A/N: Hey guys - so, if you're a return reader of mine, I know you were expecting, or probably hoping, that a Heart of the Storm sequel would be what came next from me. But after I wrote HotS, I needed a DW palate cleanser, so I turned to Supernatural. This is the result.
This is a Dean/OC that's going to be very long, and very dramatic, and very explicit. So adults/mature readers only beyond this point, please. For your reference, this chapter begins between S01E12 (Faith) and S01E13 (Route 666). I hope you enjoy this opening chapter, and I'll see you at the end for some final notes.
BATTLES IN YOUR BONES
Faith was always looking for a fight.
That's what everyone said – from her social worker as a kid, to her boyfriend in the now. "You've got battles in your bones," her boyfriend would tell her, a soft smile on his face, like he thought it was cute and ultimately harmless. A mouse looking to square up with a towering oak.
She lived life on a knife's edge, one wobble away from snapping and using it to stab someone in the kidney. But she couldn't help it; people were stupid, and she'd always been too easily provoked.
She didn't mean to be that way, didn't want to be violent and explosive, like a bottle of soda shaken and let loose on the world. Maybe it was the way she'd grown up – without a home or a family or even a safe space to rest her head. This world wasn't an easy place to exist when you were born into it without anybody on your side.
But she'd done her time, she'd paid her dues. Years upon years being carted from one foster home to another, from one juvenile detention centre to one drunk tank when they didn't have any spare rooms. She'd starved and she'd suffered, but since meeting Nathan, she'd thought all of that was behind her.
He was everything she'd never had – kind, stable, loving. And she'd wanted to be worthy of that.
Their life wasn't perfect, but it was as close as she was likely to ever come. They shared a small apartment in Baltimore, where the rent was steep and they were only just getting by, but they had a door with good locks and a laundry room in the basement they could use for free. They lived not even a two-minute walk from a subway station, and the worst thing their neighbours did was listen to dubstep at odd hours of the night.
Faith never forgot where she'd come from, or what she'd had to do to get to this place in life, but sometimes she was able to pretend it wasn't real, and that she'd earned this life of theirs.
Nate worked at a steel factory down by the water, and Faith was a waitress at a local diner. Neither job was fancy by any definition of the word, but they earned just enough to afford rent and food, and even the occasional night out on the town. Growing up, Faith would never have believed she'd have this – a home, a family, a normal life of her very own.
And she was happy. Truly, she was. It was nice not to have to worry about where she would sleep that night, or whether she was going to have anything to eat for dinner. And if some nights she laid awake in bed beside a snoring Nathan and wondered if this was it, if this was her life, and this was all it would ever be – well, that was nobody's business but hers.
But nothing gold ever stays, and the easy monotony she and Nathan had fallen into was interrupted almost exactly three years after they'd first met. It was a normal day, exactly like any other. Nathan had the night off, working only a short shift that morning, and he was spending the rest of it at home on with the second-hand PlayStation they'd scored at a yard sale while Faith was working her usual Thursday night shift at the diner.
It was the graveyard shift, so when it ended at three in the morning, Faith was glad to shed her tacky apron and make her way home. She'd just locked the door and flicked off the lights to the diner when the shrill sound of her ringtone pierced the quiet night air. Faith dug it from her pocket, holding it to her ear with a frown.
"I know I'm running late. Don't worry so much. I'm just locking up now," she told Nate quickly, because she knew exactly how quick he was to worry.
But instead of Nate's smooth voice, there was only some muffled sound on the other end, followed by a loud shriek of static. Faith frowned as she walked, the ends of her keys jutting through her fisted fingers like claws – an automatic precaution.
"Nate?" she asked, pulling the phone back to double-check it was him. Nate, her phone screen read, and she pressed it back to her ear. "Nate, you okay? Reception's shitty."
Still nothing but some muffled noises and bursts of noisy static.
"Babe, I still can't hear you. Look, I'll be home in ten minutes, okay? If you're still waiting up, could you make me some hot cocoa? I promise you'll be greatly rewarded," she added in a playful voice.
On the other end there was nothing but more static interspersed with a sound like whispering. A shiver rattled down the length of Faith's spine, and it set her teeth on edge. She chewed on her lip, glancing behind her even though she knew there wasn't anything there.
"See you soon," she said, wondering if he could even hear her, or whether the line was just as bad on his end. Either way, all she could do was hang up and keep making her way back home.
They lived in the downtown area, and their apartment was practically falling apart at the seams. It dated back to the eighteenth century, and it looked like it had barely been updated since. The reception was so bad that if Faith had to make a call, she went up to the roof for a better chance at getting through. But even with the shitty reception, it'd never been that bad.
The streets of Baltimore were quiet at this time of night, but not totally empty. A siren blared a few blocks over, and a group of kids were smoking something at the mouth of an alleyway, beside the local pizza joint.
There was a strange feeling in the air. It buzzed like it was alive, and she felt a weight on her skin, as if she were being watched. But when she looked casually over her shoulder again, nobody was there. She gripped her keys tighter, picking up her pace to a brisk walk.
Her apartment building appeared eight long minutes later, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief at the sight of it, only to freeze just as suddenly at the sight of two tall figures loitering outside the front door. The building might have been ancient, but the one renovation the owners had added was a double-locked door into the lobby. It was meant to keep the residents safe – but lately, well, it hadn't been working quite as well as advertised.
As Faith grew closer to the door, she could see in the low light of the overhang that one of the men was knelt at the door, jimmying the lock, while the other was doing a bad job of appearing casual above him.
She didn't particularly want to engage, but she also wasn't going to stand outside in the frigid night air a moment longer than necessary. She took a deep breath, grip on her keys tightening enough to hurt, and spoke up.
"Lose your keys, fellas?"
The kneeling one stood upright like he'd been caught committing a crime – which, by all accounts, he had – and once he was standing, she saw he was a few inches shorter than his friend, who looked nervous at the sight of her.
The shorter one adopted a casual stance, and even in the dim light she could see a charming smirk spread across a set of full lips. "As a matter of fact, we did," he said.
"I don't recognise you from the building," she said cautiously, still gripping her keys. Prepared to use them if she had to. She wasn't sure they'd be much use against the two of them – both built like quarterbacks, wearing worn leather jackets and plaid – but if worse came to worst, she could always kick them where it would hurt most and leg it to the fire escape.
"We just moved in," said the shorter, would-be charmer.
Faith raised a single eyebrow. "Did you, now?"
He nodded, still smirking in that devil-may-care way, and she narrowed her eyes.
"Which apartment?"
"2E," said the taller one with a fleeting glance at the tenant list. His voice was younger, not quite as rough as his friend's. When her eyes cut to him, he smiled, way less charming; more nervous than anything else.
Amusement rolled through her, coupled with a thickening suspicion. She didn't get a dangerous vibe from them, but really, what innocent explanation could there possibly be for this situation? "Huh, that's weird," she said slowly. "You'd think they'd have called to tell me they'd rented out my apartment while I was at work."
The shorter one cussed and smacked his friend hard in the shoulder. "Idiot," he muttered, then sighed and turned back to Faith with an apologetic look on his face. "Okay, I'm going to be honest with you," he began plainly. "We don't actually live here."
"You don't say?"
The charmer's lips twitched as he reached into the pocket of his jacket. Faith shifted her weight backwards on her heels, lifting her keys just a little bit higher, but before she could truly panic the guy only pulled out of a small badge, which he held out for her to see.
"Detective Gilmour. This is my partner, Detective Waters," he said with a nod at the other man, who pulled out an identical badge from his pocket. Faith took two large steps forwards and snatched the badge out of the shorter one's hand. She examined it closely in the low light available, but it didn't look like a fake. Or, if it was, it was an exceptional forgery.
"All right, Detective," she said, eyes narrowed as she handed it back. "Why the unsuccessful lie?"
The two exchanged a silent look, then 'Gilmour' glanced back at her with that charming grin, this time a little bit sheepish. "We don't exactly have…permission to be here. From our superiors, I mean."
"Then why are you standing out here at three in the morning, picking my apartment building's lock, dressed like a pair of homeless lumberjacks?"
Gilmour blinked, taken aback by the snark. The detective named 'Waters' stepped in for him, seeming to sense his struggle. "Uh, we're investigating a string of disappearances in the local area," he said with an easy confidence she hadn't expected, given his age and floppy hair. He looked more like a college student than a detective, which only served to strengthen her suspicions.
"By 'local area', I assume you mean this apartment block?" she asked. He didn't appear to know how to handle her direct, no-nonsense attitude either. "Four people dead in one year. Nothing left but some blood and hair. No fingerprints found." Their eyebrows raised. "The neighbours like to gossip."
The two exchanged another weighty glance. "So, do you know anything?" asked Waters hopefully.
Faith scoffed. "Look Detective, I'm coming off a ten-hour shift. If you really wanna talk, come find me when it's daylight, yeah? You already know my apartment number," she added with a wry look in their direction.
Gilmour stepped forwards; hands tucked innocently into his pockets. "Well, would you mind letting us in? Let us poke around?"
"In the empty hallways?"
"Hallways can say a lot about a place," said Gilmour with another shrug.
She considered them a moment. Their badges had seemed real enough, and besides, the last thing she needed was to make herself memorable to the cops by refusing a request. She'd spent her whole life avoiding the attention of law enforcement, and she wasn't about to change old habits now.
"Fine," she muttered, stepped past Gilmour to jab her key into the lock. "I'm pretty sure the guy in 3E runs a crack den out of his apartment, by the way," she added in an undertone. "Y'know, just in case you're in the mood to make a bust or something."
The cops seemed surprised. "You're snitching on your neighbour?" asked Gilmour in something like amusement.
"The bastard plays dubstep at all hours of the night," she scoffed. "As far as I'm concerned, he can rot for that alone."
Gilmour chuckled while Waters just seemed bemused. Shoving open the door with her hip because it tended to stick, Faith paused long enough to hold it for the two detectives.
"If anyone asks, you never saw me," she muttered, stifling a yawn. She desperately needed a shower and some of that cocoa she hoped Nate had waiting for her.
"Yes ma'am," said Gilmour. Faith cast him a dry look but otherwise didn't respond. She lifted her hand in a half-hearted farewell, then began to slowly drag herself up the stairs. A glance over her shoulder put the two detectives at the mailboxes, muttering between themselves. With a sigh, Faith turned and thumped the rest of the way up to the second floor.
It felt like it took a small eternity to reach her apartment, but finally she was slipping her key into the lock and forcing open the stubborn door. "Nate?" she called, already toeing off her sneakers and shrugging off her old denim jacket. The kitchen light was on, and the TV was softly playing one of those shitty cooking shows Nathan watched like it was a damn competitive sport. "I don't smell cocoa! Did you fall asleep?"
There was no answer; not even so much as the creak of a floorboard. Hanging up her jacket on the hook by the door, Faith leaned around the corner to peer into the kitchen. It was empty, no sign of her cocoa – or Nate, for that matter.
Faith figured he'd probably gone to bed and just forgotten to turn off the TV. He was so forgetful sometimes – it was usually endearing, but with her as tired as she was, she just huffed in annoyance and padded on bare feet into the living room where the remote lay abandoned on the couch. The TV shut off with a click, leaving the room lit only by the muted glow from the kitchen.
Yawning again as she padded into the kitchen, Faith went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of the first thing she found – orange juice of questionable age – to quench her thirst. Dropping the glass into the sink to deal with in the morning, she made her way down the narrow corridor that led to their single bedroom, the light off and the curtains drawn.
"Nate?" she whispered. There was no answer, and so with a sigh she began to feel her way to the dresser, pulling out a pair of plaid pyjama pants and an old tee-shirt to change into. By the time she'd washed her face and taken her dark hair out of its braid, she was about ready to collapse completely.
But when she dropped down onto her side of the bed and crawled her way towards her pillow, she was pulled to an abrupt stop at the wet sensation on her hands. "The hell?" she whispered as she recoiled, the words slurred from exhaustion, although clarity was returning swiftly. "Nate, were you sick?"
She reached for his side of the bed, intent on shaking him awake. When her hands found only damp covers and empty air, Faith scrambled for the bedside lamp with her heart beating wildly in her chest.
Nothing she'd ever done or seen or experienced in her twenty-four years on this earth could have possibly prepared her for what she was going to see when that light flicked on.
Red. Everywhere. Red.
Faith's brain fell into television static, and she didn't move from where she was still on her hands and knees in the bloody bedcovers. Her entire body had gone still, thought fleeing as her muscles locked into place. Three seconds passed, then eight. Finally, something in her head snapped into gear.
"Nate," she rasped, throwing herself sideways and tumbling off the bed. She hit the floor, which was also covered in blood. It coated her side and stained her clothes, making them sticky and dark. "Nate!" she shouted, his name tearing from her throat with a crack.
A flash of colour, and Faith snapped her head towards the wall opposite her bed, where a message had been written in blood – Nate's blood.
THE CURSE DIES WITH YOU.
Hands trembling, Faith swallowed back a mouthful of sour bile. She had no idea what that meant – not even the slightest inkling. All she knew was that Nate was missing and hurt – maybe even dead. No; she had to focus on one thing at a time.
The window was shut and locked, but she couldn't see Nate anywhere. She'd already been in every room of their tiny apartment but still she tripped her way through them again, putting aside her bafflement over the words and searching for her boyfriend with a frenzy she hadn't experienced…possibly ever.
Nate couldn't be…
This wasn't…
He was all she had…all she'd ever had…
The apartment was empty, no sign of him anywhere. If he wasn't in the apartment, maybe he was outside, in a hallway – out getting help. Yes, that was it. But help against what?
One thing at a time.
She threw her weight against the front door and stumbled out into the hallway only to hit something hard and warm. Arms wrapped around her waist. She gasped, whirling around with Nate's name a scream on her lips. But it wasn't her boyfriend – it was just the detective from before. She couldn't remember his name; she barely recognised him. Just as she was sure he barely recognised her, covered in blood as she was.
"Ma'am?" asked the other detective, the tall one with a child's haircut. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
She blinked once, the words taking a moment to sink in. "Nate," she said blankly, an unnatural calm settling into her bones. Like some part of her had already died. "Nate's gone."
"Gone?" the shorter detective asked. "Where?"
She shook her head, feeling strangely like she was hovering above it all, watching it happen as a third-party observer, rather than the girlfriend of the victim, who might have just lost everything she'd ever had. "There's no body," she said, blinking into the detective's green eyes without really seeing them. "Just – just the blood. And the…words."
"Sam," barked green-eyes – Gilmour, she remembered distantly, like Pink Floyd. "Get inside, do a sweep."
The other one pulled out a gun she hadn't noticed and ducked into her apartment, flicking on lights as he went. Faith barely registered it – she knew he wouldn't find Nate in there, so what did it matter? The detective with her still in the hallway was gripping her shoulders, but she barely registered that, either.
"What's your name?" he asked quickly.
She blinked twice. "Faith."
"My name's Dean," he told her in that same soothing voice. Faith stared at him, uncomprehending. He seemed to war with himself a few moments before he finally said, "How long have you lived here, Faith?"
"Nearly three years," she answered tonelessly, her entire brain working on auto-pilot. She was little more than a body going through the motions, the rest of her checked out for the night. Possibly forever.
He nodded. "You know a lot about the building?"
"The neighbours-"
"Gossip, yeah," he nodded again. "What do they say?"
Faith felt herself frown, but it was mechanical, an automatic response that she'd made no decision to make. "Mckenzie from 4B is sleeping with the new tenant in 2A-"
"I mean about the building," said the detective impatiently. "There are legends about it, right? Stories? Folklore?"
"What does that matter?" Faith demanded. She wondered if she was going into shock. Her body felt distinctively cold, like her insides had lost all their warmth. It was also possible that was just Nate's cooling blood coating her body, freezing her like water on an icy night.
"Trust me," said Gilmour emphatically, and she blinked her attention back to him, "it matters."
"Nothing in the apartment except a whole lotta blood, and a weird message written on the wall," said the other detective, appearing from her doorway. His gun was still held out, ready and waiting. Faith swallowed around the lump in her throat, idly wondering what he'd been expecting to find.
"Saying?" demanded Gilmour.
The other man didn't answer, and Gilmour returned his attention to her.
"Faith, this is important," Gilmour said, not quite snapping, but certainly sharp. He was still gripping her shoulders, and now he brought her closer to him, letting her see the seriousness in his eyes. "You need to tell me what you know about the legends of this building."
Faith stared at him, utterly perplexed. But they were detectives, so despite how stupid it seemed, the question had to be important in some way…right? There was a fog over her brain, all she could do was what she was told.
"It used to be a hotel, back in the eighteen-hundreds," she said robotically, a story she'd heard a hundred times over. "It was converted into apartments a few decades ago. Before that, it was empty. The kids in the neighbourhood say the old owner's spirit still haunts the building. They think he was a serial killer."
The pair exchanged another glance laced with meaning. "Those kids think right," said Gilmour plainly. He pressed onwards. "We've been to the cemetery, and we've combed through all the records. There's no account of where or how that owner died. Or where his body was buried."
She blinked at him again, a faint roaring noise in her ears that might have been the frantic rush of her own blood as it thundered through her head. The fog was beginning to turn into smoke from a fire that had been lit somewhere in the region close to her heart, which was forced to watch as her life went up in flames. "Why the fuck is that important?" she demanded hotly.
"It just is," snapped Gilmour. When she still hesitated, his eyes turned imploring. "Faith, you've gotta trust me. We can stop this from happening again. You've just gotta tell us what you know."
And despite the crazy nature of the entire situation – despite the whispers in her head that had begun to turn slowly into a deafening roar – Faith found she actually believed him.
"Nate – he, he said the landlord once told him that the original owner died in the basement. And he was, um, buried beneath the old furnace down there. They say it isn't public record because nobody got council permission for him to be buried there," she told him, wondering if maybe she'd passed out after all, and this was all just some batshit fever dream. "But it's just a rumour – a ghost story."
Gilmour didn't acknowledge that last part. "The furnace in the basement?"
"Why?"
"Faith!"
She jumped, his loud voice cutting through the haze of shock in her blood. "It's down there," she told him hastily. "It hasn't been used in decades, though. I think it's been decommissioned."
Gilmour turned to his partner, and Faith vaguely thought that his green eyes seemed to catch fire in the dim overhead lighting. "We have to end this, Sammy," he said, gravelly and rough. "You stay here with her-"
"I'm not letting you face this thing alone, Dean," replied the taller one. "You saw what it did to that body in the morgue!"
Gilmour – or was it Dean? – hung his head with a curse. His hands tightened on her shoulders almost to the point of pain, but Faith relished the sensation. It helped ground her. "Faith, go back inside your apartment," he finally said, lifting his head to meet her stare.
She was already shaking her head, panic lancing through her. "Nate-"
"If Nate's still alive, we'll find him. But you have to do this, okay? You have to stay where it's safe."
Faith's mouth was dry, her throat aching from the size of the ball lodged there. She could barely swallow, let alone breathe. "I can't just sit here-"
"Nate would want you to be safe," he said, giving her shoulders a small shake. She realised with a start that she was trembling from head to toe, and thought she must look utterly mad, shaking like a leaf and covered in her boyfriend's drying blood.
"Dean," said the taller one – was it Sammy? She couldn't keep the names or anything else straight in her head. "We need to go. This thing knows we're onto it, and it's going to lash out. We can't let anyone else die."
Faith wasn't sure what was happening – not really – but growing up the way she had, she'd learnt at a young age when to go with her gut instinct. And right now, her gut instinct was screaming at her to trust these men, no matter how confusing their words were.
"Faith, you need to go," Dean urged, giving her a little push in the direction of her apartment.
"I can't," she rasped, trembling hard enough to hurt.
"You have to," Dean said, although his voice had lost its edge. He gripped her again, meeting her eyes. He seemed to read the absolute panic in her stare, and he softened some. "We'll come back for you, okay? I swear. Just go get cleaned up. You'll be okay."
But he was wrong. She wouldn't be okay. She didn't think she'd ever be okay again.
Dean pushed her gently in the direction of her door, then disappeared down the hallway with his partner. Faith stared after them, words caught and tangling in her throat. Too suddenly, she was alone.
Some part of her knew she was teetering on the edge of panic, so she descended into a place of absolute numbness. The roar in her ears grew loud again, but it was a comforting sound, like the roar of rain during a storm when she was trying to sleep. And anything was better than being alone with her thoughts. With her memories.
Faith turned on autopilot and walked into her apartment. She left the door open behind her, either for the returning detectives or in the sad hope that Nate would return, happy and unharmed. She reached out for the bar stool at their counter, blindly sitting down and trying her best not to think about how they only had it because Nate had gotten drunk one night and stolen it from a bar when the bartender had tried to spike her drink.
Everywhere she looked in the apartment were memories. Every item, every knick-knack, every single mark on the wall. All of it held a story. She wondered, half-heartedly, whether she should try scrubbing the blood from the floor, or at the very least hop into the shower to wash the blood from her skin.
But the minutes ticked on by and Faith didn't move an inch. She sat on that stolen barstool and stared at nothing, just trying not to think or breathe or feel.
The curse dies with you, she recalled, the image of those letters written in Nate's blood seared onto the surface of her brain. She'd remember them until the day she died. She'd remember all of this, she thought. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would wake up tomorrow with amnesia, and she'd go back to where she'd been before Nate; before she'd known what it was not to like a half-life.
Faith had no idea how long she was sitting there. It could have been minutes or hours, and she couldn't have possibly told the difference. The only reason she was broken from her silent staring was because of the shrill alarm ringing throughout the building.
For a moment she just looked up at the ceiling in confusion. It took a lot longer than it should have for Faith to realise it was the fire alarm, and by the time she had, she could already smell the smoke. Real smoke this time, not just in her head.
Had those detectives set the building on fire? Nothing about this night was making any sense. Where was Nate? Was he even alive? Was she ever going to see him again, or would the last thing she ever said to him really be a demand for cocoa with the promised payment of sexual favours?
There was screaming from the floors around her, and distantly she could hear the wail of sirens. She climbed slowly to her feet, walking calmly across the room to the door. She poked her head out into the hall, finding it full of smoke and fleeing residents.
Some part of her thought it odd that the fire had spread so quickly, like it had a mind of its own. The whole building had gone up in smoke so fast; shouldn't it have taken much longer? Or had she really been staring at nothing and thinking of no one for that long?
The smoke was thick, clogging her lungs and making her eyes burn. Disproportionately calm, Faith turned back inside her apartment. Like another switch flicked, she went from thoughtless to purposeful in an instant.
The fire hadn't yet reached the inside of her apartment, but she knew she didn't have long before it did. She wasn't a particularly sentimental person, but she found herself staring at her and Nate's things, considering what to save, if any of it at all.
They say that in a fire, your true priorities are exposed in an instant; but for Faith, it wasn't so instantaneous. She stood in the middle of her apartment for a good thirty seconds, coughing the smoke from her lungs and trying to make herself think.
The sirens were getting louder with every heavy thump of her heart, and finally Faith snapped into action. Grabbing a garbage bag from the kitchen counter, her first stop was the stash of cash she kept inside the couch cushions – a habit from a life she'd told herself she'd long since left behind.
She tore the fabric of the cushions with her bare hands, ripping them open and shoving the wads of cash into the garbage bag. Then she darted into the bedroom where she rifled desperately through her dresser, ignoring the blood splattered on the wood and just grabbing the first things she touched, throwing them into the bag.
She was just about to turn to leave when she caught sight of the framed picture of her and Nate from – well, it had to be over a year ago, now. Nate was grinning at the camera, but she was staring at him like a puppy. She'd always hated it, but it had always been Nate's favourite. He was a sappy fool like that.
On a whim, Faith thrust it into her makeshift suitcase then heaved the whole thing over her shoulder and made a beeline for the window that led out to the fire escape. They never opened it because Nathan was allergic to pollen and the park across the street always made his allergies flare up. And now, when Faith grabbed the handle and tried to heave it up, she found it wouldn't budge.
"Fuck," she muttered towards the heavens, as though anyone up there actually gave a damn.
She dropped her bag of meagre belongings and grabbed the handle with both her hands, bracing her feet against the radiator and hefting it upwards with all her strength. She realised with a pang that the hinges were rusted over from disuse. Cursing again, Faith stepped back, took a deep breath of smoky air, then lifted her foot – only to realise she was still barefooted.
The deliberately-lit fire had reached her apartment by now, the flames pouring in through the doorway and spreading swiftly towards the bedroom. Single-minded in her intent, Faith wasted no time grabbing the winter throw they'd laid over their bed and wrapping it hastily around her fist. Then, with another deep breath that had her spluttering, Faith thrust her covered fist through the window.
Her fist bounced harmlessly off the glass, fingers cracking from inside her makeshift glove. Cursing once more, she grit her teeth and hit the window again, and then again and again. The fire was creeping closer, and there was no longer any escape out the front door, not with the archway of flames eating their way towards her. This window was her only option.
She hadn't survived everything – all the foster homes and the years on the street as a pickpocket and the shitty, manipulative boyfriends and this beautiful, fleeting attempt at normalcy – just so she could go out in an apartment fire, covered in the love of her life's blood, all because she wasn't strong enough to punch out a goddamn fucking window!
With a final, furious flare of determination, Faith threw herself at the pane of glass with everything she had in her 5'5'' form. Her arm went straight through the glass, some of the shards cutting through the blanket to slice up her arm, but with everything else going on, Faith barely even felt it.
The burst of fresh air from the broken window was nearly enough to have her weeping. Faith hastily punched out the remaining shards before hefting up her garbage bag of belongings and shoving it out onto the fire escape.
She was only on the second floor, so it was relatively easy to climb down the fire escape's stairs, even if some of the broken glass bit into her bare feet and her lungs still ached from the smoke of the fire. The fire escape's ladder didn't lead directly to the ground, so Faith's only option was to throw her bag as gently as she could to the concrete, then leap off herself. She hit the ground hard but rolled with it, managing to escape a broken ankle even as her sliced up feet screeched in protest.
The fire department had arrived, aiming their hoses into the roaring inferno that was her apartment block. But the fire had already claimed most of it, and the water was doing little to slow its furious burning. Faith shouldered her bag and slipped into the crowd of residents gathered in the street, staring mournfully up at their home.
Faith stared at the window that led to her kitchen, the flames roaring and devouring everything in their path. The photos and take-out menus they'd stuck to the fridge would be nothing but ash now, and the fresh bread Nathan had baked the day before would be gone, too. All of it, every trace of their lives together – eaten by fire.
Staring up at the flames, listening to the people around her cry, Faith wondered where Nate was. Was he still alive? There'd been a lot of blood in their apartment, but that didn't necessarily mean he was dead. There was still a chance, wasn't there? That her boyfriend could just be stuck somewhere, waiting for her to find him.
"Ma'am?"
A hand delicately touched her shoulder, and she whipped around to see a paramedic watching her warily. She remembered, suddenly, that she was covered in Nate's blood. The poor paramedic probably thought she was bleeding out.
"This way, ma'am," he said, guiding her with a gentle hand towards the open back of an ambulance. She opened her mouth to speak, only for a hacking cough to come out instead. Her tongue felt like it was coated in a thick layer of ash, and her throat was burning like she'd swallowed hot coals.
And because of that – and the way her bloodied hands and feet were screaming for attention – she didn't argue as he led her to the ambulance. Sat on the lip of the truck, she set her garbage bag of things at her feet and allowed the paramedic to strap an oxygen mask to her face.
It made it easier to breathe, though every breath sent pain ricocheting through her chest. But she didn't think it was from any physical injury she'd sustained. This was just pure, unadulterated grief.
She was utterly silent as the paramedic treated her wounds, not even flinching as he picked the larger shards of broken glass out of her arms. If she thought she was numb to it all before, it was nothing compared to now.
"Ma'am?" said the paramedic, and she blinked at him blankly. Clearly, he'd been trying to get her to speak for some time now, but she was deaf to his questions. Someone settled a heavy blanket over her shoulders, but she didn't like the weight of it and stubbornly shrugged it off.
Once again Faith wasn't sure how long had passed – time had become something vague and indistinct, an idea rather than any measurable thing – but eventually the firefighters got control of the blaze. They weren't in time to save the building, though. It was little more than a skeleton of what it had been.
"It seems to have started in the old furnace," a nearby firefighter was saying to a colleague, the words piercing her numb, foggy head. "Hasn't been used in years, but apparently some idiot thought it would be a good idea to use it to roast marshmallows."
"Someone lit that furnace from the inside?" the other firefighter asked, aghast. "But there was no way that thing could contain the fire. Think this was deliberate?"
"They probably didn't mean for the whole place to go up in flames," said the other. "But there's no doubt about it; someone lit that fire."
"Ma'am?" said the paramedic again.
Faith's eyes snapped back to him, a heat in her blood that could have put the husk of a building before her to shame. "Call me ma'am one more time," she snarled. The paramedic reeled back, stunned by the force of her ire, but before she could go in for the kill, a tall man in a sooty leather jacket appeared, flashing a badge in the twitchy medic's face.
"Detective Gilmour with the BPD," said the man from earlier in the night – Dean, his partner – Sam? – had called him. Both of them were stood above her now, weary but calm looks on their faces. "We need a moment alone with Miss…" he looked at her pointedly.
"Bueller," she supplied dully.
The paramedic hesitated, then dug around in a nearby pack to pull out two small white pills. "Take these for the pain," he told her, handing over a small bottle of room-temperature water. "We'll need to take you to the hospital to get you looked at, so don't go anywhere."
Faith didn't bother to reply, tossing back the pills and swallowing them dry as he scurried off to treat somebody else. The two detectives – though, by this point, she was skeptical that they even were with the BPD – looked at one another, then the taller one settled down beside her.
"Faith, right?" he asked gently.
"What happened?" she demanded because nothing else mattered. "Where's Nate?"
The two exchanged another weighted glance and it took a great deal of restraint for Faith not to just scream in their faces. Neither answered her questions, and so she sat up a little straighter, forcing herself out of her grief-stricken haze to glare at them.
"I have questions, you have the answers I want. If you don't intend to give them to me, I'm going to go over there to that real police officer and let him know that I have the exact description of the two men who burned this entire apartment building to the ground," she snapped.
The standing one – Dean – blinked in shock, then smiled just a tiny bit, like he was pleasantly surprised. "You drive a hard bargain," he said it lazily, playfully, like dozens of families on this block hadn't just had their whole lives ruined in a matter of minutes.
Faith flew to her feet, ignoring the stabbing pain from the cuts on her bare soles, and grabbed the man by his jacket, throwing him hard against the side of the fire truck parked behind him. Dean made a noise of surprise and his friend leapt upright in alarm, but she ignored them both, snarling in Dean's face.
"You're going to tell me what I want to know," she snarled, and it was the furthest thing from a request she'd ever made.
Something in Dean's eyes softened; maybe it was because she was covered in blood and ash and looked completely pathetic, or maybe it was because he recognised the desperation in her eyes. Maybe at some point, he'd lost someone he cared about, too.
"You have a place to go tonight?" he asked quietly.
She was surprised by the question but didn't let it show. "Considering you just burnt my apartment building to the ground; I'd say the answer's kind of obvious."
Dean glanced at his friend, made a motion with his chin that she supposed was meant to mean something, and then returned his attention to her. "We have a motel room only a few blocks away."
This time she did let her surprise show, then her expression hardened into a defensive glare. The man supposedly named Dean lifted his hands in surrender.
"It's a genuine offer," he insisted. "No funny business. You can get cleaned up, and we'll answer your questions."
"Dean, the medic said she had to get checked out at the hospital-" began his partner from behind her.
"I'm not going to the hospital," she said before he could finish such a stupid thought.
"No health insurance, right?" asked Dean knowingly.
She scowled. "Among other things."
"Look, after tonight, you deserve an explanation – some closure. We can give that to you, and a safe place to clean up and sleep. It's the least we could do," Dean told her. He seemed genuine enough, but she was jaded enough at the world by now to know you could never take a man at face value.
Except Nate – he had been, and remained, the one person she'd been able to trust in this life.
She was still holding him against the fire truck, but Dean seemed to be letting her – she got the sense he could shrug her off as easily as batting away a fly. But he let her grip him, pressing him threateningly to the truck. She watched as his hand went to his waistband, her grip tightening on the ashy lapels of his leather jacket in response, then she flinched back when he revealed a long knife with a serrated edge.
"It's okay," said Dean soothingly, flipping the knife in his hand so he held the blade, the wooden handle extended in offering. "If it makes you feel better, you can borrow this," he added kindly. "Feel free to stab me if I try anything hinky."
She stared at him an extra moment, but in the end deemed him serious. She took the knife, its handle warm under her cold fingers. It felt sturdy and safe in her hand, like the only real thing left in this world, and she let out a small breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"So, what do you say?" Dean asked quietly.
She considered him carefully. He seemed genuine enough, and lord knew she didn't have any other options. She could always use her emergency cash to hire out her own motel room, but she was still covered in blood – by now some of it was even her own – and she knew it'd set off alarm bells no matter the seediness of the place she chose.
Besides, she could feel, deep in her gut, that these two strangers had the answers she desperately needed. Besides, worst came to worst, she could gut them like fish and hit the ground again. It'd been three years since she'd lived on the streets, but she'd done it for most of her life before that, and she assumed it was sort of like riding a bike.
"Okay," she finally said, although her eyes remained narrowed in suspicion and her grip on her new knife never wavered. She wouldn't be letting it go any time soon. "Fine. If I'm going to get answers," she bargained.
Dean held up his right hand. "Scout's honour."
"Dean," said his partner quietly, for some reason disapproving.
"Come on, Sammy. The lady needs a safe place to rest her head. Wouldn't be very gentlemanly of us to send her onto the streets, would it?" said Dean with barely a glance. "Faith gets shotgun, by the way."
'Sammy' didn't argue, although she could tell he wanted to protest. But it probably felt a little too cold to deny her this small kindness. Another medic blanched at the sight of her when they passed by, but before she could be corralled into another ambulance, Dean flashed his detective's badge and led her out of the growing crowd. Faith tried to hide her limp, but Dean noticed and tried to take her bag from her.
"Touch it and I gut you," she snapped, flashing the knife in promise. He held up his hands in surrender and kept leading her around the corner. Things were still chaotic, but at least there were significantly less eyes on them as Dean stopped at a gorgeous classic car and opened the passenger side door for her to get in.
She didn't hesitate, because while this might have been a stupid decision, it was one she intended to stick with. Sliding into the seat, Faith tucked her bulging garbage bag of money and clothes underneath her feet and gripped tight to the knife as Dean climbed behind the wheel and Sam shuffled onto the back seat.
They were silent on the drive to the motel, taking a slightly longer route in an effort to avoid the police and media now surrounding her old apartment block like crows come to feast on the remains left behind. Faith was glad neither of the men tried to make conversation. She didn't stare out the window, either. She just ran her fingertips over the serrated edge of the knife in her lap and tried to keep from thinking anything at all.
At some point, Dean flicked on his stereo and Another Brick in the Wall boomed through the car. Dean flinched and turned the volume down, but the sound of the familiar song sparked something in her hazy memory.
"Gilmour and Waters?" she rasped, throat coated with smoke from the blaze.
Dean huffed a laugh, but a glance at her scowling face had him wincing. "We'll, uh, we'll explain soon," said Sam from in the back. Faith ignored them and turned to the window. The city flew by, dark in some places and lit up in others, but Faith was blind to it all. All she could see was all that blood in the bedroom she'd shared with Nate.
They arrived at their motel – a dingy little place that Faith would be willing to bet did pay-by-the-hour deals. Dean and Sam got out of the car immediately, but Faith took a little while longer, feet burning with every step she took, the weight of her garbage bag making her shoulders ache.
Dean unlocked the door to room twelve, waving her inside. She hesitated in the doorway, second thoughts suddenly flitting through her head. When she turned to look, Dean's eyes were imploring. "Nothing hinky," he promised again, handheld over his heart like it was meant to convince her.
It didn't work, but she figured at this point, she didn't really have anything to lose.
The room was drab and tacky, with lime green covers on the two single beds against the far wall, and a tiny excuse for a kitchenette in the corner. A door in the back of the room led to what she assumed – hoped – was a bathroom.
"Bathroom's through there," said Dean with a nod at the door. She wondered if there was a reliable lock she could use. "Feel free to take the knife in with you," he added, as though sensing the direction of her thoughts.
Faith said nothing as she dragged her bag into the bathroom and shut it without looking back at them. She was desperate for answers – although how they were going to make any of tonight make any sense whatsoever, she had no idea – but even more than that, she was desperate to wash Nathan's blood off her body. That took priority.
She thought maybe she'd break down and cry in the shower, like characters did in movies. Maybe something about the comforting heat and the running water would crack the shell that had formed around her heart and send her careening into the landslide of grief that was surely on the horizon.
But as she used the shitty motel soap sample to wash herself, no tears came. There was nothing except confusion, like her brain hadn't yet caught up with the events of the day. It didn't feel real. As she washed her hair with shampoo that smelt like laundry detergent, she tried to remember the last time she'd seen and spoken to Nathan – that creepy phone call notwithstanding.
It would have been that morning, before his shift at the factory. He'd woken her up with a kiss and she'd laughed as he'd nibbled her neck, grumbling playfully about how much he'd rather stay in bed with her all day. But the moment hadn't lasted – nothing good ever did. He'd gotten up to quickly shower and dress for work, and she'd dozed before her own shift at the diner, which hadn't started for another six hours.
She'd felt him kiss her forehead and she'd reached for his hand. He laughed, told her he'd see her when she got home, and that he was looking forward to their weekend off. They'd planned to go hiking at one of Nathan's favourite trails just outside the city.
The realisation that that wasn't ever going to happen was perhaps the most disarming thing.
But there might have been hope, she realised. She'd never seen a body, and if there wasn't a body, then there was no conclusive evidence that Nathan was dead. And if anybody would know how to find him, it would be the two fake detectives out in that motel room.
Faith's movements sped up. She towelled off hastily and dug in her garbage bag until she'd produced a pair of sweatpants and an old tee-shirt to pull on. She hadn't grabbed any shoes, but that didn't matter right now. She just had to speak to those men and get some goddamn answers.
Her hair was still dripping onto her shoulders when she left the bathroom. Sam and Dean were sat at the small table under the window by the door. They stopped talking and looked up when she appeared, but Faith didn't crack under the combined weight of their stares.
"You promised me answers," she said, voice even and measured and without any grief. There was only her fierce determination for the truth.
"It's a long story," said Sam, a hesitant look on his face. "We're not sure you'll believe us."
She strode across the room, barely managing to hide her limp as she grabbed the third chair at their table, spun it around, and sat on it backwards, staring at them with stubborn resolve in her eyes. "Try me."
A moment of tense quiet, then it was the one called Dean who spoke. "It was a ghost."
She stared at them without a word, thinking nothing, and that seemed all the signal Dean needed to press on.
"You were right about the old legends. Your apartment building was owned by a man named Jonathan Keller back in 1891, when it was still a hotel."
As he spoke, Sam grabbed the box nearest to him and dragged it onto the table. It took Faith a moment to realise it wasn't a box at all, but rather a laptop, which he opened and turned to face her, so she could see the monochrome photograph of a man with thick eyebrows and hatred in his colourless eyes.
"He was a serial killer, one of the most famous in this city's history. He ended up being killed by one of his own victims, but back then, law enforcement wasn't as…rigid…as it is now. His death managed to go mostly unnoticed, but his wife knew. And she knew what he wanted done with his body. So, just like in that silly old ghost story, his body was buried in the basement – just beneath the furnace, ensuring he would be able to stay there, haunting it for the rest of his undying days."
Faith frowned, gripping the top of the chair she straddled until her knuckles ached and turned white. Her wet hair was still dripping a river of cold water down the length of her spine, but she barely felt any of it.
What they were saying was crazy – impossible – but they seemed so genuine that, at the very least, she believed they believed what they were saying. "Haunting it how?" was her first question, suspicious and careful.
"He would kill people who matched the description of those he used to abduct, torture and kill when he was still alive," Dean told her steadily, maybe a tiny bit apologetically. She frowned, and he read her skepticism. "All those missing people in your building? That was him. They didn't run away. They were murdered."
She swallowed. "But – there'd be bodies…" she said, suddenly not so sure.
"He had a crawl space in the basement, near the furnace," said Sam gently. "It had been bricked over, but we found it. And…we found the bodies."
Faith's heart had swelled up into her throat. "The blood…?" The two exchanged another wordless glance. Faith's eyes hardened like concrete. "What?"
"Well, to be honest, we're not sure about that," said Sam, a frown furrowing his brow. "It doesn't fit with the pattern of the other missing people. There's never been any blood left behind before."
Frustration was like a living beast inside of her. Faith tried not to bare her teeth in anger. "So, you're saying Nate might not have been killed by this ghost," she said, eyes threatening violence if they didn't get their stories straight. "He could still be out there, and alive, and-and hurt…"
Their eyes glittered with what was unmistakably pity and Faith felt like somebody had swooped in and scooped out her insides with a spoon.
"What," she demanded again, more order than question.
A pause, and then Dean was the one to reach into his pocket. She wasn't sure what she was expecting him to pull out, but a small ring wasn't it. The breath left her lungs as though she'd been punched in the chest, winded and bruised. Faith stared at the ring, which was achingly familiar.
A small band of gold with a flat, circular top, the initials N.W.C. carved into the set of the face. Faith reached for it without making a conscious decision to do so. Dean handed over the ring without a word, and when it fell into her palm, its weight was heavier than she'd have ever thought possible.
"Where did you get this?" she rasped.
"We found a…body," said Sam, so quiet she nearly missed it. Pity swam in the taller man's hazel eyes and the sight of it made her want to retch. "He was young, about your age, with black hair? It was the only…recently deceased…body there."
She didn't want to believe it, almost couldn't. She stared at Sam, the words both gibberish and horrifyingly clear.
"He was in the crawl space with all the bones of the spirit's other victims," said Dean, as though she hadn't understood. It said a lot that she didn't even have it within her to glare at him.
Faith swallowed around a mouth as dry as a desert. "But if the pattern didn't fit with the ghost-"
"It might not have been the ghost that did it," said Dean with a calm nod. "True. But what else would have known about the crawl space, or how to get inside? It's the only thing that makes sense."
Faith swallowed again. "And the fire?" she asked hoarsely. "Was it really necessary to burn the entire building to the ground?"
"That wasn't us," said Dean quickly. At her look of disbelief, he pressed on. "Honestly, it wasn't. I think over the years buried under the furnace, he'd sort of…merged with it. As a way to protect his bones, he lit it, but the thing was so old and rusted…"
"It couldn't contain the fire, and it spread quickly," finished Sam grimly. "There was nothing we could do."
"Worked out for the best, though," added Dean. "The only way to put a ghost to rest for good is to salt and burn its bones. It lit the fire itself – all we had to do was add the salt. Not often a ghost burns itself. Dad'll get a kick outta that one."
Sam made a face that Faith barely registered, her attention on Dean, who was acting so callously cheerful about the whole thing that she wanted to throw something at him.
"People lost their homes tonight," she reminded him sharply. "They lost – they lost everything. Don't you dare sit there and enjoy it."
The amused curve to Dean's lips vanished, replaced by a deep frown and a pinch of his brow. She gritted her teeth and looked back at Sam, whose expression was etched with a sympathy she felt drawn to. She didn't really want anyone's sympathy, but even that was better than levity and callousness.
Faith didn't know where to go from here. She turned her eyes down to the ring she held, the only physical piece of Nathan she had left. She wondered how long it would be before the pieces of him that lived on in her memory would begin to fade, too. Soon enough, this ring and that picture would be the only things left.
"How do you guys know all this stuff?" she finally asked, slowly sliding the ring onto the middle finger on her right hand. It didn't fit – far too big on her thin fingers. With an ache in her heart she slid it off again, curling her fingers around it so the cool metal pressed tight against her palm.
It wasn't meant for her, anyway. It would always belong to Nate. His death didn't change that.
"It's what we do," said Dean, a note of pride in his voice. "We're hunters."
She looked up from the ring. "Hunters?"
"Of the things that go bump in the night."
"And the detective badges fit into this, how?"
Sam huffed out a chuckle, seeming embarrassed. "They let us do our jobs a whole lot quicker."
Faith folded her arms and arched a single brow, as if the hole in her heart wasn't a sinkhole threatening to drag her down into its depths. As if she didn't wish it would. "So, if I'm not talking to Detectives Gilmour and Waters, then who exactly am I talking to?"
There was no hesitation as Dean held out a hand. "Dean Winchester," he said with a great deal more cheer than she expected. She reluctantly put her hand into his and shook; his skin was rough with callouses and scars, but his grip was gentle. "And this is my little brother, Sammy," Dean added with a nod in his brother's direction.
"Sam is fine," corrected Sam. Faith gingerly shook his hand, too. It wasn't quite as rough as his brother's, as if he didn't do the same amount of fighting as Dean did. As if he'd had a much less violent life.
"What about you?" Dean asked curiously. She returned her attention to him. "Is your name really Faith?" he asked with a crooked grin.
She hesitated in telling them her own, but she figured if they could be honest about all of this, the least she could do was to tell them her name. "Faith Bueller," she told him quietly.
"Bueller?" echoed Dean, eyes lighting up from the inside. "As in Ferris?"
"Yeah," she rasped, no amusement in her own. Dean seemed to realise the levity was inappropriate. This type of thing might be old hat to he and his brother, but Faith had lost her boyfriend, her home, and all her belongings in the span of barely an hour. Everything she had, everything she'd spent so many years fighting for and building from the ground up – all of it was gone.
"You probably want to get some sleep," said Sam. "Did you want us to go rent you another room?"
She opened her mouth to say yes, but quickly changed her mind. If this was all real – if ghosts were real – then who knew what else was out there, waiting in the dark? Suddenly, the idea of being alone was about as appealing as living this whole day over for a second time.
Thankfully, she was saved from admitting so by Dean, who seemed to sense what she was thinking – which made the count twice in one night. "Why don't you take my bed?" he offered, voice gruff with just a hint of awkward. "I'll take the couch."
Sam cast Dean a look that Faith didn't bother to read, and it said a lot about how exhausted she felt that she didn't even pretend to argue before nodding her head and climbing to her feet. "Um…" she began slowly, scratching uncomfortably at her temple. "Thank you. Y'know, for helping."
"Don't mention it," said Dean promptly, waving her off. "Just get some sleep."
She nodded once, grateful they didn't have to dwell on it, then took a seat on the bed towards the righthand side of the room. Dean made his way into the bathroom while Sam went to the kitchen and began to boil the small kettle the room provided. Faith had about a million more questions on her tongue, but her eyes were droopy and sore, and the temptation of oblivion was too enticing to ignore.
The lights were still on, and she was bunking with a pair of strange men, and yet she was still out like a light before she'd even realised she'd shut her eyes.
A/N: And that's the first chapter! I'll be posting chapter 2 right away, but after that they'll only be coming once or so a week. I have it written way in advance, but we'll see how it goes. I really hope you enjoyed. Would love to hear your thoughts!
In the next chapter: Faith and Dean disagree on where to go from here, while Sam buys breakfast and has a heart-to-heart with Faith.