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}

15. Route 666 (Updated)

I can't fight this feeling any longer
And yet, I'm still afraid to let it flow
What started out as friendship has grown stronger
I only wish I had the strength to let it show

I tell myself that I can't hold out forever
I say there is no reason for my fear
'Cause I feel so secure when we're together
You give my life direction
You make everything so clear

And even as I wander, I'm keeping you in sight
You're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night
And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might
…

My life has been such a whirlwind since I saw you
I've been running 'round in circles in my mind
And it always seems that I'm following you, girl
'Cause you take me to the places that alone I'd never find
…

And I can't fight this feeling anymore
I've forgotten what I started fighting for
It's time to bring this ship into the shore
And throw away the oars forever

'Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore
I've forgotten what I started fighting for
And if I have to crawl upon the floor
Come crashing through your door
Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore

REO Speedwagon — Can't Fight This Feeling

---

Days of scouring the internet, rooting local papers, and watching deathly boring news stations gave us zero leads on potential cases. Somehow, along the way, we found ourselves stationed in Bismark, Kentucky—a tiny town that barely made a blip on the map—with nothing to show. Considering all the monsters out there, you'd think finding a job would be easier than this, especially in the boonies. This morning, we decided that if we continued to be unsuccessful in finding anything, we'd head back west. We were still empty-handed by mid-afternoon, and it was time to move on. While Sam looked for the best route, I topped off the Impala's tank, and Dean headed inside the gas station convenience store for snacks because he couldn't drive on an empty stomach despite having just eaten lunch.

"I think I found a way to bypass that construction just east of here," Sam announced. I peered into the open window, looking at the section of map he pointed to, just beneath the main highway.

"Whatever gets us the hell out of Kentucky," I commented, eliciting a chuckle from Sam. The gas station door's chime rang, and Dean exited, wearing a shockingly troubled look. He tried to wash it away, but the crease between his brows remained.

"Got this for you," he said, fishing a candy bar from his plastic shopping bag and handing it to me.

I looked down at the brightly-colored packaging with playful skepticism. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Can't I do something nice?"

"No," I deadpanned, tearing open the package and fiddling with the extra piece of plastic. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He rested a hand atop the Impala's hood. I nibbled on the chocolate, deciding to let his weird behavior go until we were alone and I could pry a bit deeper. Dean tossed the shopping bag into the backseat and took the pump from the Impala, placing it back on the cradle. I was about to get into the car when he announced, "I, uh, think I found a job."

"You did?" I mumbled mid-chew. "How?"

"Well." Dean cleared his throat and scratched his eyebrow absentmindedly. "I got a call in there," he nodded back to the store. "And what she said, I think it might be our kind of thing."

"Who was it?"

"It's, uh–" Dean glanced to the ground, "...Cassie." I flipped through the rolodex in my mind of the few hunters we'd crossed paths with over the years, and people we knew back in school, and none of them came up as Cassie. Only one person with that name floated to the forefront, but there's no way it's her.

"Cassie, who?"

Dean licked his bottom lip and propped his hands on his hips. "Robinson," he coughed.

An invisible fist gripped my throat. "Why do you have her number?"

"I don't," he defended. "I guess she kept mine."

I scoffed and ran a hand through my hair. "And you want to go?"

"It's not that I want to. But as far as jobs go, this is all we got."

"Well, I'm sure we could find something else."

"Tor, you know she never would've called—never—if she didn't need help."

"I don't know why she even thinks she needs us." The reason why the two of them parted ways on such bad terms rested solely on her skepticism.

"Wait, who's Cassie Robinson?" Sam interjected. I'd all but forgotten he was here.

Dean rolled his eyes at the question. "An old," he struggled to find the word and settled on "Friend."

"And by that, you mean… ?"

"A friend that's not new."

"Why don't I remember you talking about her?"

"Why would I?" Knowing his brother required some explanation before letting it go, Dean sighed, "We went out."

Sam's eyes widened to the size of golf balls. He was practically leaning out of the window at this point. I wondered how much farther he could go before he tumbled out. "You mean you dated someone before Tori? For more than one night?"

"Am I speaking a language you're not getting here? We were working a job in Athens, Ohio. Tori was seeing that jackass," he threw out a hand, "Liam–"

"Luke," I corrected.

"Oh, I remember him," Sam said, a spark of fond remembrance in his eyes.

Although it spanned two and a half years, my relationship with Luke was anything but steady. I'm surprised Sam had a memory of him at all. Luke and I saw each other only a handful of times, most of which was spent talking about his accomplishments. He was incredibly well put together and had a bright, well-paid future before him. A bit conceded, but in an innocent way; he never meant harm by it. Luke was a good guy. Technically, he had everything, yet nothing I wanted. While Dean's dislike of him was nothing new, it'd been some time since I experienced it.

Since the day it occurred, I hadn't given much thought to how I left Luke, but now that he was brought up, I felt a twinge of guilt. Having names slung his way didn't feel right. "Don't call him a jackass, okay?" I said.

"Whatever," Dean grumbled dismissively, "the dude draws houses for a living."

My mouth popped open in disbelief at his description. "He's an architect."

"Yeah, same thing," he shrugged it off. "Anyway, Cassie was finishing up college, and we went out for a couple weeks," he explained to Sam in a blasé manner. "No big deal."

Shock embedded itself in Sam's face. "And?"

"And, what?" I gestured between his brother and me. "What do you think?" I asked. Sam held his hands in surrender and sank back into the car, so I redirected my frustration to Dean. "So, all this time goes by, and she's calling you now? What made her finally believe the truth is out there?"

"Her dad was killed last night," he knowingly appealed to my softer side. I didn't know Cassie beyond what Dean said of her, but if there was one thing I could sympathize with, it was losing your parent.

"How?" I conceded, and he knew it.

"I'll tell you on the way."

God, I can't believe I'm saying yes to this.

---

Half a mile down the road, I had discarded the candy bar in one of my duffle bags. My stomach was in knots, and I couldn't eat another bite. With each mile marker we passed, fighting the urge to take the wheel and careen as far west as possible, preferably until we landed in the Pacific Ocean, became more and more difficult. But I couldn't do that; my conscience wouldn't allow me. What kind of person would I be if more people got hurt because I stood back due to my own discomfort?

"It's terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident," Sam said after Dean explained Cassie's father was run off the road on his way home the previous night. "I'm not seeing how it fits with what we do."

"It does, Sam, believe me," Dean insisted.

"By the way, how does she know what we do?" he asked. Dean quieted down, so much so I wasn't sure he was breathing anymore. A look of realization hit Sam like a slap across the face, followed by anger. "Did he tell her?" he questioned me. When I refused to answer, he snapped his eyes to his brother. "You told her the secret!? Our big family rule number one: we do what we do and shut up about it! For a year and a half, I do nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in Ohio for a couple weeks, and you tell her everything?!"

"Yeah," Dean replied sharply. "Looks like."

"You know, if I remember correctly, you didn't tell Jessica because you didn't want her to know," I said. Perhaps my shortness on the subject stemmed from my splayed nerves. Talking about Sam's girlfriend wasn't something I usually did—it felt like a cheap shot, even if it wasn't bad—but scolding his brother for doing something he voluntarily refused to do was an unfitting punishment for the crime.

"You're defending this?" Sam gestured to Dean, mouth agape. "We're not supposed to tell anybody!"

"It's over with, Sam," I snapped, unable to stop my voice's blunt edge. "Would you just let it go?"

After a few dramatically loud, deep breaths from Sam to drive home that he was displeased, we finally settled into our usual silence in which the only sound was the radio. I tried to get lost in the soft piano notes dripping through the speakers, but its melody acted like a shovel, digging up memories I'd long suppressed.

---

Athens, Ohio
Early 2004

"I tell myself that I can't hold out forever. I say there is no reason for my fear. 'Cause I feel so secure when we're together. You give my life direction; you make everything so clear…" echoed from the radio on the coffee table, fighting with the television's volume. I'm surprised John hadn't told Dean to lower whatever he was watching out of sheer grumpiness. With another peak into the adjacent room, my third in the past five minutes, the scene was still the same. John sat at the table, knee bouncing along two beats too fast to the music. Dean lounged on the couch, remote in one hand and the other resting atop the back of the sofa, absentmindedly tapping the leather in time to the tune.

Perhaps my timing was off when I announced I'd be going out tonight, but it was happening. I knew John wanted to focus on our original reason for arriving in Athens, and Dean probably felt as though I was ditching him, but I really needed this. Better to give them fair warning than to sneak out in the middle of the night and get shot by John's drunken, trigger-happy finger. It's not like he cared about who Dean or I would be with when we went out. At least, he never had before. Lately, though, he was more sensitive to the topic. Since it was just the three of us, life had become even more frantic. We bounced around like never before. Occasionally, John disappeared to Stanford and came stumbling back days later without much explanation, but we knew what had happened. He saw Sam, probably enjoying his life as a non-hunter college student, and it crushed him.

Whenever John drank in excess, Dean always got this haunted look in his eye. I could only imagine the unwanted memories that resurfaced of his less-than-ideal childhood, having to care for his baby brother and his father. I tried to be there for him as much as possible. The time we spent alone, whether going on a beer run or grabbing a necessary hunting tool, were our fleeting moments of happy freedom. It was nice. Dean was somewhere I could rest, but not in all the ways I needed, which is why I was going out tonight.

The fewer connections, the better, John always said. He bashed it into all of our heads from day one. It lessened the risk of what we did getting out or anyone getting hurt—physically or mentally. He never considered heartbreak into his equations; his rules simply circumvented it. Getting too close to people outside our small, ever-shrinking circle was a no-go. If it happened, we swore not to talk about what we did—First rule of Fight Club and all that.

Despite an established relationship, I barely saw Luke unless we passed through or near Ohio. We had next to no contact beyond a few messages or calls here and there otherwise, so I shot him a text to let him know we were in the area and asked if he wanted to meet up. He replied within the hour, saying he'd love to. After my shower, I wore a tight-fitting, black v-neck tank top and an acid-washed denim skirt. My hair dried in soft waves, so I didn't do much to it other than tucking a few strands behind my ear. Lipgloss and mascara were all I applied as I bolted from the bathroom, snagging my jacket and hastily packed handbag—that rarely made an appearance—as I made a beeline for the door.

"All right, I'm gonna head out," I said, receiving a mumbled response from John—something along the lines of telling me to be careful. An entire six-pack of beer deep and starting on another, he probably wouldn't have noticed if I sprinted from the room in my underwear.

Having the complete opposite reaction, Dean suddenly discarded the movie he was enthralled with moments before and sat at full attention. "With who?"

I lingered by the door, hand on the brass knob. My thumb traced nicks in the metal. I figured it'd be obvious who. "Luke."

His lip curled. "Again?"

"Yeah, why?" I asked, fully anticipating he'd delve into all the reasons why not.

Surprisingly, Dean ignored my question and impatiently scooted to the edge of the cushion. "Where are you going?"

I huffed and folded my arms. "What's with the twenty questions?"

"That was only three!"

"A bar downtown—Charlie's. Anything else?"

"You have your taser? Pocket knife? Mace?"

"Yes. I'm not gonna be alone, anyway."

"You might as well be," he leaned back into the crackling leather, "that wuss wouldn't be able to protect you."There it was, I thought. Dean never gave it a rest when it came to Luke. Something was always wrong with him; his hair was too long, his arms were too lanky. "How the hell could he ever win a fistfight?" he asked once. "Why would he need to?" I responded.

To avoid a confrontation, I ignored the jab and simply stated, "I can protect myself."

"Yeah, you can, but you shouldn't have to protect him, too."

"Can I go now, Mom?" I snarked. Other than an eye roll, Dean didn't respond. Halfway out the door, I leaned back in and grinned, "Don't wait up."

---

Present:

Four ultra-quiet hours later, the Impala entered Cape Girardeau, Missouri, a bustling historical city southeast of the Mississippi River. There was no way of knowing what waited for us beyond the doors of their local news agency. I had to assume Cassie was serious about this, or else she wouldn't have bothered to contact Dean. Unless, of course, she had another reason for that. I shook the thought from my head. It's doubtful that's the case, and if it were, it wouldn't matter.

Inside, each cubicle was meticulously situated, spaced evenly from the next. Quite a few journalists lingered, gathering stacks of papers from printers or standing around chatting about their potential articles. Two older men in suits spoke to her. She looked the same—petite curves wrapped in a long denim skirt and blazer. Her dark hair framed her face in tight, shiny ringlets. Her deep eyes pinged to Dean and went wide. "You came," she said, taken aback. The fact she thought he might not show up for someone—even if that person hurt him—in their time of need proved just how little she really knew about him.

"Well, you sounded like you needed the help," Dean said, drawing a slight smile from her lips. "This is my brother, Sam. And you remember Tori."

She gave Sam a nod and smiled at me, but it didn't meet her eyes. "Yeah, of course I do."

"I'm sorry about your Dad," I said.

Her attitude shifted solemnly, almost like I reminded her why we were here. "Me too."

"You wanna tell us more about what happened?" Dean asked.

"Yes, but not here." Cassie looked over her shoulder as though someone was watching. "I'm about to leave. You can follow me home."

Dean glanced at me in question, and while I appreciated it, the decision wasn't mine anymore. We were in it now. Still, to satisfy his curiosity, I nodded. Of course, Cassie caught the interaction. I could practically see the questions floating behind her eyes as she gathered her paperwork and headed for the door.

---

Athens, Ohio
Early 2004

Outside, a silver Toyota waited for me in the parking lot, engine running and the windows rolled down. Luke's bright smile lit up the otherwise dark space. One quick kiss, and we were off. The whole way to the bar, Luke talked about his job. Silence became deafening around him; he always had to fill the empty space. His near-constant self-indulgence wasn't my favorite thing about him, but I could look past it because it gave me an out. Listening to him sure as hell beat dodging questions and making up lies.

It wasn't until we reached our destination, got our drinks, and secured a table that Luke finally asked what had been going on in my life. There wasn't much to say. Well, that was a lie. I had plenty to talk about, none of which he could be privy to. It's not like I could tell him the truth about that bitch of a poltergeist we just got rid of for an air traffic controller in Kittanning. I didn't want to. A, he shouldn't know what's out there. And B, he wouldn't believe me, anyway. Instead, I bullshitted my way through. He thought I worked for John—who he knew as my step-father—as a secretary for his construction company. Whenever he asked about the other men in my life, my response went as follows: John is fine. Dean is doing great. But then, I stopped. Normally, I'd pretend that we were still in contact with Sam and add that he was doing okay, maybe boast about a good grade he'd recently obtained, but this time I clammed up.

"Are you all right?" Luke asked, noting the shift in my demeanor. "Everything okay with Sam?"

Two options lay before me. I could be upfront for once and tell him the truth: that Sam doesn't speak to us, and we'll most likely never hear from him again. Or I could paint the picture in bright neon colors, nowhere near close to the gloomy ink of reality. I chose the latter. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sam is doing great," I said. I wish I knew for sure whether or not that was correct. Something in my gut told me it was, so that's what I made myself believe.

He smiled. "Good for him. I bet all of you guys are really proud."

"We are." I drew absentminded patterns in the condensation accumulating on my bottle. Of course, I was proud of him. Underneath his hurt, I knew Dean was, too. John, on the other hand, was a different story. Since Sam left, he'd been far more distant. Any read I'd been able to get on him prior was torn away the moment his youngest slammed that door.

"Is he gonna visit anytime soon?" The question was innocent enough, but it choked me.

"Maybe," I played off my emotions. "He's swamped. It's a lot to keep up with." Mostly, I was talking about my never-ending stream of deception. Although maintaining it wasn't easy, I managed. You get good at lying when it's all you ever do.

"I can imagine," Luke agreed. I feared I had spoken that last part aloud, but when he casually took another drink, I realized my mistake. Perhaps I wasn't as confident in these fibs as I thought. The longest bout of silence tonight fell over us. The toe of my boot hit the floor in time with the music, enjoying the short stint of quiet before he started speaking again. "So, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Have you thought more about going to school?" he clarified. The last time we spoke, Luke asked me the same question—going on about how much I could accomplish with a degree and the future I could have.

"Oh, yeah. You know, it's really not my thing," I brushed it off, taking a swig of my beer to stave off a need for further excuses. I suppose I couldn't be too upset. Whatever I told him was vague, at best. It's not like he fully understood the importance of what we did or why I couldn't simply leave.

The tips of Luke's ears flushed red. "I wasn't trying to be rude," he quickly apologized.

"No, I know, I just—" My jaw dropped as Dean came into view deep within the crowd. "Oh, my god."

When Luke followed my gaze, the tall, broad frame he'd undoubtedly recognize dipped into the shadows. "What is it?"

"Nothing. You want another?" I pointed to his empty bottle.

"Oh, uh–" I snatched his drink before Luke could finish and stood.

Halfway to the bar, our eyes caught, and Dean's widened. I could only imagine his expression came from my annoyed gait—like a predator stalking its prey. Once close enough, I heavily placed the bottle on the bar's wooden top, where it landed with a clank. "What are you doing here?" I snapped.

"I wanted a drink." Dean shrugged innocently and motioned for the bartender to come over.

"There are about five other bars on this street alone. Why this one?"

"I've heard good things about it," he said nonchalantly. The brunette bartender took his order as well as mine for Luke. I mumbled it so fast I didn't have much faith in it being correct.

"Did John tell you to spy on me or something?" I questioned, crossing my arms tightly.

Dean's jaw offset. "No, Tor. What was I supposed to do, stay holed up in the motel all night? I deserve to have some fun, too, you know."

I scoffed. "You have plenty of fun."

"Well," Dean smirked pridefully, "I can't argue with you there."

"Then I think it's only fair that I get my turn," I lowered my voice as the bartender placed two auburn-tinted bottles before us, "don't you?"

When he realized I wasn't about to buy into his ego-stroking, Dean sobered up. "Look, I'm not here to interrupt you and Lewis, okay?"

"Luke," I corrected.

Dean's eyebrow cocked in amusement. "That's what I said."

Now wasn't the time or place for this back and forth. If I waited any longer, Luke would probably come in search of me, only to find Dean, which would open a whole new can of worms. Luke never did quite get it when someone wasn't a fan, and since Dean was probably his biggest non-fan, their interactions were taxing. It's not like I could make Dean leave; my only option was to ignore his presence, but not without consolation. "That one," I pointed to his beer, "Better be for me."

He grinned wryly. "Sure."

I gave him a sweet smile, said, "Thank you," and took the drinks. Halfway to the table, my skin prickled—the kind of sensation you only get when a set of eyes are pouring over your body. I searched for the culprit, catching Dean just as he ducked out of view; with him went that static feeling I suddenly felt so deprived of.

---

Present:

The Robinson's home was down a long stretch of unoccupied land. The interior was decorated in shades of red and brown fabric and paint—all intricately detailed down to the last molecule. The place looked straight out of a catalog. Somehow, it managed to retain warmth. Imagining a family of three living within its walls came easy. Cassie instructed us to choose our seats and make ourselves at home before heading to the kitchen, mentioning something about making tea for us on her way out.

"Tea?" Dean grimaced.

"Oh God," Sam groaned, "What's wrong with tea, Dean?"

"It's leaf water," he stated, nose scrunched, as though it should be obvious to us how gross it was without an explanation. Of all the things he could be uncomfortable with in this situation, it was the damn tea. I didn't know whether or not to be relieved.

After some time, Cassie returned with a kettle and tray of tiny ceramic cups decorated with painted flowers. They perched upon equally dainty saucers. Dean's gonna love these, I thought. It seemed a little fancy just for us. Perhaps she was trying to make a good impression, or maybe she was always this pretentious.

"My mother is in pretty bad shape, so I've been staying with her," Cassie explained, preparing four cups and passing them out. "I wish she wouldn't go off by herself. She's been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about Dad."

The warmth of the tea was enough to calm my frayed nerves, and I hung onto the porcelain for dear life. Staring at the cup with a curled lip of disgust or confusion—a toss-up, I couldn't quite tell which was more prevalent—Dean eventually placed it on the end table without taking a whiff of the rising steam. "Why?" he asked.

"Dad was scared. He was seeing things."

"Like what?"

"He swore he saw an awful-looking black truck following him."

"Who was the driver?" Sam asked, taking the cup she offered with a quiet thank you.

"He didn't talk about a driver." Cassie sat across from us, melting into the chair. It looked as though this was the first time she relaxed in a while. "Just the truck. He said it would appear and disappear, and, in the accident, Dad's car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big."

"You're sure this dent wasn't there before?"

"He sold cars and always drove a new one. There wasn't a scratch on that thing. It had rained hard that night, and there was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from dad's car… leading right to the edge, where he went over." Cassie paused, collecting herself when she started getting choked up. When she spoke again, her voice returned to its steady tone. "One set of tracks—his."

"And the first person this happened to, he was a friend of your Dad's?" I asked, referring to the similar situation she informed us about that occurred earlier this month.

"Yes, his best friend, Clayton Soames. They owned the car dealership together. It was the same thing—a dent, no tracks. And the cops said exactly what they said about Dad. He lost control of his car."

"I hate to ask, but is there any reason your father and his partner might be targets?"

"No. Not at all," she said adamantly, almost offended at the idea. I certainly meant no harm by my suggestion. Anybody could wind up in a bad situation, no matter how good a person they were. No stone could be left unturned if anyone was supposed to get to the bottom of this.

"And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?" Sam asked, slightly incredulous. While I felt for Cassie, I had to admit I shared his suspicions this was nothing more than two coincidental car accidents. Perhaps my cynical side was bearing its teeth; what happened was tragic, but I didn't see what it had to do with us.

"When you say it like that... " Cassie trailed off and huffed, "Listen, I'm a little skeptical about this ghost stuff or whatever it is you guys are into–-"

Although I tended to play devil's advocate—going so far as attempting to make an excuse for Cassie years ago when Dean told me how she reacted to his revelation—her tone rubbed me the wrong way. If she still didn't believe, I had no clue why the hell we were sitting in her home. This wasn't my battle, but it was about to be.

"Skeptical," Dean scoffed before I could say a word. "If I remember, I think you said I was nuts."

"That was then," she replied, locking eyes with him.

In the heat of the moment, their silent tug-of-war was every deep-rooted fear I didn't even know I had about being here come to life. Cassie wouldn't let go, and Dean refused to back down—both seemed oblivious to the nervous irritation building inside me. I harshly cleared my throat when the contact had gone a few beats too long. It stung but got them to release their gaze. Dean's eyes flickered to mine in apology, and Cassie faded to the ground.

"All I know is, I can't explain what happened up there," she said. "You guys were the first people I thought to call when things started getting hard for me to rationalize." Breaking through the thick air was the front door popping open, sending a streak of daylight shining into the foyer. We stood as a frazzled middle-aged woman with disarrayed clothing stumbled in from the rain. Cassie met the brunette in the doorway and took her hand. "Mom, where have you been? I was so worried."

"I had no idea you'd invited friends over," Mrs. Robinson muttered, ignoring her daughter's question. Cassie smoothly moved past the ignored inquiry to introduce us.

"Mom, this is Dean. He's a—" She struggled to find the correct title. "Friend of mine from college, his brother Sam, and his um..." she trailed off, unsure, "Tori."

"Well, I won't interrupt you," Cassie's mother muttered, not catching Cassie's stunted speech.

"Mrs. Robinson, we're sorry for your loss," Dean gave our condolences. "We'd like to talk to you for a minute if you don't mind?"

A sheen of sweat coated her brow. "I'm really not up for that right now," she said, breaking free of her daughter's grasp and fleeing the room.

---

After a quick bite to eat, we found a nearby motel to stay for the night. These places were never five-star establishments, but this one was particularly gloomy with its dark wood panel walls, rough tweed carpet, and deep blue paisley bedspreads. While we lugged our belongings into the room, all I could think about was how, on the drive from Kentucky, I assumed the anticipation of seeing Cassie again was the worst part and that when it happened, all those jittery feelings would leave. Boy, was I wrong—now, I almost feel worse. All I could think about was Dean and Cassie's staredown. He could deny it up, down, left, and right, but being here opened an old wound. I desperately wanted to know how deep that cut still was but didn't quite know how to go about asking.

In the shower, under the stream of biting drops of water, I went over everything I could say, but nothing came short of sounding like a jealous lunatic. Eventually, I convinced myself I had overreacted. Dean was bound to feel burned over what had happened between him and Cassie, and he had every right to. No matter how it made me feel, I couldn't tap out, stay at the motel, bury my head in the ground, and pretend none of this was happening. My promise that I'd be there for him no matter what didn't only count when I was comfortable. It was an all the time kind of deal. If the roles were reversed, he wouldn't leave me.

By the time I exited the bathroom, Sam was already asleep, and most of the lights were off, save for the one by mine and Dean's bed. With my worries relatively suppressed, I assumed I hid them well enough, but apparently, I was wrong. Dean waited until I got into bed and shut off the light to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me against him. "What's wrong, Cherry Pie?" he asked, lips brushing against my shoulder.

I brushed it off, hoping he would, too. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?" he pressed. "Because–" Before he could continue, I kissed him. It seemed to stop any more questions from being thrown my way—at least for tonight.

---

Athens, Ohio,
Early 2004

Hours of telling myself not to look for Dean in the packed bar proved futile. Whenever Luke wasn't paying attention or was enthralled in recounting a recent venture in his job, I found my eyes drifting to all corners of the room. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I didn't realize I was doing it until it happened, and I'd succumbed to it by then. I was fed up with myself the fourth time it occurred and suggested we leave. On our way out, I finally spotted Dean off in the corner of the bar. He sat on the same side of a booth with a pretty brunette; her raven curls framed deep, delicate features, bouncing as she laughed at whatever he said.

"Is that Dean?" Luke asked, jostling me from my envy-induced coma. I pretended I hadn't noticed until he pointed it out.

"Oh, yeah. I mentioned the bar before, and I guess he wanted to come check it out."

"We should say hi!" He smiled, clueless of Dean's disapproval of him. "I haven't seen him in a while."

"No, no," I desperately clutched his arm, trying to keep him moving to the exit, "We don't have to."

Laughing off my desperation, Luke broke free and happily bounced toward their table. Admittedly, I could've done more to keep his momentum going in the direction of leaving. Maybe flash him or something. The bar was dark enough that no one else would've seen it. Instead, I stood there, shellshocked, darting from his retreating form to the door and back again. We were so close to that damn exit I could almost feel the breeze.

For a solid ten seconds, I debated how bad it would be if I abandoned Luke. No doubt Dean would find it strange if I weren't there, and I'd have to hear a million questions later. He wouldn't ditch that girl—whoever she was. This wasn't a competition, but if it were, he'd win, and I couldn't have that, so I hurried after Luke, making it to his side just in time. The brunette noticed us, tapping Dean's arm to alert him. As soon as he laid eyes on us, his lips spread into an amused line. Luke greeted them with an obliviously cheerful Hi!

"Hey," Dean replied with faux enthusiasm, flashing his eyebrows at me. "What are you doing here?"

Of course, he'd pretend I was the stalker. "I could ask you the same thing," I faked a bubbly voice.

"Just out for a drink. Got lucky enough to run into Cassie," he boasted, and she blushed. So, Cassie was her name. Fitting, I thought. She looked like a Cassie—whatever the hell that meant. "This is Tori and, uh- Leonard."

"It's… Luke," Luke corrected, eyebrows flickering down in confusion.

"Right," Dean replied carefreely, taking a drink. My eyes zeroed in on his arm slung around Cassie. I lingered all too long on the weight of his skin pressing into hers.

Through tight lips, Cassie muttered, "Nice to meet you." I responded the same, hoping my smile didn't devolve into a grimace. My sour attitude wasn't her problem, it was mine, and that pissed me off even more. If she were the reason, I'd have someone else to blame. Although I tried to fight it off, that pesky little green monster had clawed its way back to the surface.

Cutting through the awkwardness with the intensity of a butterknife was Luke, unaware of it at all. "I haven't seen you in forever, man," he told Dean, who nodded apathetically.

"Been a while," he said, fingers now curled around Cassie's arm, playing with the cap of her sleeve.

"How have you been?" Luke asked.

"Fine," Dean said tersely.

Luke cleared his throat, unsure what to do now that his question wasn't reciprocated. "Well, I've been great," he chuckled.

"Awesome."

"Glad to hear how well Sam is doing at school."

What little tolerance Dean had for Luke appeared to plummet. "Yeah. Real proud," he said, fingers tapping his beer bottle in exasperation. "You know, we were kind of in the middle of something here."

"Oh!" Luke playfully palmed the side of his head. "I'm sorry. We'll let you guys get on with it."

"It's okay." Cassie cleared her throat and reluctantly asked, "Do you want to join us, or—?"

"No," Dean and I replied in unison. The single word was full of disgruntlement for me, while Dean appeared appalled at the thought. He played off his outburst coolly, and I attempted to laugh it all away while our respective dates looked on in confusion. Luke was bewildered at the denial of socialization; Cassie's cocked eyebrow read as a sign of suspicion. It was hard to blame her for being confused by this circus that appeared out of nowhere.

"We were just leaving," I explained. Luke nodded in agreement, softly squeezing my hip. Perhaps I fabricated it, but I could've sworn Dean's eyes darted to Luke's hand seconds before his jaw tightened.

"Drive safe," Cassie said, looking happy to get rid of us.

"You too," I replied, accidentally catching Dean's gaze as I turned. In the half-second we locked eyes, my mind ran wild with unanswerable questions. What if all my suspicions were true, and he still felt for me what I always felt for him?

A brunette too drunk to stand, let alone sway to music in the middle of a bar, bumped into me. The moment my eyes left Dean's, I came to my senses and realized how delirious all this was. Letting myself get back behind the wheel of those feelings would no doubt end in another crash. Last time, I got out. This time, I wasn't sure I'd be so lucky. So, for everyone's benefit, I had to get out of the driver's seat ASAP.

For once, Luke picked up on a signal and didn't mention the uncomfortable encounter on the way to his new apartment.

Smack in the middle of the city, he lived on the fifth floor of a fairly tall, well-kept building. The interior was sleek, perfect down to the last detail: eggshell-painted walls and light cream-colored furniture. The kitchen cabinets were white, complimenting the countertop's gray marble. A light wooden flooring throughout was broken by pops of color from plants and flowers.

Pouring two glasses of wine, he suggested we sit on the couch and talk more, but I had other ideas. Instead of the relaxing escape it was meant to be, tonight was sufficiently irritating, and I had to get my frustrations out some way. It didn't take much coaxing on my part for us to drift into the bedroom. I awoke with a throbbing head to a Post-it note from Luke stuck to the nightstand telling me he had to leave for work and didn't want to wake me but that I could stay as long as I liked and help myself to whatever I wanted in the kitchen. He trusted me—probably more than he should. Usually, when we woke up together, I hung around for a few hours and then made up an excuse to leave, but this time, I contemplated staying at least until he got back.

Alone between the plush mattress below me and the soft comforter weighing me down, it was like I was sinking into a marshmallow. I climbed out of bed and slipped on my clothes from last night to tip-toe through the house. I barely felt comfortable enough to lay my feet flat on the floor, so taking things from his kitchen didn't sit right, even if he told me it was okay.

To kill time, I explored a little bit. Just across the hall was the guest bedroom, which doubled as Luke's office space. It was tidy—not one pencil out of place. He had even more greenery in there. I couldn't help but wonder what comments Dean would have about it all. Probably something along the lines of calling Luke a "Weird Plant-Loving Perfectionist."

Despite every single thing I could ever need being within arm's length, I felt thousands of miles away from comfort. I plucked a sticky note from the stack and jotted down some crap reason for having to leave. Something about John needing me—I forgot it by the time I stepped out of the apartment.

---

Present:

Our plans of sleeping in were dashed to hell when Cassie called at the crack of dawn to announce another crash. Just like the two before it, a car was found turned over on the side of the road, one huge dent cratering its left side. Weaving between fire trucks, cop cars, and ambulances, we finally reached Cassie, who spoke to a familiar man. I recognized him as one of the two at the news station yesterday. "How about closing this section of road for starters?" she demanded, short and biting. I'd sure hate to be on the receiving end of that.

"Close the main road," he scoffed. "The only road in and out of town? Accidents do happen, Cassie, and that's what they are: accidents."

"Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy's car, see if it was pushed?" Dean asked when we got close enough to be heard.

An unfriendly glare accompanied a flick of the man's hand toward us. "Who's this?"

"The Winchesters. Family friends," Cassie informed, and introduced the man, "This is Mayor Harold Todd." It didn't seem to matter anyhow. He continued his conversation with Cassie as though we weren't present.

"There's one set of tire tracks." Harold held up a finger. "One. Doesn't point to foul play."

"Mayor, the police and town officials take their cues from you. If you're indifferent about–"

He turned red, like a bloated balloon about to pop. "Indifferent!?"

"Would you close the road if the victims were white?" Cassie challenged, chin jutted out. She sure didn't mince words.

"You suggesting I'm racist, Cassie? I'm the last person you should talk to like that."

"And why is that?"

"Why don't you ask your mother?" he asked, turning on his heel to stalk away from us in an angry fashion similar to that of a pissed-off teenager.

---

According to Cassie, Jimmy Anderson—an editor for the local newspaper and the crash victim—was an avid fisherman, and most of his days off were spent at a local dock, where we'd find one of his closest friends. Asking victims' loved ones prying questions was never my favorite part of this job, but it was a necessary evil. Generally, they knew them better than anybody else. Mr. Anderson's best friend might know if something was going on in his life that his co-workers weren't privy to. A few months back, I suggested buying some suits after they seamlessly allowed us access to that airplane hangar. Of course, Dean hated the idea but eventually gave in. They proved to be useful for posing as insurance agents working Jimmy's case.

Puddles of lake water rested within dents and divots on the worn-down dock, deepening the already salt-scented air and making it cling to the back of my throat. Beneath our feet, the wood creaked and groaned with each step. At the end of the long boardwalk sat two older men baiting hooks and playing chess on a small table.

"Excuse me, are you Ron Stubbins?" Sam asked the one nearest us as we approached.

"Depends on who's asking," he grumbled.

"You were friends with Jimmy Anderson, weren't you?" I asked; he nodded.

"We're Mr. Anderson's insurance company," Dean explained to the doubtful man. "We're just here to dot I's and cross T's."

"We were just wondering," Sam began, "Had the deceased mentioned any unusual recent experiences?"

Ron shifted in his seat. "What do you mean, unusual?"

"Well, visions, hallucinations."

"It's part of a medical examination kind of thing," Dean reassured. "All very standard."

"What company did you say you were with?" Ron asked, eyes darting between the three of us.

"All National Mutual." Dean confidently flashed the badge he plucked from the glove compartment before breezily continuing, "Tell me, did he ever mention seeing a truck? A big black truck?"

"What the hell are you talking about? You even speaking English?" He all but flipped us off and returned to the chessboard. If he weren't busy right now, I have no doubt he'd get up and walk away. However, the man beside Ron perked up, suddenly taking an interest in our conversation.

"Son, this truck, a big scary monster-looking thing?" he asked.

"Yeah, actually," Dean replied, happy to be getting somewhere. "I think so."

"I have heard of a truck like that."

"Where?" I asked.

"Not where. When. Back in the sixties, there was a string of deaths. Black men. Story goes, they disappeared in a big, nasty, black truck."

Excited for the lead but rightfully frustrated with its disgustingly obvious origins, Dean forcefully asked, "Did they ever catch the guy who did it?"

"Never found him. Hell, I'm not sure they even really looked." His dark eyes grew tired, telling stories he'd probably never speak out loud. "See, there was a time when this town wasn't too friendly to all its citizens." Although I liked to think people have grown, the idea was naive. A lot of us did, but not enough. Far too many things remained unchanged in this world, and whatever was going on now was proof of that. Not wanting to keep them occupied any longer, we thanked the men and headed back down the pier for the Impala.

"That damn truck just keeps popping up, doesn't it?" I said.

"You know, I was thinking—you heard of the Flying Dutchman?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, a ghost ship controlled by the Captain's spirit; it became a part of him."

"What if we're dealing with the same thing? You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard's ghost, re-enacting past crimes."

"The victims have all been black men," Sam assessed.

"But I think it's more than that. They all seem connected to Cassie and her family."

"What would they have to do with something like this?" I asked.

"No clue. But if there's one thing I do know—there's no such thing as a coincidence."

"Well, we should go talk to her, then. Maybe she left something out."

"Don't you think she'll feel weird having you and me there?" Sam asked, a calculating eyebrow raised. "You should go," he told Dean.

Dean sucked his teeth. "I don't know."

"All right, wait," Sam came to a stop, "what's the deal with Cassie, anyway?"

"I told her the truth, and I shouldn't have. Things ended; that's it."

"Look at the bright side; if you didn't break up with her, then you and Tori–" he stopped when he registered the look on his brother's face. "Oh, wow. She dumped you."

"It's not funny, Sam," I scolded.

"No, no, it's not. I'm just shocked, I guess." Sam returned to Dean, astonished, "You got dumped."

"Why don't you say it again?" Dean asked through a forced, tight-lipped smile.

"Okay, look, whatever happened, you have history with her. She'll talk to you. It's our only angle. We gotta give it a shot."

Everything in me knew Sam was correct. Cassie wouldn't feel comfortable talking about the private details of her life with just anyone. It had to be somebody special, and that is precisely what bothered me the most. "What are you gonna do?" I asked Dean.

"I guess I gotta go talk to her," he said with an underlying tone of reluctance.

"Well, do you want me to go with you, at least? I mean, I'll wait in the car."

"No, I can handle it." It wasn't the answer I wanted to hear; I tried not to let that show. A voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like John said, "All that matters is the job," so I didn't say a word. I just stood there as he climbed into the car and drove away. My heart thumped so loud that I barely heard my thoughts.

"Come on," Sam tapped my arm, "We should head back to the motel, wait for Dean there—" His voice cut off when my hand connected to his bicep in a frustratedly feeble attempt at a slap. "What was that for?!" he cried, holding the spot I smacked.

"Why'd you tell him to talk to her alone?!"

"Because they have—"

"History," I spat through gritted teeth. "I know!"

"Wait." He looked as though everything clicked. "I thought you trusted Dean."

I didn't want to hesitate, but I couldn't immediately force the words from my throat. "I do," I croaked. I trusted him with my life, but this was… different. Cassie wasn't a random woman in a dive bar. She was someone he had a connection with, no matter how short-lived. Being around her clearly stirred up old emotions. I didn't think he would act on them, but could they affect us at all?

Sam's lips fell into a sympathetic line. "If you have doubts and you're uncomfortable, you should tell him."

I folded my arms. "I thought you wanted to become a lawyer, not a psychiatrist."

"Tori, you need to tell him," he repeated, ignoring my remark.

"Well, now I have to wait for him to get back," I sassed, holding onto this tiny little grudge with all my might.

---

Athens, Ohio,
Early 2004

Usually, Dean's nights out were brief, and he was back before noon, but when I arrived at the motel, he hadn't returned yet. John began complaining about his son's absence the moment I walked in. Eventually, he threw me into the mix as well, claiming he was working alone while we were running around town all night, despite being black-out drunk his own damn self. I gently pointed out that it was only one night, and we had time to kill, anyway. Before he got too heated over it, I loaded him up with ibuprofen and a cup of coffee. It seemed to stave off further annoyance for the time being.

When Dean finally returned a few hours later, his father only made a short comment and then let it go. "You so owe me," I told him after John stepped outside to make a call. "I took the brunt of that hangover."

"Hey, I already gave up my beer. What more do you want?" Dean joked. The things that came to mind, I couldn't say aloud, so I laughed off my flushed cheeks and busied myself with unknotting my bootlaces.

"Sorry about all that, by the way," I apologized.

"No, don't be," he said, focusing on a loose thread in his jeans. "I probably shouldn't have shown up, anyway."

That piqued my interest. "Why did you?" I asked, sitting upright. He looked so deeply into my eyes I thought I'd fall off my chair, getting drawn into him. Before any words could be spoken, the door opened, and John entered. Dean absentmindedly scratched the back of his head and got to sorting through the stack of manilla folders on the table. Research overwhelmed the rest of the day. I didn't have the opportunity to ask him what he was about to say. It was all I thought about, even hours later.

The next night, I was parked at the table surrounded by empty fast food wrappers and open books. I sipped the strawberry milkshake Dean surprised me with and flipped through endless pages in search of a solution to our problem. On my fifth time rereading the same paragraph, the words only got blurrier, so I sat back and shut my eyes to give them a break. When I pried them open again, Dean exited the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair to sort it into its usual position.

"Where are you going?" I wondered, noting the woodsy scent of his cologne.

Dean stopped at the door, flipping the Impala's keys between his fingers. "Out."

"I gathered," I chuckled, dragging a fingernail over the edge of the page, "where to?"

"I'm meeting up with Cassie."

My finger froze on the sharp corner. "You're seeing her again?"

"Yeah." He looked on suspiciously. "Why not?"

"No, I mean, it's fine," I claimed, despite the rock lodged in my chest. "I just— I can't remember the last time you actually dated someone."

"Whoa," Dean laughed, and his eyes filled with apprehension at the very mention of the word. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're stuck here," he shrugged, "it's no big deal."

"Are you sure about that?" The question flew out before I had the opportunity to stop it. My heart thumped in two quick beats; I almost clamped a hand across my mouth. It shouldn't matter to me whether or not this was a big deal to him. As long as he was happy, I should be, too, but it was like putting a square peg in a round hole.

Dean's left eyebrow twitched upward. "Yeah… I'm sure," he said. It was like he saw straight through me and into my stupid, jealous, jackhammer heart. Suddenly, his expression shifted, and his eyes widened. "You're bleeding!"

In the time it took me to register his words, he was already by my side, taking my hand and inspecting my finger, which did, in fact, have a small pin-prick of blood running down it. "Dean, it's just a paper cut. It's all right," I said, taking my hand back and sticking my finger in my mouth. I cringed at the rusted penny taste that coated my tongue and took a sip of my shake to get rid of it.

"You sure?"

"What are you gonna do, stitch it? Stay here and make sure I fully recover?" I joked, sounding a little too hopeful about that second part.

He cracked a playful smile. "If I gotta."

"The bleeding already stopped. I'm fine," I insisted. Dean briefly checked his watch, and our previous conversation came rushing back. I swallowed hard enough to rid myself of the block in my throat. "Got your knife? Brass knuckles?"

"Never leave without 'em," he chuckled.

"Have fun," I said, praying I didn't sound as dejected aloud as I did in my head.

"Oh, trust me, I will," he said and slipped outside, adding, "Don't stay up," with a wink as he left. The taste of my own medicine was almost as bitter as my blood. I finished off that stupid milkshake in record time. It did nothing but give me brain freeze and a stomachache.

Since we ended up being here longer than I anticipated, I went out with Luke several times. On our third date, the conversation grew stale, and reality came crashing down. There was a reason why keeping distance between us for so long was a really good idea. Seeing him on a more consistent basis, we easily ran out of things to talk about. Dean hung out with Cassie if we weren't waist-deep in research. When he returned, he wore a huge smile—one that sometimes looked forced, though that was probably just my imagination. Admitting just how much I envied her was difficult. It was okay for me to date Luke, but when Dean got involved with someone, I saw all shades of red. I was a hypocrite, and I hated myself for it. It wasn't fair, and that's why I kept my mouth shut, afraid of what I'd say if I didn't.

---

Present
DPOV:

The closer I got to Cassie's house, the more I regretted this decision. I wanted to help out here and stop more people from getting hurt. That's what I was supposed to do. It wasn't being around her that was the problem. It was talking to her alone. If she started to bring up what happened with us, well, I wasn't sure how to handle that. Is it even a conversation worth having? I didn't think so. Back then, when Cassie told me to leave, it was a blow below the belt. How could it not be? I took a leap, I told her the truth, and it blew up in my face. Her and I, we never stood a chance; we didn't click. I guess I always knew, but, at the time, I felt like I had to open up—like it would mash us closer faster. Like all those hours we spent arguing would be erased if I were honest.

It was like trying to force the wrong puzzle piece into place all because the right one was just out of reach—spending its time with an arrogant and peppy puzzle that thought it was much better than everyone else.

There were a few things from those days I'd go back and change if I could, but the main one was the sheer number of times I almost spilled my guts to Tori, only to choke and chicken out. It might have saved us a lot of trouble. Although it was hell to go through, ultimately, everything worked out for the best. But like an idiot, I left my best back at that dock. I shouldn't have turned down Tori's offer to tag along. I just didn't want her caught up in the drama that could potentially follow this meeting with Cassie.

I told myself I had to wait for the song on the radio to finish before I got out. It bought me an extra minute, which wasn't enough, but it'll have to do. With a heavy hand, I knocked on the door. It wasn't long before Cassie answered, her doe eyes wide. "Dean?"

"Hey," I replied, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets. She invited me in, moving aside so I could slip into the house. "So, you busy, or–?"

"The paper's doing a tribute to Jimmy," she said, brows furrowed in a deep sadness that could only come from losing so many loved ones so quickly. Cassie went over to her desk, littered with stacks of folders. "I was just going through his stuff—his awards. Trying to find the words."

I opted to remain in the foyer. "That's gotta be tough."

"For years, this family—the Dorians—owned the paper. They had a whites-only policy. After they sold it, Jimmy became the first black reporter. He didn't stop til he became editor. He taught me everything," she reminisced, seemingly only realizing now that I was alone. "Where's Sam? And Tori?"

"Oh, they stayed back," I played it off as she returned.

Cassie didn't try to hide her confusion and rested against the doorjam. "So, what brings you here then?"

"We're trying to find the connection between the three victims. Did you talk to your Mom about what Todd said about not being a racist?"

"I did. She didn't want to talk about it."

"Right," I sighed. Of course not. It's never that easy.

Silence fell over us until Cassie sucked in a sharp breath and spoke in a rush, "Listen, Dean, we need to talk."

The last thing I wanted was to get pulled back into this again. It happened once this trip—in front of Tori, to boot. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because."

She bristled. "I forgot you do that."

"Do what?"

"Whenever we get, what's the word… close? Anywhere in the neighborhood of emotional vulnerability, you back off," she said haughtily. "Or make some joke or find any way to shut the door on me."

I scoffed out a laugh. "That's not it."

"Oh, it's not? What is it then?" Her condescending tone got under my skin, and I couldn't stop myself from giving into the argument that I had every intention of avoiding.

"You know, I was totally up front with you back then, and you nailed me for it."

"The guy I'm with, the guy I'm hoping might be in my future, tells me he professionally pops ghosts–"

"That's not the words I used!" I interrupted. I mean, hell, I even started off with a stupid-ass question: 'Do you believe in ghosts?' All I could do next was rip off the band-aid.

Cassie continued as though she hadn't heard me. "And that he has to leave to go work," she threw up frustrated quotations, "with his family."

"I did!"

"All I could think was—if you want out, fine. But don't tell me this insane story."

"It was the truth, Cassie, and I noticed it didn't sound insane the minute you thought I could help you," I said bitterly.

She tightened her arms around herself. "Well, back then, I thought you just wanted to dump me."

"Whoa, now let's not forget who dumped who, okay?"

"I thought it was what you wanted; I didn't mean to hurt you. What you said, it scared the hell out of me. I thought you were nuts—dangerous even." Cassie paused. I could never tell what was going on in her head, and all this time apart hadn't changed that. "Actually, maybe I was looking for a reason to walk away. I'm sorry."

"Listen, Cassie, I appreciate it, but it's over, okay?" I said. Even though she threw barbs about how closed-off I was, I knew she was hurting over things more important than a failed relationship, and I felt the need to give her an explanation. "I'm with someone. That's why I didn't want to talk about all this."

"And that someone is here, right?" she asked, remaining her perceptive self. I nodded. "So, Tori is your–?"

"Girlfriend, yeah."

Cassie flashed her eyebrows. "You guys did always seem close," she commented, and my eyes narrowed. She knew the truth about Tori—no hard-core details; they weren't mine to divulge—but about how she came to live with us. It was one of the first things I ever told her.

"Don't try to make it like that," I rebuked. It even shocked me how fast another fight was about to erupt between us after the previous one cooled. Everything was a misunderstanding. We could never get on the same page.

"I'm not making it like anything," Cassie defended, sliding her hands into her back pockets. I assumed she came to the same conclusion about us because she softened her tone. "I take it didn't pan out with that guy she was seeing, huh?"

A genuine smile tugged at my lips, but I stopped it from spreading. "No, it didn't." Before anything else could be said, my phone buzzed, and I fished it out of my pocket, pressing accept in half a second when I saw her name. "Hey, Tor, what's up?"

"Dean," she started, voice caved in, "There's been another accident."

---

Present
TPOV:

As I sat in the motel room wishing for a distraction from my incessant thoughts, I certainly did not expect or want it to come in the form of another accident. Yet, here we were, hovering around the third crime scene Cape Girardeau has seen this week. This particular victim was unexpected; it was Harold Todd. He was found practically out in the middle of nowhere—at an empty site roped off, being prepped for construction he had bought a few weeks prior. The fact that he was white wasn't the only strange thing about it. He wasn't even in his car. The Mayor was found off on the side of the road with numerous injuries akin to someone "struck by a fast-moving vehicle." At least, that's what the first EMT on scene had reported. Everyone was stumped. To them, it made no sense. Hell, to me, it made no sense.

Not that the other deaths were logical, but at least there was a pattern to follow—a starting point to jump from. They all had something in common. This threw everything for a loop. No one was around. No one saw a thing. There weren't any tire tracks. Our only proof was a corpse with crushed bones and obliterated internal organs.

When the Impala rolled up, I almost expected Cassie to be riding shotgun, but she was nowhere to be found. Dean made a beeline for us past the cop cars and police tape. We informed him of what we knew, and he suggested we head to the news station to try and see if we could find a correlation between the last killings and now. Bringing that up, brought up his conversation with Cassie. He told us she had no answer to his question and that her mother wouldn't tell her anything. That should've been enough—nothing else happened—but I couldn't seem to calm my nerves.

Nearing the Impala, Sam hurried in front of me to slide into the backseat. Then, after driving in silence for a few minutes, he suddenly announced he wanted us to drop him off at the courthouse so he could get a hold of some specific records he had in mind. On an unusually quiet rest of the drive, I could practically see gears turning in Dean's head. He confronted me when he parked the car in front of the news station.

"Tor, what's going on?" he asked.

"Where just here for the job, right?" I asked, biting the bullet that shot at me at a hundred miles per hour. It seemed to be the question that would cover all bases. "No other reason?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "Of course, we're here for the job. What do you mean by that?"

There was no reason to dig through the trench that was my brain right now. Nothing good would come of it. I shook my head. "Nothing."

"No, we're not doing this again—pushing it under the rug. Something's going on; I wanna know what it is."

Although I promised myself I wouldn't say anything more, one look jostled my weak lock and opened the floodgates. "Everything that happened back then with you and Cassie… do you still—" I huffed and pushed my hair back in frustration. "You don't feel anything? At all?"

"For Cassie?" he asked; I confirmed with an unenthusiastic nod. Dean looked shocked at the idea. For once, he didn't tease me about being jealous; instead, he got straight to the bottom of the issue. "That's what's been bugging you?"

I played with my fingers. "A little bit, yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Just answer the question."

"No! It's over with her. Has been for a long time."

"It didn't sound like it," I not-so-subtly referenced his comment to Cassie yesterday about some of her last words to him.

"Yeah, well," he tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, "I got a little carried away."

Seeing his discomfort, I backtracked. "She hurt you. It's okay to be upset about it."

"I mean, she called me crazy to my face, but I'm not upset about it—not like that. I don't feel anything," Dean insisted vehemently. I believed him, of course. There wasn't a single drop of deception coming off him. "And today, she wanted to talk about what happened back then, and we did, a little, but it didn't go anywhere. I mean, she knows you're my girlfriend, and—"

It almost didn't matter what came next; he'd never called me that before. "You told her I'm your girlfriend?" I interrupted in search of confirmation.

"Yeah," he shrugged, "that's what you are, right?"

"But you actually used the word girlfriend. Like, out loud."

Dean rolled his eyes, no doubt thinking I was about to poke fun at him. He couldn't be more wrong. "All right, all right, I see where this is going."

"No, you don't." All the weight accumulated since we arrived lifted off my shoulders. "You have no idea how happy that makes me."

One look in my eyes was all it took for him to see that I meant what I said. Dean slid closer, a smile playing on his lips. "Well, it's about time I make an honest woman out of you."

"Oh," I chuckled, "you're not ready for that."

"No, I'm not," he agreed quickly. Snaking an arm around my waist, Dean squeezed my hip to bring me closer. I reveled in the pressure of his fingertips. There was a time when I longed to know what this was like, and now I had it. To say I felt foolish was an understatement. He loved me. Though they were nice to hear occasionally, I didn't need grandiose statements to prove it.

"I'm sorry I freaked out," I said.

"You don't have to apologize. But you do have to keep me in the loop from now on. If you're uncomfortable, I wanna know. I don't want to wait for it to get like this."

"I promise."

Dean gently dragged his thumb across my bottom lip and down my chin. The look of adoration in his eyes sent a warm flutter through my stomach. Perhaps he was savoring the moment, but I couldn't wait any longer and kissed him. We clicked, and the overcast world outside this car easily washed away. I melted into him as we moved in synchrony. As far as I was concerned, this could last forever, but before I knew it, it was over; our lips separated slowly as if they were reluctant to part.

Unlike yesterday, I exited the Impala with an unyielding sense of confidence. "Do we have a game plan?" I asked.

"See what we can see," he replied, running a hand across my lower back as he slid in front to hold the door to the news station open for me.

When Cassie spotted us, she smiled; this time, it pushed her cheeks just enough to crease the edges of her eyes. She led us over to her desk, clearing some stray papers out of the way to make it a bit more tidy. "Thanks for letting us use your stuff," I said, gesturing to the computer.

"Whatever lets you guys do what you do." Cassie stood upright, eying Dean as he sat before the monitor. "What are you doing, exactly?"

"I'm trying to find some link between those killings back in the sixties and what's going on now," Dean said, squinting at the bright screen. "There wasn't a lot about it in the paper."

"Not surprising. Probably minimal police work, too. Back then, equal justice under the law wasn't too literal around here."

My phone vibrated twice in my back pocket, alerting me to an incoming call. "What's up?" I answered.

"Hey. You and Dean figure everything out?"

I snickered. "That cannot be the only reason you called."

"It's part of it," he said, a smile in his voice.

"Everything's good," I confirmed happily. "What'd you find?"

"Well, the courthouse records show that Mr. and Mrs. Mayor bought an abandoned property," Sam explained. "The previous owner was the Dorian family for, like, one hundred and fifty years."

I moved the phone away from my mouth to ask, "Do either of you know of the Dorian family?"

A lightbulb went off above Dean's head. "Didn't you say the Dorian's used to own this paper?" he asked Cassie.

"Along with everything else around here," she replied with a nod and rested her palms on the desk. "Real pillars of the town."

Dean began clacking away at the keyboard, pulling up an article with a headline that read: Dorian Still Missing. "What'd you find?" Sam asked.

"Uh, this guy named Cyrus Dorian vanished in April of ninteen-sixty-three," I explained. "They investigated, but the case was never solved. It happened around the same time as that string of murders."

"I pulled a bunch of papers up on the Dorian place. It must've been in bad shape when the Mayor bought."

"What makes you think so?"

"The first thing he did was bulldoze the place."

"Wait, Mayor Todd knocked down the Dorian's house?" I asked Cassie. We couldn't have a better person on our side. Being a journalist, she knew everything about everyone.

"Yeah, and it was a big deal," she said. "One of the oldest homes left. He made the front page."

"Sam, do you know when he did it?" I asked.

"The third of last month," he said.

I went back over all the information Cassie had given us yesterday and landed on a hell of a coincidence. "The first killing was the very next day."

---

We left with a box of newspaper scans to bring back to the motel, hoping to piece together a more concrete timeline. It'd be yet another sleepless night, but we had enough caffeine pills to choke a horse, so suffice it to say, we'd survive. Looking through page after page, it dawned on us that we were missing one crucial piece of evidence: a witness. Anyone who saw the truck over the past month didn't live to tell the tale, but there was one person alive back when all this started—one person who clearly knew more than they let on. However, if her own daughter couldn't get her to speak, I don't know how we would.

The loud guitar riff of Dean's ringtone rippled through the room. He yawned and drank some more coffee, in no rush to stretch for the phone before it vibrated off the table. "Hello?" he answered groggily. Even from across the room, I could hear a female voice shrieking his name through the receiver.

---

By the time we arrived, Cassie's house was quiet. She was a shaking mess for a good five minutes before she calmed down enough to tell us what happened. Lights in the house started to flicker; she even recalled feeling cold right before the truck appeared in the yard. That damn ghost did everything but put on a Casper costume and morph through the walls. Despite not having been present for the ordeal, Mrs. Robinson was equally shaken, trembling beneath the blanket wrapped around her and her daughter's shoulders.

"Here you go," Sam said, handing them the cups of tea he offered to make.

"Maybe you could throw a couple of shots in that," Cassie said, clutching her mug for dear life.

"That's probably a good idea," I agreed.

"So," Sam began, leaning against the chair I occupied, "you didn't see who was driving the truck?"

"It seemed to be no one," Cassie said. "Everything was moving so fast. And then it was just gone. Why didn't it kill us?"

"Whoever was controlling it wants you afraid first," Dean said.

"Mrs. Robinson, I have a question, if that's all right?" I asked gently out of pure politeness. The redhead straightened her posture and waited. "Cassie said that her Dad saw the truck before he died. Do you know anything about that?"

The very mention of her late husband put Mrs. Robinson into some kind of trance. Cassie called for her Mother, only able to snap her out of it when she nudged her Mom's knee. Mrs. Robinson cleared her throat and rested her hands, which still held the mug of tea, on her lap. "Martin was under a lot of stress. You can't be sure about what he was seeing."

"Well, after tonight, I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck," Dean interjected. I knew by the tone in his voice that he thought we were far beyond niceties. How many more people would get hurt because she refused to speak up? "After what happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Your daughter could die. So, if you know something, now would be a really good time to tell us about it."

Cassie was ready to scold Dean for his harsher approach, but it was needed. And it worked because her Mom finally cracked under the pressure. "Yes, he saw a truck," she admitted.

"Did he know who it belonged to?" Sam asked.

"He thought he did. A man named Cyrus."

"Cyrus Dorian?" I clarified. "The man who went missing?"

Mrs. Robinson's haunted eyes barely glanced up at me. "He died more than forty years ago."

"How do you know he died, Mrs Robinson?" Dean asked. Gone was his abrasive tone, giving way to a much gentler side.

"We were all very young," she started with a typical excuse that got most people through their mistakes early in life, but the rest of the story was anything but. "I dated Cyrus a while, and I was also seeing Martin… in secret, of course. Interracial couples didn't go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and when he found out about Martin, I don't know, he changed. His hatred was frightening."

"The string of murders," Sam said.

"There were rumors. People of color disappearing into some kind of a truck. Nothing was ever done. Martin and I, we were gonna be married in that little church near here, but last minute, we decided to elope as we didn't want the attention."

"And Cyrus?" Dean asked.

"The day we set for the wedding was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children's choir practicing in there; they all died." Mrs. Robinson's long reigned-in emotions finally burst through. Her voice trembled, along with her hands. Cassie removed the mug from her mother's grasp and weaved their fingers together. Holding her daughter made her tears flood.

"Did the attacks stop after that?" I asked, mindlessly hopeful.

"No. There was one more. One night, that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him something terrible. But Martin, you see, Martin got loose. And he started hitting Cyrus… and he just kept hitting him and hitting him." Sobs wracked her body. Cassie did what she could to keep her Mother calm, but it was no use. As upset as she was, she pushed through. "This was forty years ago. He couldn't have called the cops; they wouldn't have listened. So, he called on his friends—Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson—and they put Cyrus' body into the truck, and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land. All three of them kept that secret all of these years."

Images of a once gentle young man pushed to his limits in a desperate attempt to stay alive, going so far as to allow rage to completely take over if he meant he could see another day, conjured in my mind. They never should've been in that situation, to begin with, let alone be punished for it all these years later.

"And now all three are gone," Sam said solemnly.

"And so is Mayor Todd," Dean added, addressing Cassie's Mom. "He said that you, of all people, would know he's not a racist. Why would he say that?"

"He was a good man," Mrs. Robinson said. "He was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus' disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done, he did nothing because he also knew what Cyrus had done."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Cassie asked, finally speaking from her spot next to her Mom.

"I thought I was protecting them. And now there's no one left to protect," she wept. In all her misery, she somehow forgot that one person was left. One that counted on her the most.

---

Outside, the night had grown even more dreary; angry, deep grey clouds took over the whole sky. You couldn't distinguish a single star, and the moon had disappeared. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, was trying to tell us to stay away. It wouldn't be the first time we didn't heed that warning. Hopefully, it wouldn't be the last, either.

"My life was so simple," Sam sighed, resting against the Impala. "Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms."

Dean smirked. "So, I guess we saved you from a boring existence."

"Yeah, occasionally I miss boring."

"Come on, Sammy, where's the fun in that?" he asked, settling alongside his brother. "So, this killer truck–"

"I miss conversations that didn't start with this killer truck," Sam interrupted, eliciting the laughs from each of us that he hoped for.

"Well, this Cyrus guy—evil on a level that infected even his truck. When he died, the swamp must've become his tomb."

"For forty years," I added. "What woke him up now?"

"The construction on his house," Dean answered. "Or the destruction."

"Demolition or remodeling can awaken spirits, make them restless," Sam said.

"And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus' murder quiet and unsolved."

"So anybody involved, even indirectly, is a target," I said.

"Yeah, I guess." Dean shrugged. "Who knows what ghosts are thinking anyway."

"You know we're going to have to dredge that body up from the swamp, right?" Sam pointed out unenthusiastically.

"How the hell are we even gonna do that?" I wondered.

---

Dean's idea consisted of borrowing a tractor from a construction site. He assured Sam that we'd get it back in one piece, "They won't even know it's missing," he claimed. But as he towed the decrepit, old truck from the lake, the sludge caked on the tractor's wheels threw a bit of a wrench in the plan. Drenched in muddy water myself from the knees down due to helping Sam hook the truck's front end, I couldn't find it in me to care about someone else's farm equipment. God only knows what the hell I'm covered in.

"This is gonna be gross," I puffed as we approached the vehicle. Neither one of us made any move for the handle.

"Somebody's gotta open it," Sam said, sharing a look with me that eventually landed on Dean.

"Oh, come on!" he complained and grumbled to himself, some words I could make out, and others I could not—something along the lines of leaving it up to us to choose the next job. In one swift motion, Dean pulled the door open, and the mummified corpse of Cyrus Dorian fell toward the opening as though even his severely decayed body was trying to escape his confinement. Besides the bone-chilling visuals, the putrid scent was one of the first things to hit: water-logged clothes mixed with a chunk of rotting meat. It hung on the back of your throat. No amount of swallowing got rid of it or the nausea it caused.

The rain started coming down, making everything slick and our job more difficult. We all pulled our weight, carrying Cyrus to the pre-positioned stack of wooden planks. I began pouring kerosene over the body while Sam followed, dumping salt on it. Dean finished it by lighting a match and throwing it down on the corpse. The fire burned and flickered, turning into ashes.

"Think that'll do it?" Sam asked. Our answer came in the form of the truck appearing across the field, blinding us with its headlights and revving its engine.

"I guess not," Dean replied.

"So burning the body had no effect on that thing?"

"Sure it did. Now it's really pissed."

"But Cyrus' ghost should be gone," I said.

"Apparently not the part that's fused with the truck. You know, like that spirit and its ring," he said, referring back to the hunt we did in Ohio as he started to trek toward the Impala.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Going for a little ride. Gonna lead that thing away."

"Like hell you are." I slipped in the mud but regained my footing and followed him. "Once that truck goes after you, there's no getting away from it."

"Exactly. That's why you two gotta burn that busted piece of crap before it gets me."

"How the hell are we supposed to burn a truck, Dean?!" Sam clamored, nervous sweat beading on his brow and mixing with the rain.

"I don't know," he said, shoving a duffle bag from the backseat into my arms. "Figure something out."

"Figure something out?" I repeated incredulously, tossing the bag on the ground to grab Dean's arm and turn him around. "Hey, would you listen for a second?"

"We don't have a second, Tor."

"You're not seriously going to risk the life you just got back, are you?"

"There's no other choice." Maybe that was true—the increasingly loud revs of the engine behind us proved that.

"Fine, but you're not doing it alone."

"Oh, what, I work the pedals, and you steer?" he asked, voice dripping in sarcasm.

"I'm not kidding, Dean," I stated in no uncertain terms. His eyebrows curved at the front and lifted at the tails in horrified disbelief at my suggestion.

"Well, you sure as hell aren't coming," he demanded, eyes darting to the truck. Dean gently cradled my face. "Please, Tor. For me, okay? Stay here, help Sam. I'll be fine because you'll figure it all out; you always do." Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I'd be useless in that car. At least out here, I could do something.

"Be careful," I relinquished, swallowing the emotion constricting my throat.

"Always am," he said, kissing my forehead before climbing into the Impala. The moment he started the engine and began to pull away, the truck backed onto the main road, ominously lingering in the shadows. The Impala vanished into the darkness, and I went into overdrive, trying to devise a plan. It's not like we could actually burn the truck; that would take too long and require more firepower than we had at the moment. I dug through the bag Dean had given me, pulling out the records and logbooks from the courthouse and Cassie.

"Maybe Cyrus is attached to something else," Sam suggested.

"Yeah, but what? It has to be the truck. We just need to figure out another way to stop it."

"Somewhere it can cross over," he said offhandedly, skimming through an old booklet. Memories flooded of my Dad telling me how sacred church grounds are and how nothing can harm you when you're on that land. Back then, I took it as a comforting statement encouraging me to attend church. Now, I knew what he was really saying. It was a safe space—like a force field against evil.

I opened my phone and dialed a number I never thought I reached out to. "Hello?" Cassie answered.

"Hey."

"Tori?" she asked, shocked to hear me.

"There's some info I need, and it's gotta be exactly right."

---

After I hung up, I explained my plan to Sam. He quickly got on board, citing something he'd read about evil spirits being expelled on church grounds and confirming what my Dad said to be true. A small part of my brain wanted to believe this was all for nothing, but I couldn't let that thought linger. We only had one shot at this, and it had to be perfect. There was no room for error; I couldn't get lost in negativity.

"What do you got?" Dean answered my call before the first ring finished. "It's still after me."

"Where are you?" I asked.

"In the middle of nowhere with a killer truck on my ass!" he exclaimed, frustration ringing clear in his voice.

"This was your idea, don't yell at me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, half sarcastic, half not. "It's like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus."

"Well, it probably does."

"That's not helping!"

"Listen to me, Dean," I said, helping Sam spread the map out on a pile of uncharred wood. "We have to know exactly where you are right now."

"Decatur Road, about two miles off the highway."

"Headed East?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, good." I put the call on speaker and set the phone down to trace the line that represented the road Dean was on with my fingernail. A shrieking scrape of metal and tires squealing across the pavement burst through the receiver. My hair stood on end. "Dean?" I called breathlessly.

"That son of a bitch!" he hissed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. The car might not be, though."

"Well, her, we can fix," I said, forcing myself not to lose focus on the bigger picture.

"Dean, up ahead, turn right," Sam instructed him. "Then make a left."

I waited a beat before asking, "Did you make the turn?"

"Yeah, I made the turn!" Dean shouted. "You gotta move this thing along a little faster, babe."

"Again, your idea!" I retorted swiftly, "now, do you see a road up ahead?"

"No! Wait, no, yes," he scrambled, "I see it."

"Go left."

The tires squealed again, then came silence, followed by Dean asking, "All right, now what?"

"You need to go seven-tenths of a mile and then stop," Sam chimed in.

"Stop?"

"Exactly seven-tenths, Dean, no more, no less," I said, peering up at the sky as it began to pour, praying to God this worked.

"You still there?" Sam asked his brother.

"Yeah, I'm here. It's just staring at me. What do I do?"

"Exactly what you are doing—bringing it to you."

"What?" he choked.

"Just trust me, okay?" I requested. Through the static, the truck's engine revved three more times, huntingly bouncing off the surrounding woods, and then nothing. My mouth went dry as a desert. I wasn't sure what happened until Dean asked where it went, unknowingly telling us that the plan did, in fact, work. My legs felt like jelly, and I had to use the pile of boards to support myself.

Sam smiled, relieved, and pulled me to his side. "You're where the church was."

"What church!?" Dean exclaimed, still overcome with adrenaline.

"The place Cyrus burned down. Murdered all those kids."

"There's not a whole lot left," he observed.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "It's hallowed ground whether the church is there or not."

"When evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, sometimes they're destroyed, so we figured, maybe, that would get rid of it," Sam explained, making us sound far less confident in the idea than we originally were.

"Maybe?" Dean questioned and exploded. "Maybe!? What if you were wrong?"

"Honestly, that thought hadn't occurred to me; it was Tori's idea," he threw me under the bus. I sent a narrowed glare his way.

"It was?!"

"Hey, you told me I'd figure it out, and I did," I defended.

"Yeah, well," he grumbled, although his aggravation had lessened significantly. "Maybe a little heads up next time."

"Oh no, no next time. I can't handle another one of your near-death experiences," I laughed it off, but it was true. I'd nearly lost him twice within the last two weeks. One more stint, and I'd probably have a heart attack. "Just get back here in one piece, okay?"

---

It was only fair, I suppose, that we waited for Cassie to arrive at the docks the next morning to say goodbye. I was eager to leave, maybe not as much as the first time around, but enough. Partly, it came from the lack of rest, but I'd be lying if I said this wasn't emotionally draining. When she got here, Cassie strolled over to the Impala with ease. Sam hovered on the driver's side and Dean at the trunk. "My mother says to tell you thanks again," she said.

"We're glad we could help," I said, leaning against the rear passenger door.

Cassie's attention finally landed and stayed on Dean. "This is a better goodbye than last time," she smiled and clasped her hands in front of her body. "If it's any consolation, what you do is insane, but you aren't."

Dean released a short laugh. "Thanks, I guess."

"You got a good one," she told me as though it were a secret I wasn't already very much aware of.

"I did get pretty lucky," I said, catching Dean's eye. The tips of his ears flushed bright red, and he cleared his throat while forcing his eyes elsewhere. Cassie took one last look at him, almost visibly sealing off her memory of their time together. We said our goodbyes, and Cassie went on her way. Just as I was about to get into the back, Dean grabbed my wrist and held it.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Thanks for putting up with all this. You know, someone else probably would've left by now."

"I told you I wouldn't," I said, referencing a conversation from years prior. I wasn't sure he'd remember it, but a spark of recognition flashed through his eyes. He rested his hands on my hips, and I draped my arms around his shoulders.

"You were right; finding that person wasn't so hard after all."

"What were the chances of that?" I grinned playfully.

Dean smiled and pulled me flush to his body. "Pretty damn high."

---

Athens, Ohio
Early 2004

Finally, we tracked down an old ring the spirit we'd been hunting was attached to and destroyed it, effectively ending our need to remain in Ohio. This was the longest time in the past few years that we'd stayed in one spot. By this time tomorrow, we'd be long gone—a good two states over, at least. I never wanted to leave somewhere so badly in my life. It appeared as though Dean felt otherwise. He was with Cassie again. Safe to assume he'd be gone all night. His only saving grace was that John had gone to a bar and didn't seem keen on making a quick return, either.

Before he left, Dean asked me if I was going out, too. He didn't need to specify that he wanted to know who I'd be with; it was obvious. I told him no—that Luke was busy. That was a total lie. I just used it as an excuse to spend the night alone. I rarely got any time to myself, and I needed it. Especially now. So, I took full advantage of it with a nice hot bath, popped open a cheap bottle of wine, and put on my coziest pajamas. The TV played some mediocre horror movie quietly in the background while I sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through a magazine, and drinking straight from the bottle.

Without warning, the door opened, and I jumped about ten feet in the air, scrambling for something to defend myself with. "Whoa!" Dean exclaimed, palms flying up. "It's me!"

"What are you doing here?" I huffed.

"Were you gonna go for your gun?" he asked, ignoring my question.

"Well, yeah! I didn't know it was you! Why are you here?" I repeated and checked my watch. "It's only ten-thirty."

"I just, uh—" Dean shut the door. "I had to leave." He had to? That didn't sound good. I watched him pull off his jacket, exposing the tag of his t-shirt hanging from its neckline like he'd put his clothing on hastily.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

"Yeah. Everything's fine. Sorry, I interrupted your–" he gestured to my blanket and wine with an open palm, "Whatever this is. I'll get out of your hair."

"No, it's all right," I insisted. My relaxing alone time flew out the window, but I couldn't find it in me to care. I didn't want him to leave when he was going through something. "You don't have to go."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Dean, I'm sure." I held out the bottle. "Want some?" He contemplated momentarily before crossing the room, taking the bottle, and plopping beside me on the couch. Even though I wanted to pry and get to the bottom of his sullen attitude, I knew he needed his space to clear his head. We sat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth every so often. He'd crack eventually; he always did—with me, anyway.

"I told Cassie," he mumbled out of the blue, wiping droplets of wine from his lips.

"Told her what?"

"About what we do."

"I thought we weren't supposed to say anything."

"We're not."

It was difficult to fathom how he'd gotten so attached to somebody this quickly. I wanted to get upset, but the tired look in his eyes stopped me. We were getting older. Perhaps the idea of loneliness was weighing on him more than before. Lord knows it got to me. "Well, what happened?" I asked.

"She called me nuts and told me to get the hell out." He took another drink. "So, that was fun."

"God, that's terrible. I'm sorry," I apologized on her behalf and placed a comforting hand on his arm. While I was upset with her for hurting him, I also tried to look at it logically. She was just a regular, everyday person. Generally, they don't buy into this stuff. I didn't know Cassie; I had no clue about her intentions, but I didn't want him to take what she'd done personally, regardless of what was going through her head. "You know, unless you see what we've seen, it's hard to believe. It doesn't have anything to do with you."

"Yeah," he mumbled, disbelieving. "I guess I just…" Dean trailed off, shaking his head at himself.

"Just what?"

"I thought I could trust her. But Dad's right; you can't trust anyone like that."

"That's not true." I tightened my grip on him."You can."

He looked up from my hand and asked, "Like you trust Luke?" tentatively like he was testing the waters.

I hesitated, then answered with utmost truth. "I don't trust Luke."

Immediately, he was put on alert. I could only imagine the thoughts running through his mind. "What do you mean?"

"Not like that. He's not a bad person, but the only thing he really knows about me is my name. And even that's only half true," I referred to my use of Winchester as my last name. "I'd never tell him anything. I couldn't. He'd never get it."

Dean sighed and handed the bottle back to me. "Then I guess we're in the same boat, huh?"

"For now." I shrugged, and he lifted a questioning eyebrow. "We'll find the right person," I explained. "Someone who understands."

The corner of his mouth turned upward in a shrug, and he peered up at me through his long eyelashes. "You really believe that?"

"Yeah, I do. I have to." I sipped the wine before returning the bottle to him. He needed it more than me right now.

"Seems a little easier said than done," he said, eyes lingering on mine a beat longer than usual. "I mean, what are the chances of that?"

"I'm hoping they're high," I said wistfully. It felt like we were teetering on the edge of something, both too scared to fall off and find out what lay below. Dean took another drink and stared at the sloshing liquid as he swirled the bottle. Whether we choose to jump or not, it didn't matter tonight. I unraveled my blanket and draped it across our laps, allowing my leg to rest more heavily on his than before. "Whatever happens, I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere."

For the first time since we'd arrived in Ohio, a look of peace crossed Dean's eyes. "I know."

---

Hi! I am so sorry for not posting the past few months. I had some laptop issues and was unable to write, but I'm back now! As always, thank you so much for reading and your reviews. They mean the world to me!

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

Twitter: phoenixwrites79

Instagram: phoenixwritesfanfiction