A/N: Happy New Year!
I meant it when I said I wouldn't give up on this story. And imagine my shock when I realized that I hadn't updated since April. Of 2023.
A whole heck of a lot has changed in my life since then. I'm talkin' moving states, career changes, going back to school, and so much more. I imagine some of you may be able to say the same. But no matter where the last year and a half has placed us, I could think of no better way to bring in 2025 than with the continuation of this tale, so here's to a brand new year of shenanigans for the Winchester family and yours!
Warning: This chapter involves themes of suicide.
It hadn't really hit them until they were choking back cheap coffee in a hospital hallway. The moment almost snuck up on them, realizing that Lucifer was gone. Realizing that the nightmare was finally over.
Dean holding the knife in Hell, Sam breaking the final seal, and every tribulation thereafter was finally redeemed in the most unexpected way. Where Gabriel was now, they hadn't a damn clue. He gave them no time for a proper thank you, nor did the archangel even spare them a farewell glance. In the end, he really did have to clean up their mess, but as for why, they couldn't say. He seemed pretty adamant that he couldn't go through with facing his brother again, let alone kill him. But whatever the reason for their rescue, they were grateful.
However, beyond their initial relief of the Apocalypse's demise, there was a lingering dread.
What now?
What would Hell do without threat of destruction? What was to become of Heaven now that only one archangel lived? Would they live to see a day where this wasn't considered a victory?
The hospital's dismal aura didn't help to dispel these brewing concerns, but getting news of Frankie waking up did the trick.
Her room smelled like latex, and a little like lo mein. There was a Chinese joint down the road, and the faint smell of the dinner rush wafted through the open window by her bed. Tubes were pierced and taped in place on her right hand.
Her right hand.
Cas sure fixed her up good. Her face - which had been unrecognizable at Lucifer's end - was flawless. Full cheeks, no blemishes, and clear eyes that shut as a frigid breeze seeped in.
But for all his power, Cas couldn't erase the weight of her frown. Her creased brow and muted pallor spoke plainly that her recovery was purely physical. Staring at her, small and sterile on the hospital bed, they understood that she was their little sister on the outside, but inside there was a stranger.
Frankie had been a near pain in the ass. Stubborn and helpful to a fault, she had no qualms about tossing herself into trouble. A Winchester trait, sure, but Frankie was often more a danger to herself than to others. Despite that fact, she had surprised them more than once. She was a fast learner, and truly enthusiastic about being in their family, only… she had pretty shitty ideas on how to do that.
So desperate to be loved, to be more than what she was destined for, Frankie bartered off her very soul the moment the seed was sown in her mind. She couldn't afford a miracle; her new life was minutes from leaving the parking lot.
So afraid of being alone, Frankie made the choice that would ultimately save her from that fear, but instill in her a greater one.
Sam couldn't anticipate the difference as much as Dean did regarding the girl lying not ten feet away. Dean spent forty years in Hell. More than half of his existence, tortured and torturing. The man who sold his own soul to bring his brother back had truly died the day those hellhounds tore through his guts.
Ten years in, Dean cracked. Pulling a tough front was the only weapon he wielded, but the will to maintain it was being grated away, just as his skin. The old Dean, alive in memories, was fading.
Twenty, he was as numb as one could get in Hell. Still felt pain and still made pleas, but they were the same as everybody else's. Yearns for it all to end, desires for them to stop. Hanging tightly to memories of his old life was no longer a ritual. He took the pain, screaming and pleading, but there was only him and that demon in the world. Sam was more of a feeling than someone he once knew. He always felt there was a reason for his suffering, but some days, when Alastair was especially zealous, Dean considered if it had been worth it.
By year thirty, Dean broke. Barely anything of his old life thrummed within him. He was worn, so that was why Alastair's offer to clock in for the job, to tear into others - an offer he made each and every day - sounded that much sweeter. And Dean took it. This time, no fuss.
How should he have known it would cause the calamity that it did? At the time, all it cost him was hearing the pleading come from his own blade, something he was sure to get used to as eternity carried on, he hoped.
But eternity hadn't come. Castiel did. And Dean wanted so badly for that to be something he could feel grateful for.
But Frankie wasn't the only one with nightmares.
Just as he had, Frankie Pearce died that night in Carthage, resurrection be damned. What she saw, what she felt, what she became was something that man could not understand, and angels even less.
Yet here was Dean, the only being on Heaven or Earth that did.
God, it had been forever since he saw her like this. Unmarked. In one piece. And yet her face, finally turning to look them in the eye for the first time in months - to her, years - was more foreign than ever before.
There was clear grief in her gaze. A shadow that sadly suited her features. And while Sam's strained, slightly quivering smile received a heap of her dejection, it was to Dean - allowing her and her alone to peek at the shared anguish between them - that her wall finally crumbled, and that grief was finally freed.
It started in her chest, a heave, then a sob. Lips tightened as she cried through her nostrils, tears filling the creases her agony birthed. Not once did her eyes leave her eldest brother.
Like any other trial, Dean dove into action, striding over sterilized tile to crush his sister in an embrace long overdue. So small, his arms nearly wrapped around her twice. Her fists - both of them, he logged with lingering disbelief - clenched around his jacket with a strength so beyond her. It was impossible to tell if they had their own tremor when her entire form shook.
He didn't speak a word, or else he, too, would dampen her clothes with tears, but words were not needed. They were burdened with a connection beyond what should be spoken aloud. Perhaps they never would speak of their experiences, but that was perfectly fine with both of them. Simply knowing that there was one person who understood was enough.
A hand left his shoulder. He couldn't be bothered to stop and wonder why when his sister, free from torture at last, was here in his arms, but in the end he didn't need to. Sam's wet sniff as he took her outstretched hand could also surpass words.
"You don't know what it's like, Sam."
Frankie didn't speak much these days. In fact, it was treated as a momentous occasion when she managed to utter even a single word, not to her face, of course. If it was spoken to Dean, Sam and Bobby were sure to hear about it moments later. Little victories like that had to be noted when the girl behaved more like a fish than a living, breathing human. But such things were to be expected when your brain bunks with the Devil.
"I don't even know."
It surely bothered Frankie, their hovering, but she refused to acknowledge it. Or anything.
The only thing that made Sam and Dean's skins crawl more than picturing what Lucifer put her through was the girl's new behavior. She was eerily quiet, sure, but not always.
The first night after the hospital was when they learned how bad it really was. They were woken up by what they at first assumed was a banshee - a shrill, raspy howl that turned their blood cold - but after realizing that it was coming from upstairs, they knew that it was no specter.
Grabbing the nearest weapon, they rushed up into Frankie's room, but they found no assailant. Only their sister, wide awake with bulging, panicked eyes, huddled in a corner and swinging a knife in wide, erratic arcs. There was no target in sight, but a clear victim, as her arms and legs were littered with fresh cuts.
Dean threw his pistol on the bed and dropped to his knees before her. "Hey, hey!" he called in a steady voice, though his own flavor of panic could be heard behind his words. He snatched her wrist, and the blade right after. In the absence of her only means of protection from whatever was haunting her, the girl cowered into herself, tucking against the wall and wailing.
Dean willed himself to be soothing, comforting. Speaking to her in a hushed but firm voice to bring her back to Earth, because in her mind, she was clearly somewhere else. He didn't stop until he heard hoarse sobs. The sight of her in such a state of disconnect from reality, hearing the consequence of her shattered mind, was enough to still his tongue. He had it rough after his time, no doubt, but this was alien to him. How was he going to fix this? He didn't even know where to begin.
Shivering like a washer on its spin cycle, she slowly turned her face to her brother. Dean was a strong man - stronger than most - yet the sight of her swollen and shimmering, pink eyes, hollow, yet finally alert and peeking through frizzy strands of dark hair, struck him in the gut like brass knuckles. He pulled her into his chest, and she went willingly. In fact, she was as limp as she was quiet in his embrace. He rubbed her back, the only thing he could think to do.
Every twitch in his lip, every prickle in his eyes, and every faltering muscle was willed into submission through sheer force. He had to ground her, to be the buoy in her storm.
Such scenes were almost routine in the following months. She would wake from a nightmare only to find herself still in one, they would hurry in to subdue her, and then she would fall silent.
The silence was almost as bad as the screams.
When she wasn't reliving her own personal Hell, she sat on the porch, lounging on a chair she dragged from the kitchen. She wouldn't need it there anyway, she so rarely ate. She would watch the sky constantly, sometimes witnessing the sunrise and sunset with only bathroom breaks disrupting the monotony.
Despite snow claiming everything that didn't have an awning, she only wore sweatpants and a tank top. One of the three men constantly within eyesight would bring out a quilt to drape around her, but Dean was the only one who didn't observe the habit with concern. At least she wasn't screaming.
That was where she was settled when Sam finally came to Dean with a swell of worry. They were closing in on two months since Detroit, and there wasn't even a twitch of variance in her new regimen.
"Well, yeah," he whined over crossed arms, staring warily out the grimey window where the girl perched. "But there's gotta be something else we could be doing for her, right? I mean, nightmares are one thing, but this?" He sighed deeply and turned to his brother. "This isn't living."
"Listen, there's not a thing in creation that knows what's going on in her head, and the only one I trust to even try and take a peek is M.I.A. We've tried just about everything except shock therapy. What exactly do you suggest we do here?"
"I don't know! Maybe get her out of an occult library? I'm sure seeing demon traps in every room isn't exactly helping her adjust."
Dean's gaze moved to the girl, narrowed on her tangled hair. "I can't stick another brand on her. Not yet." Soul, skin, ribs… where hadn't she been seared? "Demon traps'll have to do. I'll be skewered up my ass before I let another thing wear her skin."
Though, one morning, Frankie did find her way out of the house.
Sam had rubbed his face groggily as he entered the kitchen. Practically half-dead on his feet, he sauntered to a cabinet above the stove and scanned the vibrantly designed boxes of cereal inside. Each one having a paragraph of sugary, heart-fattening ingredients, he reached for the one least artificially colored: a generic oat-based brand.
He made a mental note to tag along with Dean on the next grocery run. The world was no longer ending; they didn't need to eat like it still was.
A trip into town might be in the cards anyway, because the milk had expired. A quick sniff, grimace, and groan of irritation hinted that it had been for quite some time. He shut the fridge with a light thud, his cloudy head revving a cold start to try and figure something else to eat.
Rumbling from outside startled him. A series of angry whines from an ancient engine, an actual cold start.
Sam hurried over to the living room window, wiping away condensation and peering through the glass to see Bobby's old truck finally thrum to life, its headlights beaming through falling snow.
Sam always had good instincts, and right now they told him to check the hooks by the front door. Frankie's purse - rescued from her apartment in Tennessee - was missing.
He was out the door just as a metallic creak shifted the truck into first gear. Its wheels slipped against freshly fallen snow before lightly lurching forward. It nearly turned toward the front gate before Sam skidded to a stop in its path. He yelled, "Hey, hey, hey!" and held his arms out in front of him. The cold brakes squeaked as they stopped the truck, and he flinched as heavy objects in the back crashed against the metal bed.
The driver's side door opened. "Sam!" Frankie shouted incredulously. She hopped out of the truck and marched toward him. "I could've killed you! What–What were you-?"
"Where do you think you're going?!" Sam took a wide step toward her, his face pinched in a glare.
An entire two months of manic screaming and catatonia, of hyperventilating during thunderstorms and massaging a cramping hand, and she suddenly gets behind the wheel, completely unannounced. Sam cursed himself for forgetting his demon knife. Maybe she did get possessed.
The girl ducked her head and slightly turned away, a new habit of hers. Very different from the curious, excitable attitude she used to have. Yet now, though her words were quiet, an actual emotion seemed to peek through. Not a friendly one, however.
"Can't ever be left alone again, can I?"
"Don't start that crap. You're smart enough, you know exactly why we need to keep eyes on you."
Frankie, still keeping her head down, leaned against the hood of the truck. "Because I'll go into a manic episode? Run into the arms of another angel? Or maybe I'll go sell my soul again."
"Frankie," Sam warned. He was relieved that she was actually talking in sentences now, but he wasn't fond of this depreciating tone. He heaved a great sigh, cooling a bit before speaking to her again. "Where were you going?"
Her head lifted, but she didn't meet his eyes. "I was going to the doctor, Sam. Trying to get evaluated. Maybe get on antidepressants or antipsychotics. Whatever works."
The tense beat of silence between them carried across the blanket of snow. "Oh." The sudden reminder of how cold he was - standing barefoot in only a thin t-shirt and sweatpants - made him shuffle his feet and cross his arms.
Sam wanted to kick himself. His reaction wasn't wrong here - she could have been going anywhere - but given her current state, maybe he shouldn't have come in so hot. What if it triggered an attack? The alternative, of course, would have been damn near enabling this behavior, so he'll take coming off as an insensitive, overprotective guardian instead.
"You could've told us that."
"I did. Bobby. He was the only one up this early." She briefly flicked her eyes to him. "I thought. He lent me his truck."
Sam winced. The first day out of the house as a free woman, and he showed how distrusting he truly was. But could he be blamed? With her track record, she could have been driving off to a crossroads.
But it was that sort of thinking that birthed this attitude of hers in the first place, wasn't it?
"I wasn't trying to-… I'm sorry. I was just worried that…"
Frankie's eyes were on him as he stammered through his excuse for an apology. Whether she was feeling awkward as is or was just trying to get out of there, she mercifully finished his thought.
"You just got me back. Didn't want me taken again." Sam sighed, this time being the one to avert his gaze. Frankie tucked her jacket tighter around her shoulders as she chewed on her next words. From the strained look in her eye, these were thoughts she'd been holding onto for some time.
"Look, Sam, I know you guys are doing your best to fix me after… the Apocalypse. But… you're smothering me. When I'm not haunted by Lucifer or Gamigin, I'm being observed like an endangered species. I'm never alone."
"I know, and I know you need your space. It's just… You're always so quiet, and you never eat-"
"Would you? After everything?"
Sam nodded for a moment, then shrugged. "Probably not."
There was another beat of silence as Frankie stared at Bobby's house. As she did, Sam's eyes were on her.
He was still getting used to looking at her put together. No longer mangled, no longer limping. Yet in the absence of those blemishes, new ones took their place. Dark bags complimented her tired eyes. Greasy hair hinted that she wasn't showering, at least not regularly. She may have been out of Hell, but she was still being tortured. Plagued by nightmares beyond what Sam could imagine.
"I need more than a few months to process this. You know that, right?" she finally said, gaze still on the house.
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I know."
Sam was hesitant to relent. She needed time to work through her trauma, of course, but it was a sad reality that she couldn't be trusted. Her decisions put them, herself, and the entire planet at risk. Surely she had to understand why they placed such a tight leash on her.
But if they didn't let up on it at least a little, who knows what it would push her to do? Sam wished he didn't think of his sister as volatile, but she didn't leave him much of a choice. Was this how Dean saw him?
Frankie moved to the driver's side door. She flicked a tight smile his way as she hoisted herself into the truck. "Won't be long."
Sam felt a sick tautness in his gut watching her drive away. His instinct told him that it was wrong, and he should have gone with her, but she needed to feel free, even if that wasn't her exact reality.
That heaviness inside him persisted throughout the morning. He couldn't eat, couldn't read, couldn't even watch TV without lingering his mind on Frankie. So, he sat on the couch, staring out the window as Dean crunched on something cinnamon and artery clogging in the kitchen.
Slow, uneven thumping paraded down the stairs. Sam idly looked in their direction to see Bobby making his way into the foyer, rubbing his face before raking back what little tousled hair he had.
Sam's brows cinched together. He sat straighter on the cushion. "Are you just now getting up?"
"Bit too early in the day to be up on that high horse of yours," the older man grumbled as he limped into the study.
"How long have you been asleep?" Sam's voice started growing more alert, as did his eyes.
"Someone woke up on the judgey side of bed," Dean remarked with a mouthful of cereal.
"Shut up. How long?"
Bobby shook his head, voice slightly raising from the third degree. "Since last night. What gives?"
Sam titled his head forward, tethering a cold stare to the man. "Frankie didn't talk to you?"
Dean finally put his spoon down and looked up from his bowl. His mind was sharp and quick, registering not only the meaning behind Sam's words, but fast forwarding to the dread of his worries becoming reality all in a matter of seconds. He locked eyes with Bobby, seeing that they were now all on the same page.
"No," the old hunter slowly answered.
The trio delved into poorly restrained panic. Dean had instantly dived for his keys, but Sam urged him to stop and make a plan of attack before marching out the door.
They were all frantic over where she would have gone, but no matter how worried Bobby and Sam were, Dean was twofold. Sam could see it clear in his face, hear it in his voice. Dean knew, without a doubt, that she was off doing something stupid, something she couldn't come back from.
Bobby already had a list of nearby crossroads in his desk. The three were formulating their strategy when the front door opened and slammed so hard that it rattled the pictures on the walls.
Dean briefly met eyes with Sam and Bobby before turning to the foyer. "Frankie!" he shouted as he pushed off the desk, Bobby limping not far behind.
"Where the hell did you take off in my truck?!"
"Fuck off."
Dean's blood was already bubbling. That sent it into boiling. "Hey!" he barked, moving upstairs after the girl. "We were all worried sick about you! Didn't know where you went, not after you lied about telling Bobby!"
"Leave me alone."
There was a crack in her voice. Dean missed it, too engrossed in his mission, but Sam heard it loud and clear. Something serious happened out there. He moved to stop Dean, but wasn't fast enough.
"Hey, stop! We're talking about this now!" He reached out and snatched her wrist, yanking her back to face him.
Frankie's shrill whimper startled him, but her knees buckling, barely keeping her upright, extinguished the anger within him, if only for a moment. Her eyes bulged, gawking at him owlishly, those honey irises glistening with freshly summoned tears.
Dean was caught in her gape like a tractor beam. Hypnotized, frankly, at the sight of pure terror in her eyes. He couldn't look away, and, shit, did he want to. It was one thing to witness Hell on her face in the midst of a nightmare. It was a whole other beast to have that fear directed at him.
Quick to free her from the impending panic - and him from the brunt of her horror - he released her arm and leaned back. His lips parted, willing to speak some words of regret and apology, but not finding any.
Sam noticed and stepped around Dean. "You can't just lie about where you go like that. I don't care if it's to be alone."
"What if you got into trouble?" Dean forced out. "Or had an episode? How would we know where to look?"
Frankie was quiet for a moment, something they were used to at this point. What they weren't used to, however, was the small raspy voice, lined with misery, that spoke just above a whisper. "Is that all I am now? A head case?"
Dean moved to respond, but whether he thought better of it or again hadn't the words to say, he remained silent. Sam again responded for both of them.
"Frankie, you've been through… a lot. We're just trying to understand what's going through your head."
Frankie barked a short beat of laughter. A series of low, sad chuckles followed. Her brothers stared at her, expressions mixed with confusion and unease free for her to see. They watched, spirits breaking, as tears streamed down her cheeks while her dark laughter wheezed to a stop.
"You can't."
Their sister was hurting, and them, so powerless to stop it.
"Can you just leave me alone?"
Three days had passed without seeing Frankie outside of her room. No one was in a good mood, and they had no way of knowing that it was about to get worse.
Sam and Bobby were seated at the small table in the kitchen, idly eating and chatting over some roast beef. Dean leaned against the study's threshold, skimming over notes Bobby had been taking. Apparently, omens and demonic activity were down, and, curiously, monster activity along with it.
Now, reports weren't as common as one would think, but this was just uncanny. One reported case in a two month span? Across the whole country? And a striga, too. Maybe they were spooked over the showdown. Maybe they all killed themselves before Lucifer killed them. That would certainly help him sleep at night.
God knew he wasn't getting any now.
The source for his insomnia made her way down the stairs. Hearing her approach, Sam and Bobby quieted down, looking at the girl as she sheepishly entered the kitchen. Dean kept her in his peripheral, but otherwise focused on the papers in his hands.
The air was tense, to say the least. Field trip aside, they were all still unsure of how to act around her. She had proved that the simplest gesture or noise could trigger a memory, so they were very careful with how they spoke to and treated her.
At that moment, they weren't exactly sure how to react, so they waited for her to make the first move.
She stood still and silent for a moment, rubbing her fingers together on her left hand. There was something she wanted to say, but she seemed to have some trouble phrasing it. They waited patiently for her, half out of courtesy, half of curiosity. The whistling gale rushing against the house, creaking the old wood, even seemed to be urging her on.
After heaving a quiet breath, she finally found her words. They were spoken in a rough voice, gravelly from lack of use.
"So, look. I know the other day was… mishandled. I know you guys are just trying to help. And by the way, that fact alone fills me with more relief than I thought possible. Especially after Hell and Lucifer and…"
She trailed off, staring at the ground silently. A few seconds were expected, but those seconds stretched. For a moment, it appeared as if she was in another state, staring far beyond the kitchen tile. Sam nearly spoke out to her, but she heaved another breath and continued.
"But being in this house? Having you all swarm me like gnats? It's slowing the healing process a bit. I need to figure things out. Myself. Find my own way to get through all this. And I'll need you guys here for support, but y'all have got to stop treating me like I'm terminal."
Sam slowly set down his fork, careful so it wouldn't clink. She was addressing the room, but he felt like that was specifically directed at him. His mind reeled for a proper response, one that wouldn't sound as accusatory as truth allowed.
But it was Dean's voice that sliced through the silence.
"So, how would you like us to treat you?"
Sam and Bobby glanced at him. The papers were lowered, but his eyes were on the floor.
Frankie shrugged. "Just be normal. As normal as you can be. I'm not fragile, I won't break if you touch me or say the wrong thing." She rolled her eyes at her own slip. "Not anymore."
"Where did you go?"
Their eyes were on Dean again, along with Frankie's. This time, his own gaze was set to the girl. He gently set the papers on the bookshelf to his left, never looking away. He stared at her coldly, something brewing beyond what he showed.
She faintly squirmed under that look. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, but the emotion in her eyes could not be remotely related to confidence.
"I tried to kill myself."
For a moment, only the delicate hum of the refrigerator made a sound. Sam wanted to speak, but he could only gawk at Frankie, mute. Bobby swiveled his head between the boys, neither receiving the gesture, as they were busy processing the last words they thought they were going to hear.
Averting her eyes, Frankie continued. "Didn't work. So, I'm moving past that. Finding another way. To deal, I mean."
Sam managed a huff in disbelief. He thought sneaking off to sell her soul was bad, but offing herself?! And lying about it?! Not to mention that had she pulled it off, he would have been the last one that could have stopped her.
That thought summoned a new onslaught of guilt and anger.
"What was your method?"
"Dean!" Sam snapped.
He was acting so weirdly calm about this. His face, only mildly peeved, and his voice level as if he was asking a hitman how he clocked his latest target.
If getting under Frankie's skin was his goal here, he sure was succeeding. The discomfort on her face tightened with affront. Her arms snuggled against her body, a sign of either irritation or security.
"Leaping off a building. Feel better knowing?"
Dean returned to the floor again only to nod for a few wordless seconds. The longer he waited to respond, the more unease could be found in Frankie.
"So, you were gonna leave it up to the local police," Dean muttered, "to knock on our door… and tell us that you were a stain on concrete."
"Come on…," Sam groaned, leaning on the table and rubbing his forehead against the imagery.
Dean pushed off the wall and began a slow stride toward her, the more he spoke, the harsher his tone and volume became.
"After we pulled together every weapon, combed through every book and tome we could get our hands on, plotted out each detail til our heads spun, after working with a demon, facing Death himself, going face to face with the Devil, Cas butchered, Ellen and Sam dying, all to save your life, you were going to throw yourself off a building without telling any of us?! All because of some bad dreams?!"
Fear monopolized her face again. She had cowered away until her back hit the wall, and her eyes, wide like saucers, under sloped brows stared up at him with not just fear, but with something akin to guilt as well. "No…"
"So, you didn't try to kill yourself? Just another lie?!"
"No!"
"No what, Frankie?! Did you, or did you not, try to throw yourself off a building?!"
Mouth parted, eyes twinkling, Frankie could only produce the tiniest squeak for a response. She faintly shook her head, not as an answer, but as a plea.
Dean's head sharply lifted as he nodded, lips pursed and glare firm. Barely restraining his anger, he raised a flat hand for emphasis. "You will be lucky if we ever let you leave this house alone ever again."
He made for the back door, leaving Frankie practically holding herself up by the wall. She sputtered gibberish at first, but quickly recovered as the door swung open. "Dean… Dean, wait! I-... I just-!"
She had just made it to the door when it slammed in her face. She huffed hopelessly. Then she quickly turned to her other brother. "Sam-"
He cut her off with a raised hand. His words were hesitant, but he managed to force them out as he lifted from the table. "We need some space."
Frankie watched him stalk upstairs, the fight draining from her. She turned to the last occupant. Her head shook once again, eyes begging for him to listen. "Bobby…"
He pushed into his cane, hoisting himself to his feet. He limped past her into the study, and sat down behind his desk. He didn't look at her once as he shifted through more newspapers and envelopes.
Eventually, she sulked back upstairs into her room and didn't come out for another three days.
Dean rubbed the base of his spine, massaging the ache throbbing there. The chair wasn't the comfiest thing in the world, but it was the only spare one on the second floor. Bobby forbade the relocation of any other kitchen chairs, so that was his only option besides the floor.
He stretched out his feet, warming them by the radiator, and continued scrubbing an old toothbrush against the inner workings of an old pistol. Standing guard outside of Frankie's room wasn't exactly what you'd call entertaining; he had to keep his hands busy or he'd go crazy. So he had collected all the guns in the house and in Baby's trunk to give them a good cleaning.
It was mind numbing enough. A bonus that it distracted him from the muffled weeping through the wall.
He was really in the zone, working the cloth against the beautiful nook and crannies of the weapon, when the abhorrent clacking of Bobby's cane interrupted his flow. He flicked a halfhearted glare to the man as he clomped out of his own room down the hall.
Bobby nasally huffed at Dean. He had disapproved of this new title of "Frankie-sitter" from moment one, but it didn't sway Dean one bit.
He returned his attention to the pistol, ignoring the lingering scowl of the old hunter.
"I'm sure being holed up in her room twenty-four, seven ain't helpin' her case."
"Don't start with me." Dean set the reconstructed pistol in a duffel bag to his left and plucked a revolver from a box to his right.
Bobby hobbled across the weathered floorboards. "You know, it's this overbearin' lockdown thing that probably led her to suicide to begin with."
"Really, Dr. Singer? Do tell me more," Dean snarked as he twiddled with a screwdriver.
"Cut the crap, Dean. I'm just as miffed as you about what she pulled."
Dean finally sighed, giving up on his dream of clean guns and dropping his arms to his lap. "Killing herself," he grumbled, shaking his head. "As if she wouldn't go straight back to Hell. Crowley probably still owns her soul, you know. She would've been going right back down there."
"And yet she's in there cryin' into her pillow." Dean set his jaw. He didn't have the toothbrush to buffer the reminder. "You ever stop to think that she realized that, too? That maybe, no matter how much she was hurtin', she knew that wasn't the answer? She just needed to figure it out for herself?"
Dean lifted his head, but turned it opposite to Bobby. He stared out the filthy glass of the window. "Crossed my mind."
"Besides. It's not exactly like you haven't tried to pull something like that."
His head swiveled down the hall. "I never-"
"Sold your soul for a year? Traded your life for Sam's?" Dean rolled his head along with his eyes and lifted the revolver back up to his face. "Wouldn't have been as instant as Frankie's method, but you still couldn't shake your sufferin'."
"That's different."
"Tell me why. I've got time."
Dean's hand froze on the screwdriver. He slowly turned to face Bobby, a sour glare on his face. He hated when he got all high and mighty.
He dropped the revolver back into the box and pivoted on the chair. "When we get into a jam, we find a way out of it. We don't just give up. We find a way, or-or a way finds us. We keep goin'. It's what we do!"
The man's head tilted back, and he arched a brow. "Are you an angry brother or an ROTC ad?"
"Shut up, Bobby," Dean grumbled. He snatched a frayed cloth and wiped his hands, all the while turning from the old hunter and shutting off any furthering of a conversation.
He could practically hear Bobby shaking his head over him turning toward the stairs. "All I know is, if I were forced to stay here and look at your pissy mug all day, I'd wanna kill myself, too."
Dean's head throbbed with each uneven step down the aging wooden steps. He rubbed his hands over his face, paying special attention to his eye sockets. He leaned his head against the wall, releasing a long sigh through his nostrils.
There was no easy answer for this, but hell, when was there ever?
Suicide? Really? After coming out the other side, being given a second - no - third chance? That's where her mind goes?
Oh, he remembered how he was after Hell just fine. He remembered having those thoughts.
Thoughts.
Anytime he held out the opportunity to actually go through with it, there was always a reason for it. Doing so would save someone's life or stop some big catastrophe. He would never actually go through with it without a reason, that was the coward's way out!
Her, not able to sleep, not even trying hennessy, taking curtain number one before even considering another way. Before reaching out for help!
But did she ask? No! Of course not! That would mean using her brain! Would mean wanting peace! Would mean trusting her family!
Dean leaned forward against his knees, his head dangling between his shoulders.
They fought so hard to get her back. They pulled every string. And doing that… just made it all so worthless. Didn't she suffer enough?
He couldn't keep his anger going. Not after that thought.
She was suffering. He saw that. He prayed to God after every episode for it to end. Those were answered just like every other. She was losing her fight.
Hang every other dark musing, every gripe. That was what needed to be front and center in his mind.
She was losing her battle with the Devil. This was truly his final stand. He may be dead to this world, but he thrived inside her once more. And he was just sitting there cleaning his guns, moping because she tried to end it once and for all, and he couldn't be bothered to fight for her!
It's not like he wouldn't - he would find a way to punch her dreams if she asked him - but he could barely touch her without sending her right back to him.
He lifted back up with a dry sniff and rubbed his mouth, releasing the lingering strain. His eyes drifted to her door, pensively gazing at it as if it were the girl herself.
Clearing the air between them could be a good first move to Lucifer's final one.
He raised from the chair and faced the door. He lifted his fist, but his knuckles never rapped against the wood. His hand hovered there, bobbing once or twice, before deciding they both needed just a little longer to cool off.
"A little longer" took another two days.
Two knocks, lightly tapped with two fingers, asked for entrance into her room. He heaved a deep sigh, hoping this would go well and not send her down another mute week in the Fortress of Solitude. That worry was becoming greater with the lingering silence, but a small voice eventually peeped from inside.
"Yeah?"
"It's me. Mind if I come in?"
More silence. But he was pretty much used to that at this point. It was starting to sound weirder when she actually spoke. Her voice did come again after a bit, inviting him in.
What first hit him was the warmth in the room. Humid like summer in Florida, the cause being the open door of the connected bathroom. She sat cross legged on her bed, her hair wrapped up in a towel. He had to admit that the knot in his stomach loosened a bit knowing she was feeling better, at least enough to shower. Maybe this would go well after all.
"How you holding up?" She swallowed and lowered her eyes. Maybe not. Dean nodded and crossed his arms. Best to just get on with it. "I… may have overreacted a bit-"
"You didn't. You were right, I shouldn't have pulled that stunt. Didn't amount to anything anyway."
He tried for a smile, but whatever made it to his face was rejected. "I don't want you to think I'm being like this as a punishment, Frankie. It's just… Your situation's a bit unique and none of us know exactly how to deal with it. And the thought of you even thinking about killing yourself…"
He really shouldn't blame her. Not when he got into dissecting what she'd faced since meeting them. He could still hear her screams from Carthage. Each wail, each gasp, all from the shadows of the bushes. And that wasn't even the worst of it.
Everything they faced to get her back was for a reason. For her to live a long, full life, of course, but also to make up for every second of pain, of torment, that she endured all because their blood flowed in her exposed veins.
He shut his eyes, quieting the memories.
"I've spent too long trying to get you back. I'm not about to lose you again. So, I need you to tell me how I can help you."
'Please,' he thought. 'Just tell me. Give me something. Name it and it'll be done.'
Frankie twiddled with her fingers in her lap. She bit her lip, seemingly avoiding his gaze for a moment, whether on instinct or in thought, he really couldn't tell anymore.
"I…," she muttered. She wet her lips before lifting her head, finally meeting his eyes. "... would like to go on walks. To get out of the house, just for a bit, every day. Alone?"
Well, that was a terrible idea, and for so many reasons. One: how could she even propose that after her near urban swan dive, two: she's not warded, so anything could possess her if the thought tightened their pants, three: anything could trigger a vicious memory, from a car crash to a squirrel, and four: the last time she was really alone - to his knowledge - was when they locked her up in the panic room, and that worked out just fantastic.
He hated the idea. He wanted to find some way to turn the idea into a physical form just so he could kick its ass. But he already knew he was going to let her go.
He leaned against the doorway and arched his brows. "You think this'll help with adjusting after Hell and Lucifer?"
She faintly nodded. "I do."
'This better not bite me in the ass…'
"Ten is your curfew." The smile that broke through her weary expression was enough for him to lend her the keys to Baby, yet he still kept his stern demeanor. "Not permanently, but until we're sure you won't be scooped up by some other angel or demon."
She crossed the room so fast that Dean had to blink to register her arms closing around his waist. She squeezed him tight - tighter than she ought to being so small. "Deal."
There was no way Dean was able to hold back his grin now. He curled one arm around her shoulders and tousled her hair, muttering, "Alright, alright…"
The experiment seemed to be working so far. Frankie had been speaking more, sometimes sounding damn near relaxed. The rate of nightmares was down - something that had them nearly dancing on the rooftop - and she appeared to be holding her own against things that had been triggering for her.
They could hardly believe it. If they had known she would make such an improvement just from getting out of the house, they would have made her walk home from the hospital.
Not only did she look and sound better, but she was also doing well to stick to her curfew. Of course, she would do just about anything to not jeopardize the one bit of freedom she had been granted, but it still made Dean feel lighter than air to see that her natural defiance was being restrained.
All except for that day, however.
Dean glanced at the clock on Bobby's desk again. Twelve after. Not the biggest deal, sometimes she made close calls, but she was always back before ten. Doing so well for so long, then suddenly breaking routine? In his experience with the girl, that usually meant something had gone wrong. Maybe she freaked out in the park. What if she was attacked by a dog? Or scooped up by a demon? He was glad Bobby found that old anti-possession talisman they had used as kids.
His eyes were already on his key hook when the front door opened. He released a heavy sigh, relieved. He was glad that his fears weren't realized, but she was going to be chewed out for insubordination to ensure he didn't have them again.
"Took the long way home, huh?" he drawled, standing from the couch to greet her.
His stomach sank at the sight of blood.
"What the hell?! What happened?!"
Sam's head shot up from his game of solitaire in the kitchen. He was already on his feet before his eyes landed on the maroon stains splattered across her shirt and jacket.
"I'm fine, okay? Please don't freak out."
Sam gently yet hurriedly peeled off her jacket, eyes flicking over every inch of skin. "Where are you bleeding? Let me see."
"Nowhere," she huffed, yanking her arms from its sleeves.
"Why are you covered with blood, Frankie?" Dean snapped, gruff voice a near growl.
Her eyes flicked to anywhere but them, and she pursed her lips, hesitant to speak, but appearing to understand that they weren't going to take silence for an answer this time.
"I was jumped."
Dean sucked a deep breath in through his nose, the vein on his forehead pulsing. "Knew this was a bad idea."
"I'm alive, aren't I?!"
"And who knows how close of a call it was?!" Sam shouted.
"I do! This blood isn't mine!"
The brothers shared a look, switched their gazes to Frankie, then to her clothes.
"Well, whose is it?" Dean asked.
Frankie reached behind her and pulled out a familiar blade. They were still curious as to how she could manage walking around with that thing tucked so deeply in there.
"I fended them off with my machete. I found it." Frankie fixed a nasty sneer on her face and pointed it right at Dean. "Thanks for hiding it, by the way. Really builds the trust between our little family."
"Yeah, I hid it, and I'll hide it again. Where did they stop you? I'm gonna kill 'em."
"Maybe a bit redundant…," Sam mused, analyzing the amount of blood on the jacket in his hands.
Frankie rolled her eyes and pointed her machete between the two of them. "You seem to forget that I took care of myself for months without your help."
"Yeah, you had Cas, and based on his little vow in Detroit, all that's over, so we're all you got."
The girl's tongue was still for a moment, and this time Dean was actually grateful for it, but that moment ended. Unfortunately, with brewing tears misting her eyes. She cracked a pitiful, cynical smile.
"Well, aren't I the lucky one?" she said, voice wavered, as she marched past them and made for her room.
"Frankie! Hey!" Dean called out, but there was no stopping her stride.
"Let her go."
"I knew it wasn't gonna be easy, but it's every damn day with her." Dean whipped his head to his brother. "I wasn't like this after Hell, was I?!" Sam crossed his arms and opened his mouth. Whatever words he first summoned, he held back for revision and tilted his head as his mind worked. "Don't answer that."
"I think it might be simpler than we're makin' it out to be."
Dean rolled his eyes and pivoted towards Bobby's desk, lowering his head to fix the man with a tired glare. "And enter in our surly voice of reason."
"What's your wisdom?" Sam asked, equally annoyed.
Bobby didn't even tear his eyes away from the ancient parchment in his hands to answer. "She misses the angel, idgits. 'S about as plain as day."
Sam leaned against the threshold and tossed his eyes to Dean. "They were really close."
Dean returned the look for a moment, but then he scoffed. He stepped further into the study, tossing his arms in wide gestures. "Well, hell, I miss him, too, but you don't see me wringin' my hands!"
Sam's brows rose. "You miss Cas?"
Dean bobbed his head from side to side and half-shrugged. "He put a lot on the line for us, and he can be… mildly amusing when the time's right! He's my friend, sure, but he's got bigger things to worry about. Heaven's gotta be a dumpster fire without Michael or Raphael. I'm glad I'm not him right now."
Sam twisted his body so his back rested against the wood. His eyes lifted to the ceiling, reacting to the sound of her landing heavily on her bed.
"Look, it sucks that he can't be here for her. But in the end, Cas is an angel. He's got the chance to go home. Maybe even make it better, and believe me, it'll take a whole lot of stress off my shoulders knowing we got connections up there."
"He wasn't just her friend, Dean. He was helping her deal with Hell. From what she told me, he was there almost constantly. After nightmares, dealing with angel and demon crap, keeping her sane. Suddenly he's just gone, and she has no idea how to cope. I don't blame her for how she's been taking this."
Dean whirled around. "Well, Cas ain't here. We are. And we're not enough for her?"
Sam's eyes slowly shut. His head lowered, nostrils releasing a long sigh. Bobby peered over the old text at the older Winchester before returning to its contents. Dean looked between the two, already throwing in the towel. Maybe everything in the last few months was getting to him, because his fire died out, too.
He rubbed his wilting face.
"We gotta be."
"Listen, buddy, we really need your help down here. Uh… You've got a lot on your plate, and I know you promised Frankie you'd lay off, but she's… She needs you, Cas. You think she's better without you, man, I know she's not. I've never seen her like this, and I'd love to blame Lucifer or Hell. But when it comes down to it… If you could just swing by, even in a dream, just to let her know you haven't completely abandoned her? That's crazy, right?"
Dean cracked his eyes open, squinting against the piercing reflection of the setting sun against fresh snow. He swiveled his head, glancing over both shoulders, searching for a tan coat and an annoyed face.
He found a face, but not the one he was hoping for.
Sam stood just outside the mouth of the garage with his hands in his pockets. He gave a tight, empty smile. He had come out looking for his brother, but finding him in a rather vulnerable position at the picnic table, he didn't want to risk interrupting with a retreat.
Dean had to have felt a bit intruded, but he didn't seem to have much fight in him to begin with by praying. He snorted with a bitter smile and leaned his elbows on the sleet-coated table. "Where the hell is Cas when you need him?" Dean groused, rubbing his face tiredly.
"Gone home, I thought."
He dropped his linked hands. He stared off toward the rusted cars littered around them, softly shaking his head. "I don't know what else to do, Sam."
The younger man dropped his gaze to the ground and quietly sighed. "Neither do I."
"Think she'd turn up her nose at a vacation? I could sure use one. Maybe a road trip."
Dean's tone had been sarcastic, but it wasn't a terrible idea, Sam thought. "It'd get her outta the house. Change of scenery, fresh air… Might do her some good. Take her mind off things." At the very least, they'd be together at every step. Easier to keep tabs on her.
Dean chewed on the idea for a moment. The more he thought about it, the more his bones ached. They had been stuck inside Bobby's house for over two months, longer than they'd ever had, and for good reason. It was a safe house, a base of operations in dire times. Not so homey, though. The TV only got a few decent channels, and while Bobby was a good cook with the right ingredients, convincing him to actually get in front of the stove was often more trouble than it was worth.
Some time away might be good for them. All of them.
"I sniffed out something in Atlanta. Could be a werewolf if we're lucky."
"Not a case," Sam sighed, rolling his eyes. "Something far from that. The beach, or the Grand Canyon."
"You know, I've never seen Dollywood."
Sam tsked and lifted his brows. "Probably not a good idea to hit up Tennessee. With them playing house down there and all?"
Dean hummed, and was otherwise quiet for a moment. The reminder of Cas' snubbing made the pressure behind his eyes swell. He swung his legs off the bench and made a move for the house, Sam stepping in time beside him. "Well, we'll bring it up to her when she gets back. I'm coming around to the idea. Be nice to actually relax for once."
Dean's stomping threatened to knock over a few stacks of books. He paced across the study's carpet, practically steaming with anger.
"Time?" he barked.
Sam glanced at the time digitally displayed on the stove. "Over an hour."
"Playing with fire. She's playing with fire."
"Just try and be civil with her?"
"She's deliberately screwing us over, Sam! I don't care if this isn't our place; I set out rules, and I expect 'em to be followed!"
This wasn't the first time since she came home bloody that she went over curfew. It seemed like with the following days, she grew a pretty little attitude, testing the few boundaries she had. Whether it was to explicitly make Dean's blood pressure rise or because it made her feel some sort of control, he didn't care. When he tells her to be home by ten, he damn well means it!
That night was the worst it had been. The time read eleven thirteen. Oh, he was gonna tear her a new one when she showed her face. And, hell, he wasn't gonna wait up for her all night.
"I'm going to look for her. You coming?"
Sam slapped his hands on his knees and rose from the couch. "Yep."
Dean's lips never stopped flapping as they walked out onto the porch, blabbing about how immature she was being, Hell be damned. Sam listened only barely. He didn't approve of her staying out later than she was expected, but he had been on this end of Dean and their Dad's tirades too many times to not see her actions from another point of view. After all, he always was more of the rebellious type.
Dean suddenly went silent and halted on the top step. Sam glanced at him, then followed his gaze out to the yard. They saw her figure trudge through the plowed driveway, clouded moon barely illuminating her form.
"She's lucky I didn't have to drag her back by the collar," Dean mumbled. Sam flicked his eyes to his brother, peeved, before sighing, relieved that she was safe. "First thing tomorrow, we're going out to get you a watch! Ten o'clock means on the dot, Franks!"
His voice had echoed across the property, but they heard no response from her. Even if she had grumbled under her breath, the snow and their sharp ears would have picked up something. Her silence only made Dean's blood hotter.
And then she tripped. Not on anything physical. They had just plowed the road that afternoon. There was nothing to trip on. They watched her closer, squinting in the low light.
Just narrowly caught - happening so fast - she stumbled to the side.
Sam always had good instincts.
"Something's wrong," he muttered, slowly stepping further down the stairs.
Her knees clashed against the dirt.
"Frankie!" Dean shouted, leaping over the rest of the steps and sprinting down the path, Sam hot on his heels.
He slid over damp earth, capturing her shoulders in his fierce grip. "Hey, hey, hey, what's going on?"
Sam kneeled before her. He saw her hands buried into her side as they rushed up. "Let me see- let me see!' he snapped, lightly pulling at her wrists. She was trying to hide whimpers, but they could clearly understand her frantic puffs of breath through her nostrils.
Her trembling hands were finally wrenched away. Sam pulled her wrist out in front of her, holding it up to the weak moonlight.
Garnet shimmered over every finger and stained her palm.
Sam whipped his head toward the house where a man with a cane already stood watching. "Bobby!" he screamed as he and Dean worked to get her to her feet.