Folsom Prison Blues

After their meeting with Ash, Faith and Toby stuck around to have dinner and another beer with him and Ellen before they went back to their motel for the night. By unspoken agreement, they would wake up early the next morning – regardless of their hangovers – and hit the books.

That night, Faith dreamt she was in a rest stop bathroom on the side of a busy highway. The sound of the traffic was like the gushing of a stream, and she dreamt she could feel water up to her ankles. She bent over the sink and splashed her face with cool water, then braced her hands on either side of the basin and looked into the mirror. The face staring back at her wasn't her own, but something twisted and sick. It looked like something straight out of Hell. It looked inhuman.

She awoke with a scream trying to burst from her lips. She managed to hold it in, just barely keeping from waking Toby, who slumbered on peacefully in his single bed across the room.

After that, it was impossible to get back to sleep, so Faith just laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to imagine the darkness growing a gaping, toothy maw and swallowing her whole.

The sun was just rising when Toby woke up, and Faith finally moved, disappearing into the bathroom for a gloriously long shower. Toby was brushing his teeth at the sink in their room's little kitchenette when she emerged. He looked up with raised brows as she shuffled across the room and stuffed her pyjamas back into her duffel.

"You look like you didn't sleep," he said shrewdly. She stamped down on the urge to toss him the finger and settled for frowning unhappily. "What's wrong?" he asked, going from suspicious to worried in an instant.

"Oh, nothing," she said airily. "I mean, I did just learn that my father might not be human. Which means that he's probably something we should hunt. Which means that I'm something we should hunt. No big deal. It's only making me question everything I know and everything I don't and, y'know, every minute of my continued existence."

Toby stared at her in silence. The quiet stretched on, and Faith reluctantly glanced up from her duffel as he crossed the space between them, eyes boring into hers like he was searching for something. She stared back, feeling uncomfortably laid bare.

"Faith, I'm not going to hunt you," he said, standing a foot away, stretched to his full height like he could intimidate the words into being true.

"Oh really? What a relief," she sneered. Toby arched a brow, and the fight left her, drained like a plug pulled from a basin. Faith sighed. "Toby, just because you won't kill me for being – well, whatever – doesn't mean other hunters are going to have a problem coming after me. You know how these people are – they live in a world of black and white. There are no shades of grey."

She said it so grimly, so matter-of-factly, that Toby grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her against him in a tight, unexpected embrace. His scent wrapped around her, and she was grown up enough to admit it was beginning to smell a little like home. Maybe this partner thing wasn't so bad after all.

"We're gonna figure this out, Fay," he spoke the promise into her hair, with a quiet strength that even made it almost believable. "You're gonna be fine."

Almost believable.

They went about their lives, and nothing seemed to change, other than the focus of their work. They were still taking jobs, but between them (and sometimes even during) they were researching immortality – or rather, a list of all the immortal creatures known to mankind. They had to start somewhere, and her father's supposed immortality was the only lead they had to go on.

February melted into March, and they worked at the same relentless pace they always had, jumping from one job to another like they were getting paid for it. They didn't stop in at Bobby's – their work didn't take them anywhere near South Dakota and they were too busy to take the detour – but she spoke to him plenty on the phone.

Bobby was the best researcher she knew, so she'd told him about her father (with the express condition that it never leave the room) in the hopes that he would be able to come up with some theories. So far, none of them were looking good. Nobody wanted to say words like 'vampire' or 'demon', but Faith knew they were all thinking it.

They had no idea what her father was – and, furthermore, what she was. It was a strange sensation, to know you likely weren't entirely human, but to not know what that other part of you was. Faith had the dream about the rest stop bathroom several more times, each time waking up with a jolt, her heart racing in her chest.

She thought sometimes – usually after she'd had the nightmare and lay awake in bed, staring up at a grimy motel ceiling – about the strange things she seemed to be able to do, and whether that had anything to do with her father and what he might have been.

She was strong enough to break padlocks with her bare hands, but not all the time. She had the weird ability to pick up a weapon and use it perfectly, without any prior experience. Were there other things she was forgetting about? Abilities she hadn't consciously noticed but were there all the same?

Faith found herself examining her life during those long, sleepless nights. She thought about how she was as a kid – going from foster home to group home to foster home again, living her life like a nomad, always running away from things. Was that a part of it? That instinct she'd had to fight, to run, to always keep moving no matter what?

It wasn't just a question of who was she, but what was she? And if her father really was something supernatural – the bad kind (but then again, what other kind was there?) – then what potential did she have to go bad?

Faith spent most nights chasing herself in circles. She wanted to stop, to just let it go and let whatever would be, be, but she didn't know how.

It was the end of March when she got a call that interrupted her terrible routine, and honestly, she was glad for the interruption.

"Hey Sam," she answered the phone. "What's going on?"

"Not much," he said casually. "Working research for an upcoming case. You busy?"

It was late in the afternoon, and they'd just finished a job that morning – a run-of-the-mill salt-and-burn, as most standard jobs were – so she and Toby were taking the evening to recover before they set off again come morning.

"Nah, not at all," she said, leaning backwards on two legs of her chair, the edition of the national newspaper spread out on the counter before her, several possible jobs circled in red pen. "Toby's just gone to grab something for dinner, then we're hitting the hay before hitting the road tomorrow."

"Well, I actually wanted to ask a favour. Dean had this idea and – shut up Dean, yes you did, don't be such a chickenshit – and, uh, we wanted to run it by you."

She smirked to herself, able to perfectly imagine the sour look on Dean's face. "Shoot."

The plan was risky – perhaps even taking the title of the most insane one she'd heard since becoming a hunter in the first place – and Faith had no problems telling them as much.

"Not that I don't agree, but our dad knew Deacon in the marines, since way before either of us were even born," Sam explained quietly. "He needs the favour, and we owe him. It's family."

She made a face. "Owing him a favour's one thing, but getting yourselves locked up in prison for it? Surely it can't be worth that much."

"Deacon says he can get us out the minute the job's done," Sam insisted. "We believe him."

"And you want me to pose as your lawyer," she said, still rocking backwards on her chair.

"Tobias said you're good with undercover work, and it'll be safer for us if we have someone working on the outside, besides just Deacon. The more backup, the less likely we'll, y'know, rot in prison for the rest of our lives."

"I'm a good liar, Sam," she corrected him. "But not even I can bullshit my way into being a convincing lawyer. In case you've forgotten, I'm a high school dropout and professional thief. I couldn't tell you the difference between a contract and a takeout menu."

"Now you're just selling yourself short."

"Honestly, Sam, I can't pull off 'lawyer'," she insisted. "I can barely pass as a federal agent, and that's actually part of my day job."

"Think of it like a heist," Sam suggested.

"A heist," she echoed dully. "Jesus Christ, Sam, I was a pickpocket; I didn't go around robbing the goddamn Louvre."

There was a rustling noise, then some muffled muttering, before finally the connection cleared back up and Dean's voice appeared unexpectedly.

"Look, I don't want us to have to rely on you any more than you do, but if we don't already have a lawyer, the state's going to assign us some wide-eyed, do-gooder public defender, and then we're toast. So, would you suck it up and help already?"

Faith blinked in response to Dean's outburst. He fell silent and she could all but hear his impatience over the line as he waited restlessly for her to answer. She wasn't sure what swayed her – maybe it was the reluctance in his voice, or maybe it was just the knowledge that he wouldn't be asking unless he really, truly needed her help.

"I'm not going to have to defend you in court, am I?" she finally asked. "I'm a decent grifter until you put me on a literal stage. That's when it all falls apart."

Dean breathed a sigh he probably didn't mean for her to hear. "No courts," he promised. "We'll break out long before it comes to that."

Chewing on her lip, Faith tried to convince herself this wasn't a complete mistake. "Okay," she said. "What do I need to do?"

A week later, all the arrangements were made.

Her cover was worked up by Ash, meaning it was so air-tight that Freya Austen, partner at Austen and Greenwood, a big-time law practice in northern Arkansas, was so frighteningly real that not even a background search by the FBI themselves would be able to prove she wasn't who she was claiming to be.

Austen and Greenwood – the name being Toby's suggestion, the absolute nerd – was a fake company Ash had created out of thin air. Faith had to admit, the guy was a downright genius, even if he did smell like the bottom of an ashtray. They even had a forged deed to a property in the city. Say what you would about him, but Ash was thorough.

"I don't half-ass nothin', sweet-cheeks," he'd drawled when she'd said as much.

But all that preparation was over with, and suddenly it was real, and Faith found herself standing outside a police station in Arkansas, dressed in a black dress made of a material softer than butter which clung tightly to her curves.

"The more expensive the better," said Toby as he'd handed it to her. "Freya Austen would never be seen in anything costing less than a new laptop."

"I think you're more invested in this cover than I am," she'd muttered.

"Austen and Greenwood is my creation," he'd sniffed. "Besides, it was an excuse to go shopping, which doesn't come around nearly enough in our line of work."

With that, she had to agree. The dress was tasteful while still being sexy, exactly the sort of thing she'd imagine a rich, uppity lawyer might wear. The pumps on her feet were towering, making her already generous legs appear even longer. She knew she looked damn good, but some part of her couldn't help suffering imposter's syndrome.

She wasn't the kind of woman who wore expensive clothes, or shoes that cost more than her rent back in Baltimore or carried around a briefcase as if she had somewhere important to be. But it didn't matter how much she felt like a fish out of water.

She was a decent grifter. It had helped her stay alive as a kid, then kept her feeling normal in her life with Nate, and now it was more useful still. Hunting often required her to pretend to be someone she wasn't. It let her put monsters in the ground. It let her help people.

She could do this. Just because she felt like trailer trash dressed up in a bow, it didn't mean that was what anybody else had to see. The trick was in the confidence.

Checking the pearl watch on her wrist, Faith knew it was time to head into the station. Sam and Dean were already there – Sam having used his one phone call to ring her burner cell, which was, of course, registered to Freya Austen. That way it was on the books, and nobody could suspect she was anything other than exactly who and what she said she was.

If only she played her part.

Rolling back her shoulders, Faith tightened her grip on her briefcase and fixed her expression into something dispassionate and cool. Her stupid heels clacked against the stone steps, and she let the sound of it fuel her, her femininity just another weapon to wield.

Heads turned when she stepped into the lobby of the police station. The receptionist was a woman maybe a few years older than her, and she watched Faith cross the room with narrowed eyes. Faith unleashed a disarming smile as she got to the desk.

"Hello," she said, her usual accent a little less sharp, the vowels rounded and full, like she'd gone to elocution lessons as a girl. That was part of her cover, too. "Freya Austen, attorney with Austen and Greenwood. I'm here to represent Sam and Dean Winchester. Could you direct me to where they're being held?"

To Faith's unending relief, the receptionist nodded and passed her a clipboard. "Just sign in and I'll get your pass ready."

Faith signed her fake name and wrote down the contact information she'd memorised – her own burner phone, and Toby's latest burner as the number for the firm. If they rang him to confirm her identity, he could handle it from there. Hell, he'd be thrilled for the chance.

Not three minutes later she was being directed down a long hallway to one of the station's interrogation rooms. She didn't allow herself to stop and breathe, but instead pushed open the door and clacked her way inside.

Dean was sat handcuffed to the table, looking calm as could be, considering the circumstances. Two men were in the room with him – both FBI agents, if their starchy suits were any indication. They turned to glare at her for interrupting, but she ignored them with callous ease, as though they weren't worth her time – or, more likely, couldn't afford it.

"Dean Winchester," she said curtly, shutting the door behind her and moving deeper into the room. Dean looked genuinely surprised to see her, despite this whole thing being his stupid idea in the first place.

"That's me," said Dean, slouching as much as his handcuffs would allow, slashing her a crooked grin.

One of the Feds – a Black man with well-groomed facial hair and a tie that wasn't entirely disgusting – stepped forwards. "And you are?"

Faith wilfully ignored him. "Dean, I'm Freya Austen," she held out a hand which Dean took, shaking like it was their first meeting. "I'll be your representation from here on out."

The Black Fed shifted his weight, looking irritated. "You're with the Public Defender's Office?"

"No, I'm not. I'm with Austen and Greenwood. John Winchester, my clients' father, had us on retainer. He paid in advance for our services to be used on behalf of his sons, should such an eventuality be necessary," she said, keeping that smooth accent in place, expression hard and her eyes like flecks of amber. She turned to explain to Dean, "Samuel was aware of the arrangement. He called upon his arrival to the station."

Dean smiled roguishly, his eyes dancing with laughter. "That's Sammy, always thinking ahead."

Faith ignored him, looking back at the Feds. "If you wouldn't mind bringing Sam in on your way out – I'd like to meet with both my clients. Privately."

The Black cop looked downright murderous. "We're not done here, Ms. Austen."

"Actually," said Faith sweetly, "you are."

She dropped her briefcase onto the table with a bang, then walked to the other side of the table, stepping forcefully around the Fed, who was seething. She grabbed the chair opposite Dean and slid it out, then sat down and crossed one ankle daintily over the other.

"The receptionist said Sam was in a neighbouring room," she told them. "He shouldn't be difficult to find." They exchanged a furious look. but she paid them no attention, focusing on opening the complicated buckles of her stupid briefcase and beginning to pull out documents at random. "Thank you, gentlemen," she added dismissively, and after yet another pregnant pause, the two of them stomped from the room.

The moment the door was shut behind them, Dean leant forwards in his chair, as far as the handcuffs would let him. "Ms. Austen, was it?" he asked, charming smirk in place. "Might I say, that dress…" he trailed off, making a vague noise that could have either been appreciation or pain.

She looked up scathingly. "This is your plan, jackass," she muttered now they were alone. "I look ridiculous, and it's entirely your fault."

"Ridiculous…" Dean licked his lips, "…that isn't the word I'd use."

Faith pressed her crimson-painted lips together to hold back a scoff, pretending to flick through her papers to avoid looking him in the eye. The door opened again, and Sam shuffled into the room.

"Mr. Winchester," she said formally, waiting until he'd taken his seat and the cop in the doorway had disappeared. "Okay, so Ash's already hacked the station's files and gotten me up to speed," she began, the three of them alone again. "Your arraignment on the breaking and entering charge won't be until Tuesday."

Dean leant forwards again. "And they'll keep us in the right jail?"

"Green River County Detention Centre, just like we planned," she confirmed. "It's also unlikely that you'll be granted bail, but we knew that going into this. It shouldn't matter. Extradition papers have already been filed from both Missouri and Wisconsin – where the bank robbery and shapeshifter murders happened."

"How long can we stall it?" asked Sam, the most anxious of them all.

"According to Ash, a week at the most," she said, flipping through her files as if searching for something. Legally, nobody was allowed to listen in on their conversation – but there was nothing to say they couldn't use the camera feeds to capture video only. "You're gonna be sent up to the jail later with the rest of the day's intakes. Is there anything either of you need from me before I go?"

Sam and Dean shook their heads. "Just don't forget to come visit tomorrow," said Dean.

The look she shot him was scathing. "Right – I've spent a week crafting this cover and I'm going to forget the only damn part of the hunt I get to actually help with," she said flatly. Dean made a face but didn't comment. Faith turned to Sam. "I'd better get going before those Feds lose patience and burst back in here, Starsky and Hutch style. Call me if anything comes up, otherwise I'll come visit in the morning."

Sam opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind and shut it again.

"What?"

He smiled ruefully. "You think this is a bad idea."

"Oh, I know it's a bad idea," she replied. "But I think if anyone can pull this shit off, it'll be you two."

Sam didn't look comforted, but Dean's smirk rang with smugness. She ignored him and shoved all the files back into her briefcase, shutting it with a snap and climbing carefully to her feet on the stilts she was wearing strapped to her feet.

"Good luck tonight, boys," she said, reaching forwards to shake first Sam's hand, then Dean's, just to keep up appearances. "Word of advice?" she added, meeting Dean's dancing eyes. "Don't drop the soap."

Dean's smile was sharp like electricity as he pulled her closer towards him with their linked hands. "Is this you calling me pretty?" he asked, fluttering those ridiculously long lashes for effect.

She tore her hand out of his and turned for the doorway. "Have fun in prison," she sang over her shoulder, opening the door and leaving them alone.

The same FBI agent was leant against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, a frown on his classically handsome face. "Ms. Austen," he said, standing up straight as she shut the door behind her and hesitated in the hallway with him.

"Agent…?" she hinted that she didn't know his name.

"Henriksen," he supplied.

She nodded. "I'll make a note of it."

With that she began to walk away, eager to get back to the motel where she and Toby were staying and change out of this absurd dress. Her feet were hurting from the heels, and she was already planning what she would use to bribe Toby into rubbing them while they watched something mindless and funny on TV. But to Faith's dismay, Henriksen followed her like a dog with a bone.

"Been an attorney long?" he wondered, suspiciously casual.

"A while," she answered him flatly.

"You look awfully young to have graduated law school, let alone become a partner at a law firm."

She stopped in her tracks and whirled around on him; chin tilted high. "Are you accusing me of something, Agent?"

He held up his hands in surrender. "No ma'am, of course not," he said, but she saw the truth in his eyes. He was suspicious. That just wouldn't do.

"Good," she said frostily. "I'd hate to have to report you."

He cocked his head. "For what exactly?"

She didn't have a good answer, so she changed the subject. "I'll be visiting my clients in the morning to go over the plan for our defence," she said shortly. "I hope for your sake that I'll find them entirely unharmed."

Henriksen seemed amused. "Now are you accusing me of something?"

Her smile positively dripped with innocence. "Of course not, Agent."

His eyes flickered up and down her form, not in a leering way, but rather assessing, taking stock of all she was – or seemed to be. Faith let him measure her, staring back impassively, a vault.

When he finally met her eye again, he said, "Do you know what those two are getting charged for?"

"Yes," she said carefully, because this felt like a trap. "I've been kept apprised of their situation."

"Armed robbery, kidnapping, grave desecration, and three counts of first-degree murder," he listed as though she hadn't spoken. Disgust curled at his lips, and if his opinion of the Winchesters wasn't clear before, it certainly was now. "Amongst other things," he added, alluding to worse things on the list, although she wasn't sure there could be.

She arched a perfectly coloured-in eyebrow. "Your point, Agent?"

Henriksen smiled, but it was a bitter thing. "I never understood you lawyer types – how you can sit across from the worst kind of scum and still defend their actions to a jury, as if they don't deserve to rot for everything they've done?"

This time it was she who cocked her head, still smiling sweetly. "That's 'allegedly' done."

She watched the agent's jaw tick with anger, and her smile widened. It wasn't the same kind of fun as getting under Dean's skin – but this was pleasing in its own way.

"Well, it's been lovely chatting with you, Agent," she said dismissively, glancing down at the fancy watch on her wrist like it mattered at all what the time was – as though she had more than a date with a microwave meal and The Price is Right. "I suppose I'll see you in court."

"I suppose you will."

She left him alone in the hall. As she walked away, she tried not to think about Dean and Sam, or where they would be heading that evening. They could handle themselves, she told herself. They would be fine.

The motel room was empty when Faith arrived back, kicking off her heels the moment the door was shut behind her. "Toby?" she called in the direction of the bathroom. There was no answer, so she figured he'd gone out for food.

She gladly changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old flannel, then scrubbed off her several pounds of makeup and threw her hair back into a sloppy ponytail. She was flicking through the TV channels when Toby waltzed in, bag of takeout in hand.

"Ooh, gimme," she said, grabbing for the food.

"You're not eating in bed like a heathen," he chided. Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly climbed to her feet and padded across their temporary accommodations to reach the small table where he was laying out their hoard. "How'd it go?" he asked as she picked up her favourite Biggerson's burger – extra pickles – and took a bite.

"Well enough," she said once she'd swallowed her mouthful. "I can't decide whether they're gonna thrive or perish."

Toby snorted. "Dean's far too pretty to survive in there."

"To be honest, I was actually more worried about Sam," she confessed. "Dean can handle himself. Sam seems kind of … delicate."

"Wanna place a wager?"

Her answering grin was wicked. "All right, twenty bucks says Dean comes out top dog."

"You're on."

The next day Faith donned yet another ridiculous outfit – this time a leather pencil skirt and a ruffled white blouse she secretly thought made her look like the sexy teacher from a low-budget porno, though she'd never tell Toby – and drove herself down to the prison.

Going through security, they asked which brother she'd like to speak with – because she could only see one at a time in visitation. "Dean," she decided, telling herself it was only because he was the eldest. It had nothing to do with checking in on him.

The guard spoke with the warden, only to come back with a frown on his face. "I'm afraid Dean Winchester's in solitary confinement for the time being," the guard said apologetically. "You'll have to speak to Samuel."

When Sam appeared, she gripped the phone and demanded. "Solitary?"

"It's for the case," Sam winced.

She hummed sceptically, pulling a stack of paperwork out of her briefcase and pretending to go over it with him while they spoke. "And how exactly is that going, the case? Any progress?"

"Er – some," he said, pitched too high.

Faith looked up from the papers, deadpan. "How convincing."

Sam sighed. "Look, we just need some more time."

She glanced backwards at the guards lining the room. "Unfortunately, that's one thing you're very, very short on," she murmured so only he could hear. "The longer you stay, the longer you risk never being able to leave."

"I know. We're getting there."

Faith's eyes narrowed to slits. "Get there faster."

Sam shot her his iconic 'bitch-face', and Faith rolled her eyes, scribbling a dramatic signature on the papers before sliding them back into her prop briefcase, where they sat along with a calculator, a fake pair of glasses, and a candy bar she had her eye on for the car ride back to the motel.

"I'll be back tomorrow for another check in. And when you see Dean, tell him to keep his nose clean," she told Sam primly.

He huffed a weak laugh. "Sure."

Toby was reclined on his bed when she returned to the motel, reading from a tome that still had dust clinging to its old cover. "Don't you ever get sick of reading?" she asked, kicking her heels off at the door and massaging her feet with a sigh.

"How'd it go?" was all Toby said.

"Dean got himself locked up in solitary," she muttered, shuffling over to the kitchenette to set about boiling the kettle. She needed a cup of tea, some sweatpants and a hot water bottle, and all not necessarily in that order. "Sam says it was for the case, but honestly, with Dean, who knows."

"Does this mean I'm winning our bet?"

Faith scowled at him over her shoulder. "No one's winning anything till they're out and tallies can be made."

Toby just rolled his eyes and turned back to his book. "I'll have tea, thanks, if you're making some."

She let the kettle boil as she changed out of her uncomfortable lawyer costume and into warm, breathable sweats. Fifteen minutes later found them both with tea steaming beside them and Faith curled on her bed with a hot water bottle in her lap, its heat blooming up her torso.

"So, is all this reading actually getting us somewhere, or have you just learned about another new type of fungi?" she asked, holding her mug in her palms and peering at her partner shrewdly.

Toby scowled and didn't look up from his book, saying snootily, "I'll have you know that anything worth reading is something worth knowing."

"I can't believe I ever thought you were cooler than me."

"If you must know," he ground out, going extra English in his irritation, "that this is a book on the philosopher's stone. I'd think you'd be happy one of us was doing research on your father."

Faith blinked. "…By reading a Harry Potter book?"

"Jesus Ch-" Toby shut his eyes a moment, as though praying for patience. "I'm researching the actual philosopher's stone. The real one. From history."

"What? It actually existed?"

She could hear Toby's teeth grinding from where she sat. "What you don't know could fill a library, Faith."

She smirked as she lifted the mug to her lips. "Would it be worth reading?"

"Since you're likely unaware," he began, not bothering to dignify that with a response, "the philosopher's stone was rumoured to be able to grant whoever could find it and control it the gift of eternal youth. It's a long shot, but I thought it might have been a possibility… I mean to say, it could explain…"

He was no longer annoyed with her – he just looked sad. Faith sipped her tea with a frown. "Well, I guess drinking the juice from a magic rock is better than being a vampire or a warlock or something, huh?"

Toby sighed. "I know none of this is easy, Faith."

She didn't say anything, afraid speaking would give away the sudden lump in her throat.

"We'll figure it out," he promised her.

"I know," she managed to rasp, eyes on the depths of her tea. She attempted a smile. "It'll be fine."

"You don't have to hold it together so completely," Toby said. "You're looking down a barrel here."

Her eyes flashed. "What, yours?"

His eyes flashed right back. "No, everyone else's. If you're not entirely human and it somehow gets out? I just—" he exhaled, tucking his chin to his chest. "I just wanna protect you, Faith, okay? I don't wanna have to watch another partner die."

Faith could swear her heart grew two sizes that day. "I'll be okay, Toby." She had no business making such promises, but she knew it in her bones – she hadn't survived this long for nothing. She'd fight till she was nothing but teeth and blood, and even then, she'd keep on spitting. "I'm not going anywhere."

He tried to smile, but neither of them believed it.

"You got any other books on that Hogwarts rock for me to look through?" she asked, knowing she needed something to do, or she'd only descend into a worse mood.

Toby rolled his eyes. "No more books – but you can always check the internet. I doubt you'll find anything useful – but you never know. Just please stay away from Harry Potter fanfiction."

Faith dragged their ancient laptop towards her and rolled her eyes. "Yes sir."

The next morning, Faith strode into the prison in a new pencil skirt and blouse, her high heels clicking life knifepoints on the concrete floor. She requested to see Dean again, and this time she was sat in a room and told to wait, which she supposed was a good sign. She was waiting a while, though, and was just genuinely beginning to worry when the door creaked open and Dean stumbled through.

"There you are! What—"

She caught sight of his face – it was banged up pretty bad. Clearly, he'd gotten into a fight. Not unexpected, given his situation, but the sight of his swollen cheek still sent a lance through Faith's gut, and she had to physically restrain herself from reaching for him, taking his face in her hands and running her thumb over the wound.

"What the hell happened to you?" she demanded instead, the words coming out flat and rude.

"Prison's a dangerous place, sweetheart," Dean grinned, tongue darting out to lick his lip, where his smile had reopened a cut.

Faith glared and sat back down, barely having realised she'd stood up. She glared at the guard hovering unsurely in the doorway, and with a meek look he ducked back out and shut the door behind him.

Dean slouched in the seat across from her and she began to get out her papers for the sake of the camera. "So? Update me," she snapped impatiently.

"Well, we're in a bit of a pickle," Dean began. Faith's hands froze where she was shuffling false documents.

"What kind of a pickle?"

"We thought we got him last night, but then I saw the real one – it was a woman, a nurse. But 'cause we thought we got it, Sam already got things moving. It's happening tonight," he told her quickly, being deliberately vague just to be extra safe. Hunters were a lot of things, but cop-trusting wasn't one of them.

"Tonight?" she asked. "And it isn't done?"

"I know, I know," he muttered. "We're working on it."

She withheld a sigh. "What can I do?"

"Research," said Dean, leaning forwards like a spring released, and she realised that until now he'd been coiled tight. She hadn't noticed – too focused on his swollen face and stupid, quick wit. "Now we've got the basics. Ghost's name was Glockner. She worked here as a nurse in the '70s. I need the full workup."

Faith scribbled the details down on a fake document, her handwriting dagger-sharp and impatient. "I'll have it for you within the hour," she promised. "I can't come back again today; it'll look too suspicious. I'll send an official note through Deacon, so it gets to you."

"Sounds good," said Dean, climbing to his feet with only a slight wince to show his pain, but Faith could see the way he was favouring his left side and concern panged through her. She shoved her things away and stood, too.

"Try not to get beat up anymore, Winchester," she muttered as she passed him. "Blood isn't a good look on you."

Dean smirked but said nothing as she ghosted past.

Faith got back to the motel in record time, kicking off her heels with such enthusiasm that one of them left a dent in the wall. Toby was out getting lunch, so she quickly changed into cargo pants and a tee-shirt, planting herself on her bed and pulling out the laptop, getting to work on research.

She made good on her word – within in an hour she had the information they needed and emailed it to Deacon's personal email, asking him to print it out to give to Dean. Then, to make sure he got it in time, she rang him personally.

Deacon answered the phone warily, the hidden caller ID making him cautious. He warmed when he realised it was her (they'd spoken a few times before over the last week or so, in helping plan this whole ridiculous endeavour) and she hurriedly explained the email that needed to get to Dean immediately.

"They're getting out tonight, Dean said?" she asked once that was done.

"Have the car waiting at the East Wing entrance, like we planned, at exactly six p.m.," he said. "The boys should appear just a little after, but best you be there ready, in case."

"No patrols?"

"None," said Deacon. "At least not at that time. You'll be fine. And if you run into trouble, I've heard you can handle yourself. Although, I'd ask that you're gentle with my men."

"Aw, c'mon Deacon, I'm always gentle with my men," she trilled. Deacon chuckled and she promised again to be there.

"You're a good friend to those boys, Faith," he said suddenly. "I'm glad they've got someone like you in their lives."

Faith was sure she wasn't blushing, despite the heat in her cheeks. She didn't glance in the mirror to check for sure, though. "Well, I owe them a debt, is all."

"Six o'clock," was all Deacon said.

Toby came back and they had a quick late lunch of ramen from some local place Toby had fallen in love with during their stay.

"Breakout's tonight," she told him around mouthfuls of noodles.

"Good. I'm getting antsy, holding this cover for so long," he said. "It's better we keep moving."

Faith agreed. It didn't feel right, sitting in one place. She felt too exposed – a lizard on an open road. She needed to get back into the underbrush. Hunters weren't meant to live their lives in the sun; they were destined for the shadows. And that was just fine by her.

Five-thirty rolled around, and Faith loaded herself with weapons (just to be on the safe side) and grabbed the Impala's keys from where they'd been kept safe in the motel's bedside table. It felt strange to be the one holding them, and even stranger to be the one driving the car through the sunset towards the detention centre.

The urge to play one of Dean's cassettes was strong, but she didn't want to risk drawing attention to herself, so she kept low and went the long way, pulling into place just as the sun sank below the horizon. Faith sat in the driver's seat a minute, running her hand over the wheel and breathing in the leather-and-motor-oil scent of the car, before shaking herself and climbing out.

The air was brisk, but she just pulled the collar of her leather jacket up and leant against the Impala, counting the minutes as she anxiously tapped her foot into the earth, waiting for the brothers to appear.

Six o'clock came and went, then five and ten past. She began to grow worried – but then finally, at quarter past, a service door swung open and the two stumbled out, hurrying towards her in their gaudy orange jumpsuits.

Dean met her eyes and a grin split his face. Despite herself, Faith found herself smiling back. His eyes flicked down to his car. "Oh, man, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" he said as he jogged towards them.

"Not a scratch, as promised," said Faith, tossing him the keys which he plucked from the frosty air.

He grinned as he opened the back door, pulling out his usual jacket, bundling up against the cold. "What, no skirt?" he asked, eyes running down her form, taking in her lack of lawyer disguise with what seemed to be a hint of disappointment.

With a swift flick of her wrist, she produced a butterfly knife from one of her many pockets. "I don't think they really agreed with me," she said, flashing the blade with a grin.

Dean's eyes danced, "Well now, I'd disagree."

Sam made a noise of frustration. "Can you two please save the flirting for later? We're not exactly out of the woods?"

Suddenly the sharp peal of an alarm cut through the still night air, along with the urgent flashing of red lights. Faith cursed.

"Good point," muttered Dean, although he didn't look the least bit chagrined. "Get in."

Faith slid into the backseat while Sam hopped into the passenger side. They'd barely shut the doors behind them before Dean had hit the gas and taken off into the night.

"So, Green Valley cemetery, then?" Faith asked once they were far enough away from the prison that she felt like she could breathe again.

"Hell yeah," said Dean. "We've got a ghost to gank."

Sam and Dean were used to digging graves – between them and Faith, it was done in a little over an hour, the bones were sprinkled and set alight. The three of them stood above the pit, warming their hands on the flames, before Sam pointed out that the smart thing to do would be to haul ass outta town before the police started a manhunt for the missing prisoners.

Back at the motel, Dean gladly took a celebratory swig of whiskey. "Oh, I missed you," he said warmly to the flask.

"You were only in there four days," Faith pointed out.

"It was a long four days," he snapped, pocketing the flask and returning to his things.

She and Toby gathered their things, too, and within a half hour they were checked out of their rooms and stood in the parking lot, ready to get the hell outta dodge. They knew it was best to scatter; safer not to stay together after a job like this. It was easier to go to ground in pairs.

"Thanks for your help, man," said Sam, shaking Toby's hand firmly.

Dean turned to Faith, looking reluctant. "You, uh, you did good," he said quietly, going unnoticed by his brother, who was commending an uncomfortable Toby on finding such good costumes for Faith to wear on such short notice.

Faith arched a brow. "Was that a compliment?"

Dean made a face. "Would you just accept it?"

"No, no," she said. "I wanna hear more."

He rolled his eyes. "Thank you for your help, Bueller," he said, each word like pulling teeth. Faith met his eye, pursing her lips and somehow, judged him sincere.

"I'll admit, it wasn't a total bore," she said, tugging at the cross hanging from her ear. "You won't get me in heels like that again anytime soon, though."

"A cryin' shame."

Faith looked up to find him grinning and, unable to help but match it, she grinned back, eyes locking together like magnets.

Sam cleared his throat obnoxiously, and the pair broke their warm stare, grins falling away like bottles shot off a fence. Sam looked annoyed and Toby's brow was arched. Faith cleared her throat and pushed off the side of the Impala. "Well, are we going or what?" she muttered, neck uncomfortably hot. "See ya, Sam."

Toby was smirking as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Faith grumbled something insulting and turned up the volume of his stupid audiobook, sinking down in her seat to listen, trying to let the words sweep away her thoughts of green eyes and impish grins.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed – just a basic chapter; however, next time:

Faith meets with a psychic we all know and love, the Roadhouse goes up in flames, and Sam gets stabbed in the back. Literally.