! If something big is going down, we can't just waltz in without knowing what's going on."

"That's what I'm gonna find out."

"Not like this. Think it through; give it a couple of days. Let's just finish this job. Wait for all of us to go together," I said, hoping that would sway him.

Sam thought it over for a moment and shook his head. "No. I'm not waiting. I'm not working some one-off job. I'll keep in touch, okay?" I didn't let go of his arm until he gave one hard pull and broke away. What Sam failed to realize is that I wanted answers, too. I wanted to know what was going on. Deep down, so did Dean, but this was a whole different beast. Something was out there—something bigger than we were ready for—and the idea of Sam potentially facing it while we weren't there scared me. The only thing I could do to quell those fears was go with him.

"Tor?" Dean spoke, weariness flowing from him in waves. "You coming?" Leaving Dean was out of the question for me, and abandoning a job was, too. Whether Sam thought it was stupid or naive, I had responsibilities, and I intended to follow through.

A new day had arrived by the time we reached Burkittsville. Though our visits were few and far between, each time a hunt brought us to Indiana, Dean took my hand the moment we crossed state lines. Even though my needless fear someone would recognize me had faded over the years, I welcomed the comforting gesture all the same. Outside, the dreary, wet weather matched our moods. I messaged Sam and received no reply. I tried to calm my anxious mind by telling myself that he was busy getting to California and that his phone probably died. At one stop for gas, when he thought I dozed off, I caught Dean scrolling through his contact list until he came upon his brother's name. His finger hovered over the call button, but ultimately, he decided against it.

Hours later, we stopped in front of a small establishment named Scotty's Cafe, its windows adorned with old-fashioned white lace curtains. Various potted flowers decorated the entrance and a small seating area outside. A man, looking to be in his late forties, sat on one of the benches, fingers interlocked and resting in his lap. "Let me guess," Dean glanced up at the sign and gestured to the man, "Scotty."

"Yup," he replied with a nod, dark eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of us.

"Hi, my name's John Bonham. And this is–"

"Isn't that the drummer for Led Zeppelin?" Scotty interrupted, raising a quizzical eyebrow. I flushed and tried to hide my shock at getting caught. That didn't happen every day.

Dean played it off with a chuckle. "Wow, good. Classic rock fan."

"What can I do for you two?"

"We were wondering if you'd seen these people by chance." Dean took the folded missing person fliers of Holly and Vince Parker from his pocket and handed them over.

Scotty scanned the papers and shook his head. "Nope. Who are they?"

"They were friends of ours," I said. "They went missing about a year ago. We already asked around Scottsburg and Salem, but we know they passed through somewhere around here, too."

"Sorry," he apologized, handing the papers to me. "We don't get many strangers around here." Scotty sat upright in his chair. "But, you two are welcome to stay. We're famous for our apples—got the best pie in the midwest," he offered.

Before Dean could cheerfully agree, I declined as politely as possible. "Sorry, no. We should be on our way."

Scotty tried but failed not to look disappointed. "Alrighty then." Just as we began to walk away, he spoke again. "You know, the general store is just back that way–" he pointed south, "Maybe your friends stopped in there."

"Thanks," Dean replied. Scotty nodded once.

"Have a good one," I said, slithering an arm through Dean's and leading him away.

He didn't put up much of a fight but did say, "You know, I think we could use a break."

"You just want food."

"So?"

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the car. "So, that general store."

"Worth a shot," he said. My spine tingled, wafting across my skin. I looked up, following the disturbed feeling to Scotty. He hurriedly averted his eyes, but I could tell he'd be staring. "Was he looking at you?" Dean asked, irritated at the prospect.

"I think so. Both of us."

"Weirdo," he grumbled and opened the passenger door. "Let's go." I gladly got in, happy to be out of Scotty's immediate view. It was normal for small towners to have some of a staring problem when new people entered their space, but something about this was just… uncomfortable.

Two miles down the road was a small general store butted up against an even tinier auto repair shop with a gas station attached, all sporting the same name—Jorgeson. Although the town's population barely hit average numbers, this family was probably the most affluent. Above our heads, the bell rang as we entered. It didn't surprise me that no customers were here. The weather was less than stellar. An older man and woman stood behind the counter, biding their time until a customer appeared. Seeing us, they both brightened instantly. "Hi there," the woman beamed. "Is there anything we can help you two with?"

"Actually, there is." I took out the fliers and slid the papers across the counter. "Our friends went missing last year. We think they might've passed through here and wondered if you remembered them."

The man took the paper, flipping it repeatedly, scrutinizing each photo. He showed who I assumed was his wife, and she did the same, shaking her head. "Sorry, no," the man said, returning the fliers.

"You sure they didn't stop for gas or something?" Dean pressed.

"Nope, don't remember them. You said they were friends of yours?"

"That's right."

"Aunt Stacy, where do you want–" a female voice coming from the steps to our left cut short. A girl around our age with light brown hair tied into a braid that hung over her shoulder came into view, placing the stack of boxes she carried on the counter. "Is everything alright?" We explained again why we were there and allowed her to see the fliers. One second of looking at the photograph was all it took for an instant flicker of recognition to cross her features. "I remember them. I'd never forget that tattoo." She pointed to the large section of ink on Vince's forearm. "You remember, Uncle Harley?" she asked the man. "They were just married."

Harley started nodding along. "You're right," he rubbed his chin, "they did stop for gas. Weren't here more than ten minutes."

"And that's all?" I asked, trying not to sound as skeptical as I felt. What about her words jogged his memory that a picture couldn't? "Nothing else?"

"I told them how to get back to the Interstate. They left town."

"Could you point us in that same direction?" Dean asked. "We'll try and retrace their steps. See what we can find."

"Oh, uh… sure," Harley replied, pulling a map from behind the counter to show us where Vince and Holly went.

"You know, you two should stay for a bit. Get a bite to eat," Stacy smiled politely.

"That's what I said," Dean complained under his breath.

I shot him a look and smiled politely at the woman. "We really should get going. Thank you, though."

"Of course," she muttered. I could've sworn I heard discontent in her voice but brushed it off. After Harley showed us which way to go—a long stretch of road cutting through thick woods and an apple orchard—we piled back into the Impala and set off. I had no idea how we would retrace the steps of two strangers who may or may not have been here a year ago, but it was worth a shot.

"Man, those people are weird," Dean complained after we got situated in the Impala.

Although they sent alarm bells ringing through my head, I attempted to give them the benefit of the doubt. "Small towns don't get a lot of exposure. It can make for some odd personalities."

"Yeah, sure, if that's what you wanna call it."

Rather than the engine roaring to life with ease like usual, it stuttered and groaned before turning over. "Why'd it do that?" I asked.

"I don't know. I'll check after we get the hell out of here."

It was only four in the afternoon, far too soon for the sun to set, but the darkness seemed to creep behind us as we traveled. As depicted on the map, dense woods began to open, revealing a large apple orchard. Although we were out in the middle of nowhere, I expected the town to make money from cattle or farms, so this was a pleasant surprise. Tinny, whirring beeps sounded off from the backseat.

"What the hell?" Dean searched for the source of the noise, reaching back so far that the car swayed slightly into the oncoming traffic lane. Even though it was empty, I still slapped his arm away.

"Keep your eyes on the road!" I demanded. Thoroughly chastised, Dean quickly grabbed the wheel with both hands. I grumbled about him crashing the car into a tree and leaned over the seat, digging through one of the duffel bags for the EMF meter. Each pair of jeans I moved out of the way propelled the device deeper. It beeped frantically, worsening when I angeled it toward the woods. We stopped and got out to inspect.

Unlike other ones I'd visited, this orchard was dwindling. A few boxes filled up with salvaged apples, but most trees were barren, with rotten fruit lying on the ground at their roots. Beneath our feet, the grass was soggy, squashing with each step we took. Eventually, the path led to a small clearing where a human-sized scarecrow was hanging from a log cross. The closer we got, the more I wished we stayed away. Placed low on its head was a straw hat, covering tinsel-thin black hair that hung around its face, reminiscent of a severely distressed hockey mask marred with deep, wound-like suture marks. It stared at us with hollow, black eye sockets. Looking at it made me recoil.

"Dude, you fugly," Dean remarked.

A sickle firmly planted in its stuffed-glove hand. Its clothing was tattered and old, ripped and frayed. This thing was disturbing, to say the least. Torn fabric revealed leather-like skin with a strangely familiar black design on its arm. "What is that?" I asked, pointing to it.

"I don't know." Dean took a nearby ladder and placed it before the scarecrow.

"Be careful," I warned, as though the thing would come to life right before our eyes. Dean nodded, and the ladder shook. As he climbed, I steadied the rickety metal. Standing face-to-face with the scarecrow, he moved the material from its arm, revealing more inky markings. Taking the fliers from his pocket, Dean held out the picture of Vince, and sickness washed over me. That's why the design was so familiar; I'd been staring at it for days.

"Nice tat," Dean told the scarecrow.

My shoulders fell. "Gross."

"Guess we're not leaving," he announced, scaling down the ladder.

"Guess not. So, what? They're killing people and making scarecrow skins out of them?"

"My god," Dean grinned from ear to ear, "the way you think. It's sick."

"And that probably shouldn't turn you on," I scolded jokingly.

"Yet here we are," he played along, and I chuckled. Finding humor in such dark subjects was one of the coping mechanisms to make it through this life. "Alright," he sighed. "Let's head back into town."

This time, the Impala's engine took even longer to start than before. Dean mumbled, "fuck this," and hopped out of the car. I stayed inside, busying myself by flipping through the multiple pages of evidence we gathered. In my pocket, my phone buzzed, and I all but chucked the papers to reach for it. On the screen was a text from Sam. I finally caught the deep breath that had been slithering away from me. Sorry. Phone died. I'm okay. I sent a quick reply that I was glad he was alright and to keep me updated. As badly as I knew it would sting if I told Dean his little brother texted me, not him, I also knew I had to bite the bullet and do it. I'm sure he'd rather know Sam is safe, anyhow.

"Hey," Dean appeared by my window, tapping the glass. I rolled it down.

"What's that matter?" I questioned, noting his furious look.

"Somebody fucked with the car."

"What are you talking about?"

"One of the spark plugs was loose!" His hands balled into fists. "I swear if I find the fucker that did this—"

"Dean."

"I'm gonna—"

"Dean!" I waved a hand in front of his face. He blinked, and his irritation fluttered to the wayside. "Why would someone do that?"

"I don't know! So the car wouldn't start!" he said, eyes widening in realization. "They're trying to keep us here."

My stomach flipped and turned. It was so obvious. I should've realized before. We're a couple. Couples go missing here yearly, and now we were the new targets. For a brief moment, I wondered if John anticipated this. It wouldn't be the first time he used us as bait. I quickly swept that thought away. It didn't matter now; we were in the deep end, and being this close would hopefully be beneficial to stop whatever was going on.

Back in town, much to my surprise, the girl from inside the store was operating the gas pumps. I figured her to be the type to hang out behind the scenes. I suppose one didn't have the luxury of being a one-trick pony here. "You're back," she said, surprised to see us but still friendly.

"Never left," Dean said.

The girl pushed her hands into her pockets. "Still looking for your friends?"

"Yeah, we are," I replied. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Dean glimpse at her chest before meeting her eyes again.

"You mind filling her up there, Emily?" he asked. Noticing my look of puzzlement at him knowing her name, Dean gestured to his own necklace. I was confused until she finished her task and stood. Around her neck sat a gold nameplate. We watched her closely as she placed the pump into the tank, ensuring she didn't do anything to it.

"Did you grow up here?" I asked.

"I came here when I was thirteen. I lost my parents—car accident. My aunt and uncle took me in," she explained. My heart ached for her, but only slightly. It was hard to sympathize with someone potentially involved in something so cruel.

Dean leaned against the car. "They're nice people," he said, trying to feel Emily's place in all this. Not that we knew what any of this was, to begin with.

"Everybody's nice here."

"So, what, it's the, uh, perfect little town?"

"Well, you know, it's the boonies. But I love it. I mean, in the towns around us, people are losing their homes, their farms. But here, it's almost like we're blessed." She flashed a bright, innocent smile. If she had anything to do with these deaths, she sure was one hell of an actress.

"You ever seen that scarecrow in the orchard?" I wondered.

Emily laughed, "Yeah. It creeps me out. I try not to go out there."

"It is pretty freaky," I agreed. "Whose is it?"

"I don't know. It's just always been there."

"That your aunt and uncle's?" Dean nodded to a red SUV in front of the garage, its hood open and rags lying on the frame.

"Customer. Had some car troubles."

"It's not a couple, is it? A guy and a girl?"

"Um, yeah, actually it is," Emily replied, confused. "Why?"

"No reason," I deflected. Once they thought we were out of their clutches, they wasted no time getting new victims. When the tank was full, we returned to Scotty's Cafe. The inside was barren, save for a couple sitting at a red and white cloth-covered table, several plates of food surrounding them. It was like they were fattening them up for sacrifice. I cringed at how plausible that sentence was. Of course, I wasn't too keen on us being here, nor was Scotty himself, apparently, because his jovial demeanor fell flat when we walked in. You'd think he'd be happy to see us, considering we were their original prey, but they'd moved on, and our presence was about to throw a wrench in the system.

Good. That's what we wanted.

"Hey, Scotty," Dean smiled brightly. "Can I get a coffee, black? You want anything, babe?" he asked me.

"Some of that pie would be great," I said.

"Sure," Scotty grumbled, plastering a smile on his taunt face and strolling back behind the counter of baked goods. We took the table closest to the oblivious couple. I gently tapped my fingers on the sticky plastic tablecloth, trying to devise a good conversation starter that wasn't bizarre.

"How are you doing?" Dean asked the couple. "Just passing through?"

"Road trip," the woman replied. "You?"

"Yeah," I said. "Came over from Illinois. Not sure where we'll end up next," I chuckled.

She grinned, much more willing to talk to us than her partner. "We started in Vermont. We're heading to Washington."

"I'm sure these people want to eat in peace," Scotty said, walking over to fill their glasses.

"Just a little friendly conversation," Dean defended, and Scotty reluctantly retreated. "Oh, and that coffee, too, man. Thanks," Dean reminded.

Scotty smiled bitterly. "Sure."

Dean cleared his throat and rested an arm on the table. "So, what brings you to town?" he asked the couple.

"We just stopped for gas," the girlfriend said. "And the guy at the gas station saved our lives."

"He did?" I asked. "How?" The same way he would've saved ours by fixing the sparkplug they messed with?

"One of our brake lines was leaking," her boyfriend explained. "We had no idea. He was fixing it for us."

"Nice people," Dean mumbled, sharing a subtle look of suspicion with me.

The woman nodded, unaware, and waved her knife at us. "What about you two?"

"We just happened to find this place and figured we needed a break from driving all day," I said.

A few beats of quiet fell over us until Dean spoke again. "So, how long till you're up and running?"

"Sundown," the man said.

"Really, to fix a brake line? I mean, you know, I know a thing or two about cars. I could probably have you up and running in about an hour. I wouldn't charge you anything."

The woman's polite smile wavered as she shared a quick look with her boyfriend that read of red flags. "Thanks a lot… but I think we'd rather have a mechanic do it."

"Sure. I know." Dean leaned back in his chair. "We wouldn't mind hanging back and helping you guys out."

"That's okay," her boyfriend replied.

"Because it's just that, uh, safety in numbers and all—"

"Look, dude, we're not into the whole sharing thing."

I was appalled at the suggestion. "That's not–!"

"We're not trying to pick you up!" Dean interrupted, laughing nervously. "Not that you aren't attractive," he told the woman, who leaned away in discomfort.

"Oh god," I mumbled, covering my mouth with my fingers.

"I'm just saying that—"

"Dean, stop," I pleaded. If I could crawl inside myself and disappear right now, I would.

"You know, these roads are not real safe at night," he got out the words, barely, still jumbled.

A worried glimpse crossed the brunette's eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"What he means is…" I took a breath, trying to think of something—anything—to say. Usually, people weren't this damn stubborn. "This area is—"

"Is what?"

Dean glanced back to ensure Scotty was nowhere to be seen. "I know it sounds strange, but you might be in danger," he warned quietly. This conversation was going nowhere fast. In fact, it only got worse. Not only did they think we were swingers, they likely believed we were murderers, now, too.

The man placed a protective hand on his partner's leg. "Look, we're trying to eat. Okay?"

"You know, my brother could give you this puppy dog look, and you'd just buy right into it," Dean mumbled, primarily to himself. The bell rang above the door, and a Sheriff walked in, giving the room a once-over with his hands stationed on his hips.

Scotty exited the backroom. "Thanks for coming," he said.

"Great," I huffed, folding my arms. We tried to avoid eye contact with the authoritative man, but that didn't last long when he approached our table.

"I'd like a word, please," he announced.

I eyed the name sewn into his shirt—Morton. "Why? We didn't do anything," I complained, raising a challenging eyebrow.

"Not yet," he said pointedly.

"Come on," Dean huffed. "It's been a bad day already."

"You know what would make it worse?"

Begrudgingly, Dean and I followed Sheriff Morton out of the cafe and to the Impala. He tailed us to the interstate to ensure we'd leave. After a good fifteen minutes, Dean checked the rearview mirror, letting out an annoyed huff at the fact he was still there. It wasn't long before I noticed the trees on either side of the road weren't blurry like usual. I could make out their leaves and branches. A glance at the speedometer and the numbers the dial ticked between made me chuckle.

"What?" Dean asked.

"I don't think I've ever seen you drive the speed limit. It's cute, actually, you obeying the law," I teased.

"Cute," he scoffed. "You want me to speed and get pulled over by that asshole?"

"No, I really don't feel like getting tased tonight," I said, leaning my elbow on the door and resting my head in my hand. "So, pretty much the entire town is in on this—whatever it is."

"Some kinda ritual thing?"

"Yeah. I mean, we obviously interrupted something."

"We are almost were that something."

"But what is it?"

Dean clicked his tongue. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?"

Eventually, the Sheriff broke away from us and returned to whatever hole he crawled out of. We got some food at a diner one town over to pass the time waiting for nightfall before we returned to Burkittsville. While we ate, I debated calling Sam or sending him another text multiple times but ultimately decided against it. If he had something to share, he could. If he didn't want to, well, maybe I shouldn't try to hold on so tightly. "You hear from Sam?" Dean wondered, eating the last bite of his burger. It was as if he could read my mind.

To bide time, I slowly chewed the french fry I popped into my mouth. "Yeah," I eventually muttered, wiping my salt-coated fingers on a napkin.

"When?"

"Before."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was when you figured out what was wrong with the car. Got sidetracked after that."

Dean nodded in understanding. "What did he say?"

"Not much. Just that he's okay. I told him to keep me updated, but I haven't heard anything since."

"Was I wrong for letting him go? 'Cause I feel like a dick," he mumbled, guilt rolling off him in waves.

"What could you have done, tackled him? Hog-tied him in the backseat?" I asked. Dean laughed briefly, then sobered up.

"But, I don't know… maybe I could've done more."

I shook my head. "I don't think so. We tried to make him see reason—make him stay. It was what he wanted, you know? He always does what he wants."

Dean focused on a particularly buoyant chunk of ice in his glass while I returned to the few fries left on my plate. Out of the blue, he practically whispered, "I thought you were gonna go with him."

"Who, Scotty?" I joked until I took note of the serious face he sported, and my amusement washed away. "What are you talking about?"

An internal struggle raged behind Dean's eyes, tinting their usual green with a shade of yellow, until he finally spoke. "Sam. The way you watched him go, the way you looked at me." His jaw set like a vice, and he chewed his lower lip. "I just thought you were gonna leave..."

That was the absolute last thing I thought he was going to say. I reached across the table, taking his hand in mine. "I wouldn't do that," I said, voice full of conviction.

"I know," he mumbled, ashamed for even thinking it. "It was stupid."

"It wasn't stupid, Dean. But listen, there is nowhere else I'd rather be right now. Even we get sacrificed," I added jokingly. Although small, his smile was genuine, and he squeezed my hand before letting go to ball up his napkin and toss it onto the empty plate.

"You ready?" he asked, taking a drink. I nodded and scooted out of the booth.

About a half hour later, we were back in town and nearing the orchard. In the distance was the red SUV from the mechanic, the same one that belonged to the couple, parked at the edge of the woods. "God, you don't think they'd be dumb enough to go out there, do you?" I asked.

"All of these couples disappearing out here should answer that question," Dean muttered as we exited the Impala. He took a shotgun from the trunk, handed me another, and started our trek through the orchard. During the day, this place held a certain level of charm, but at night it was straight-up creepy. Thick fog had settled in, hovering over the uneven terrain. The trees were so thick they barely let in any moonlight. We had no form of direction until a blood-curdling scream bounced through the woods. Following the sound, it wasn't long before I collided with the brunette from the cafe. She screamed—confirming it was her the first time—and hurried back into her boyfriend's embrace. A crunch of leaves signaled another presence, and from the trees emerged the scarecrow, hauntingly stalking in our direction with his sickle raised.

"Get back to your car," Dean instructed gruffly. "Go!" he shouted when they refused to move.

Finally, they took off in the direction we'd just come from. Dean shot the scarecrow once. It stumbled but kept on going. I took the next shot. It didn't make a difference—no words needed to be spoken. We backed away in tandem—slowly at first, but it wasn't long before we were full-on sprinting. Dean kept shooting it as we dashed down the path; it didn't matter. He kept coming, bullet holes and all. All four of us reached the Impala. The terrified couple cowered behind us. We readied our guns, anticipating the scarecrow's appearance. I forced myself to take a steady breath, knowing any shot I took would be off if I didn't breathe properly. We waited, and waited, but nothing happened. It was nowhere to be found, like it had vanished into thin air—something impossible considering it was an animated object, not a spirit.

"What the hell was that?" the man panted.

"Don't ask," Dean ordered.

While I kept an eye on the orchard, Dean did what he could to fix up the couple's SUV so they could safely get to a hotel and reach an actual mechanic in the morning. Unlike before, they were exceptionally grateful and apologized for being rude in the cafe. We told them we understood and sent them on their way. Driving away from the orchard, Dean and I discussed what we could be dealing with. We got a room for the night in the same town where we ate dinner. Usually, time alone was exciting; tonight, we were exhausted and could barely keep our eyes open long enough to get into bed, let alone have any fun. The following day, I awoke to another text from Sam telling me he was okay but got held up at the bus station. Rather than waiting, like last night, I told Dean right away. He didn't say much, just nodded, and we went about our morning getting ready. I was slipping into a pair of jeans when Dean, who sat on the edge of the bed behind me, spoke.

"We should call Sam."

I froze, hands on my zipper, and turned. "You want to?"

"Maybe he'll have a solution for all this in that big brain of his," he said with a slight twinge of sarcasm. I slipped on a white t-shirt with a print so faded I'd forgotten what it used to be and perched beside Dean on the bed. The corners of his lips turned downward as he stared at the screen. By the ring, I suspected would be the last before it went to voicemail, Sam answered.

"Hey," he said.

Dean let out a relieved breath. "Hey. Uh, Tori's here."

"Are you okay, Sam?" I asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Still waiting on that bus. How's it going over there?"

"Oh, great," Dean said sarcastically. "A town full of creeps and a killer scarecrow."

We were met with silence. "A what?" Sam finally said.

"Damn thing is covered in skin from Holly and Vince Parker. Chased us through an orchard."

"Wait. The scarecrow climbed off its cross?"

"Yeah, Burkitsville, Indiana. Fun Town."

"It didn't kill the couple, did it?"

"No." Dean rolled his eyes. "We can cope without you, you know."

Sam ignored his brother's comment. "So, something must be animating it. A spirit."

"More than a spirit," I interjected. "A pagan god."

"What makes you think that?"

"The annual cycle of its killings and the fact that the victims are always a man and a woman," Dean ticked off, "We're thinking it's all a ritual sacrifice like some kind of fertility rite. I mean, you should see the locals. The way they treated this couple. Fattening 'em up like a Christmas turkey."

"The last meal. Given to sacrificial victims," Sam said, starting to get on board with the idea. "But you guys are okay? They didn't do anything to you, right?"

Dean's eyes darkened like he was reliving war flashbacks. "They violated Baby."

"Excuse me?"

"They messed with the car," I clarified. "Loosened a spark plug."

"At least you got figured it out," he said, relieved. "So, the whole town's in on it?"

"Well, maybe not the whole town. There's this girl, Emily. She came here to live with her aunt and uncle when she was just a kid. Doesn't seem as shifty as the rest."

"Think she could help?"

"Maybe. If we end up needing it."

"Alright, so a god possesses the scarecrow..."

"And the scarecrow takes its sacrifice," Dean said." And for another year, the crops won't wilt, and disease won't spread."

"Do you know which god you're dealing with?"

"No, not yet. We're gonna head out to the local community college. Got an appointment with a professor. You know, since we don't have our trusty sidekick Geek Boy to do all the research."

Sam chuckled. "You know, if you're hinting you need my help, just ask."

"I'm not hinting anything," Dean insisted. A beat of silence passed. "Actually, uh– I want you to know… I mean, don't think..." It wasn't a perfect apology, but Dean was a Winchester, and it's the best Sam's gonna get right now. He didn't seem to mind, though.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, too."

"Sam," Dean cleared his throat, "you were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life." My head snapped up in shock; a crack rattled down my spine from the sudden movement. Dean spouted the same thing their father did for as long as I can remember—hunting is our lives; we can't do anything else. I knew deep down he felt otherwise. Maybe not for himself—even though he should—but for others.

"Are you serious?" Sam asked, the surprise in his voice clear as day.

"You've always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I–" Dean paused, glancing my way before averting his eyes again. "Anyway… I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy."

A short lull of silence fell over us until Sam broke it. "I don't even know what to say."

"Say you'll take care of yourself." Dean fought away the heavy gloom that crept into his eyes. I rested my head on his shoulder, staring at a loose thread on the rug below our feet. Finding similarities in this conversation to my one with Sam before he left for Stanford came easy. It signaled an end of some kind; whether permanent or not, there was no way to tell yet.

"I will," Sam replied.

"Call us when you find Dad."

"Okay," he mumbled, sounding like he didn't want the call to end. We said our goodbyes, and Dean snapped the phone shut.

"That was sweet, what you said to Sam," I said.

"Probably should've said it a long time ago."

"Better late than never."

Dean shook his head. "I should've done more."

"Dean, there was nothing you could do. We talked about this—"

"When Sam left for Stanford," he clarified, "I should've said something. Stuck up for him."

"No, you did what you thought was right." Which was to keep the peace between his father and his brother. It's what he'd always done.

"Yeah, well, look where that got us," he said, eyes lingering on my left shoulder. I knew instantly where his mind had gone. "We should head out."

For now, I decided to let it go. After we finished this job, we'd talk about it, I'd be sure of that.

For a town this small, the college was bigger than I imagined—spanning two stories. Professor Hill, a slim, older man dressed in beige dress pants and a dark brown checkered sweater vest, greeted us at the entrance and led us through the eggshell-colored walls of the college adorned with photographs, artwork, and degrees boasting their students' achievements. To my surprise, he was downright giddy over our pagan god inquiry. "It's not every day I get a research question on Pagan ideology."

Dean shrugged, "Call it a hobby."

"But you said you were interested in local lore?" he asked us, opening his office door for us to enter. I nodded and slipped inside the room. Professor Hill followed to the desk, rubbing his chin in thought. "I'm afraid Indiana isn't really known for its Pagan worship."

"Well, what if it was imported? You know, like the Pilgrims brought their religion over. Wasn't a lot of this area settled by immigrants? Like that town near here, Burkittsville," Dean mentioned casually. "Where are their ancestors from?"

"Northern Europe, I believe, Scandinavia. But there are hundreds of Norse gods and goddesses."

"Actually, we're looking for a specific one," I said. "It may live in an orchard?"

"Woods, god, hm?" he hummed, retrieving a thick book from a packed shelf and placing it on the desk. He perched a pair of thin glasses on his face and began flipping through the pages. I recognized some names and illustrations, while others passed me by entirely.

"Wait," Dean stopped him. "What's that one?" He pointed to a picture of a scarecrow-like figure hanging from a wooden cross made of logs. It looked nearly identical to the one we encountered.

"Oh, that's not a woods god, per se."

Rather than asking him for more information, I went straight to the source—the passage below the drawing. The Vanir were Norse gods of protection and prosperity. They kept local settlements safe from harm. Some villages built effigies of the Vanir in their fields, while others went all the way and practiced human sacrifice: one male and one female. Dean tapped the sketch. "Kind of looks like a scarecrow, huh?"

I shared a knowing look with him. "A little bit," I said. More than that, it was a near-exact depiction of the one in the orchard.

"This particular Vanir's energy sprung from the sacred tree?" Dean read the sentence in question.

"Well, Pagans believed all sorts of things were infused with magic," Professor Hill explained.

"So what would happen if the sacred tree was torched? You think it'd kill the god?"

The professor removed his glasses, ensuring we could fully see how crazy he thought we were. "These are just legends we're discussing."

"Of course," I interjected, laughing it off. "We just wanted to get the full picture."

"Sure," he said, still skeptical. Perhaps more than before. It was our sign to leave, and we took it. We had to return to that orchard before they found more victims, anyway.

"Thank you," Dean said, shaking the professor's hand.

"Glad I could help."

Not a second after Dean opened the door, he was sent to the ground by the butt of a shotgun hitting him square in the forehead. A half step was all I could take before a set of hands gripped my arms. Although the professor appeared frail, he was strong. I stomped his foot and rammed the back of my head into his nose. His head flew back with an audible snap, and he released his grip. A click came from the doorway, and I froze. The sheriff had his gun trained on me. "Don't do anything stupid," he sneered, stepping over Dean as he shuffled close enough to cuff me. "Where's your phone?"

"I don't have one," I lied crossly.

Sheriff Morton chuckled darkly and shoved his hands into my jacket pockets, plastering them closer to my body than necessary. When he began to slither into my jeans pockets, I jerked away, but that didn't stop him. Eventually, he retrieved my phone and kept it so I couldn't, and I quote, "make any more dumb moves."

Handcuffed and brought out the back exit of the college, waiting for us were Scotty and Harley from the general store. Morton stuffed me into the police car, and they loaded a still-unconscious Dean beside me. Just above his brow was changing into a light shade of purple. His chest still rose and fell, albeit sluggishly. On the longest car ride ever, I attempted to devise a plan. I'd slip the cuffs. He didn't put them on very tight. It'd hurt, but that didn't matter right now. Whenever I managed to get free, I could use the chain of the handcuffs to my advantage. The issue was there were three of them and one of me. It's safe to assume they all carried. I wouldn't make it far. And there was no way I could drag Dean along with me.

A brief passage in the book stating that the Vanir wouldn't accept sacrifices during the day came to mind. Chances are, they'd have to keep us somewhere until then. Once Dean woke up, we could put our heads together and figure a way out. I just had to keep my wits about me and make sure neither of us got hurt. Any injuries would make escape nearly impossible.

The town was now shrouded in a dusky fog. Rain flooded driveways and parking lots. Nearly every single tree and shrub was wilting—their leaves turning brown. The vehicle rolled to a stop in front of the orchard, and Sheriff Morton got out to meet up with Harley and Scotty. "Dean," I whispered, shoving my shoulder into his repeatedly until he began to stir. Pupils swallowed his irises, nearly turning them completely black.

In a groggy state, he jerked his cuffed arms. "Wh–" he panted, realization dawning on him. "Are we at the orchard?"

I nodded. "What do we do?"

"They got guns?"

"Of course they do. We're in Indiana."

Before we could formulate a plan, Sheriff Morton returned to the car with Harley, Scotty, and now, Harley's wife, Stacy, too. She appeared indifferent to what was happening, clearly having resigned herself to a life of murder a long time ago. Harley, who had a shotgun pointed at us, looked troubled. Instead, Morton and Scotty roughly escorted us out of the car—the latter of which seemed to enjoy pushing Dean around.

About a mile into the orchard, we reached an in-ground cellar. The Sheriff brought me down the slippery wooden steps and uncuffed me, then Dean. Now free of his restraints, Scotty shoved Dean down the stairs. He barely stumbled and righted himself.

"You should be happy," Stacy said. "This is an honor."

"An honor?" I scoffed, "You're nuts."

She straightened her back haughtily. "It's for the common good."

"Wow, yeah. Great people," Dean mumbled in disgust. Looking at them with as much disdain as I had been gave them too much respect, so I turned away. People like this are the first to preach about rules and consideration, yet they have no moral compass. It didn't matter if this tradition was kept for years; somewhere along the line, someone could've stopped it. But no one made that choice. They were too selfish. A year of easy living was worth more than a life or two.

Squeaky hinges signaled the closing of the cellar door, and we were sitting ducks sealed inside. "We are so screwed," I complained, sitting on a turned-over metal bucket.

"No, we're not. We're gonna get out," Dean insisted, trekking up the stairs until he reached the door. He pulled and pushed, but nothing happened. "What about our phones?" he asked suddenly, patting his pockets.

"Sheriff took them. Handsy about it, too."

Dean spoke through gritted teeth, "He was, what?"

"Just relax, okay?"

"Relax? You can't tell me he did that to you and expect me to relax!"

"It wasn't like that, okay? We're about to be sacrificed to a scarecrow; can we not do this?" I asked. "Please?"

"Alright, listen," Dean came over, crouching before me and taking one of my hands, "when they come back for us, take us out there… maybe we can make a run for it."

"Maybe. Unless we get shot."

Dean sucked his teeth and dropped my hand. "Thanks for the positivity, Cherry Pie."

Minutes felt like hours. I couldn't be sure how long it was before the group returned and led us to two trees closest to the scarecrow. Our plan of running for it wouldn't have worked as their guns prevented us from making sudden movements toward escape. They instructed us to sit at the base of the trees, tethered rope around our wrists, and wrapped through the branches, anchoring us to the trunks. Damp soil penetrated my jeans, sticking uncomfortably to my skin.

"How many people have you killed, sheriff?" Dean contested. I'm surprised he'd kept his mouth shut for this long. "How much blood is on your hands?"

"We don't kill them," he argued fruitlessly. That was singlehandedly the dumbest thing I ever heard.

"No, but you sure cover-up after. I mean, how many cars have you hidden, clothes have you buried?"

"Try to understand," Stacy began, "it's our responsibility. And there's just no other choice."

"There's another choice," I spat. "You just don't do it!"

"And let everything die? Sweetheart," she cooed, brushing my hair behind my ear. "I don't like this any more than you do. I love people. But that's what sacrifice means—giving up something you love for the greater good. The town needs to be safe. The good of the many outweighs the good of the one."

Gathering their supplies, they ventured off, virtually guilt-free at leaving us to die what I could only anticipate would be horrible deaths. "I hope your apple pie is fuckin' worth it!" Dean shouted after them, fighting against the ropes to no avail. He huffed and allowed his arms to hang.

"So, about that run-for-it plan?" I prompted.

"Workin' on it. Still nowhere else you rather be?"

"Eh, if I have to be God-Chow with someone, I'm glad it's you."

Dean chuckled lightly. "Yeah, me too."

Time drifted, the sun had set, and dusk rolled in. Loud bugs chirped in the distance while more quiet ones buzzed around the trees. I'd hold my breath every so often, waiting to hear footsteps approach. The rope was digging into my flesh. My legs went numb. No comfortable position was available. I suppose sacrificial lambs aren't supposed to be cozy. Judging by the absolute silence, neither of us was any closer to figuring a way out of this mess.

"You know, if I had the balls to stick up to Dad, you wouldn't have gotten hurt like you did." Dean's words came seemingly from nowhere and hit me like a bus at full speed. He barely got the end of his sentence out before I flushed with anger.

"Dean, that was not your fault," I said steadfastly. Some days, the raised, light pink scars slashed across the top of my arm were sore to the touch. Rarely anymore did I think of that freezing night in the middle of densely wooded Oregon. That was behind us now—a long-distant memory packed away in our traumatic experiences suitcase. Or so I thought. "Whether John knew about us or not, he still would've sent us into those woods."

"Maybe," he said, unconvinced.

"I never knew you blamed yourself for that."

"Only sometimes."

"Well, I don't blame you," I insisted. I wished he could see me better—look into my eyes so he knew how much I meant it. "I mean, hell, I don't even blame John at this point. Nobody knew what was gonna happen."

Instead of agreeing with me, saying, "Neither do I," as I expected, Dean clammed up. A fire brewed beneath his silence, one I hadn't felt since the night in question. Before I could ask if he blamed his father, those dreaded footsteps I'd been waiting for crunched the leaves behind us. Whichever way Harley tied my ropes, they wouldn't budge. I even slumped further into the dirt, allowing all my body weight to hang, and still, nothing.

"Guys?" a familiar tone called. Could the Vanir mimic voices? The closer it got, the faster my pulse pounded. I could barely hear anything else. In the shadows was a tall figure looming closer. However, something was off. There were two. Despite being apart and barely able to see each other, I felt Dean's gaze switch to me. Our confusion wasn't long-lived because instead of that grotesque scarecrow coming into the light, it was Sam.

"Oh! I take everything back I said," Dean told his brother in happy relief. "I am so glad to see you!"

Sam paused on his way to untie him. "What did you say about me?"

"Uh…" he trailed off and deflected, "never mind, come on," nodding to his wrists. "How did you get out here?"

"I– I stole a car."

Dean barked out a proud laugh, "That's my boy!"

To my surprise, the other shadow, who had been moving much slower, was Emily. While I previously considered her out of it all, now I trusted no one. All I could think was that she brought Sam out here just to keep up appearances. "What are you doing here?" I questioned.

"I just want to help!" Emily declared, her wide, watery green eyes full of sincerity.

"She's good, really," Sam defended as Emily got to work undoing my ropes to ensure I knew she was here for the right reasons.

"My Aunt and Uncle have been gone all day," she explained, avoiding looking me in the eyes. "Now I know why."

"You really had no clue?" I asked.

"About the scarecrow god?" she balked. "I'm so sorry. If I knew, I would've–"

"It's okay," I reassured her before she got too upset. Getting out of here in one piece could only happen if we all kept our wits about us. Free of the restraints, I massaged the red, burning rings around my wrists. "Somebody needs to keep an eye on that scarecrow," I said, using the trunk for support as I stood.

"Yeah, he could come alive any minute," Dean added.

"I didn't see a scarecrow," Sam said.

"It's right over there—" Emily pointed. "Wait, where did it go?"

While it shouldn't be a surprise to turn and find the log cross Vanir had been perched atop vacant, my blood turned cold. "Shit," Dean cursed and took my hand as we attempted to find our way out of this mirror maze of trees. It was difficult during the day but nearly impossible at night. Thankfully, Emily was able to discern her way through most of it with ease.

"Did you guys find out how to kill it?" Sam asked as we sprinted for the road.

"Yeah. Sort of," Dean replied. "It's a Vanir. Each one is connected to some kind of sacred tree. It's the source of its power. I'm thinking you burn it, you kill the god."

"How the hell are we gonna find it?"

"We'll do it in the morning. Let's just shag ass before Leather Face catches up." The sudden arrival of flashlights illuminated pitch-black woods. All the townspeople we encountered during our visit surrounded us with firearms, blocking our way out. Like always, Dean angled himself in front of me.

"Uncle Harley," Emily cried, "Aunt Stacy, what are you doing?!"

"What we have to!" Stacy demanded.

"You have to stop this!"

His niece's cries brought a jolt of sadness to Harley's blue eyes. "We can't do that," he told her, then addressed us. "It'll be over quickly, I promise."

"Please, just let them go!"

"No! Emily, you don't understand. You have to let this happen. You have to—" Harley's voice was abruptly cut off by a pain-filled gag as the tip of a sickle pierced straight through his chest from behind. In his last few moments, Harley's eyes landed on his niece, and he fell to the dirt. Sam's shirt muffled Emily's screams as she buried her face in his chest. Beams from the flashlights darted as Scotty and the Sheriff fled the woods. The Vanir clawed an arm around a shell-shocked Stacy, plunged the sickle into Harley's leg, and dragged them both into the darkness.

Returning to the motel was pointless, with only a matter of hours before sunrise. After all she'd been through, we couldn't leave Emily, so we spent the rest of the night in the Impala. She sat beside me in the back, arms wrapped around herself, silently sobbing, mourning the family she thought she knew—angry at who they truly were. One of the first things she asked when she caught her breath was how she could help put an end to all this once and for all.

Crystal-clear blue skies looked down upon us as we ventured back into the orchard, searching for a large apple tree brought over by the Scandinavian immigrants called The First Tree. It was one of the more popular destinations in the orchard, Emily explained. People liked to see it and take photos of it. It was part of history, but that history was dark and covered in blood—so it had to be set ablaze. Sam doused it with a freshly filled gasoline canister while Dean found a long enough branch to light. Emily broke away from me to take it from him. "Let me."

"The whole town's gonna die," Dean warned.

"Good," Emily said. She stared at the tree, the markings and carvings too overgrown to make out, before tossing the branch at the roots. It ignited, burning up in high, lapping flames.

An hour and a half later, we arrived at a bus stop. Emily took her fully packed suitcase that held everything she owned and boarded the running vehicle. She gave us a small smile and waved through the windshield. "Think she's gonna be alright?" Sam asked.

"She's strong. She'll be okay," I said. This girl had been through a lot in her life. There was conviction in her that not many people possessed.

"And the rest of the townspeople. They'll just get away with it?"

"Well, what'll happen to the town will have to be punishment enough," Dean said, beginning to head back to the Impala. "So, can we drop you off somewhere?"

"No, I think you're stuck with me."

Ultimately, I just wanted him to be happy—whatever that meant. If it was with us, that was an added bonus. "We are?" I asked.

"For now," he joked.

"What made you change your mind?" Dean asked, trying and failing to hide his joy.

"I didn't. I still wanna find Dad. And you're still a pain in the ass," Sam took a playful shot that Dean flashed his eyebrows in agreement with. "But, Jess and Mom," he continued somberly, "they're both gone. Dad is god knows where. And us? We're all that's left. So, if we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together."

"Hold me, Sam," Dean forced out a faux-emotional voice, grabbing his brother's shoulder, "that was beautiful."

He laughed and quickly batted Dean's hand away. "You're a moron."

After days of tension, things finally seemed back to normal. Well, whatever normal was for us, anyway. "You know, whoever you stole that car from, they're screwed now," I teased him.

"The nerve to throw that in my face," Sam feigned offense. "You two should be kissing my ass! You guys were dead meat!"

"Yeah, right. I had a plan," Dean waved him off. "We'd have gotten out."

"Right." I scoffed. "What was it?"

"Well, there's no point in telling you now, is there?" he deflected with all the confidence in the world.

"I don't know. Never know when we might be up against another god."

Dean chuckled dryly. "Hopefully, it'll be a while."

Thanks for reading!

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