Chapter 10: Lean on Me
The sound of water running fills the quiet room. Sam and Dean sit in the motel room, waiting. Dean is sprawled out on the bed, flicking through channels on the old TV, clearly trying to unwind after everything. His face is a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. Sam, meanwhile, is on the phone with Castiel, his voice low and serious as he listens intently.
The minutes tick by, and Sam wraps up his conversation, hanging up just as the shower stops. They both turn as the bathroom door opens. Annie steps out, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp, looking momentarily surprised to see them still there.
For a split second, she forgets they're in the room, her guard dropping just long enough for annoyance to flash across her face. She sighs heavily and shakes her head as she pulls her shirt on.
"Well," she mutters, barely glancing at them as she reaches for her clothes. "I'm okay now. You can go. We can all get back to our own lives."
Sam meets her gaze and takes a step forward. "We've been thinking about it, Annie," he says carefully. "You're good at what you do, your fighting skills, your knowledge. You'd be an asset to us."
Dean stays quiet for a moment, his gaze flicking to Sam, who's giving the same speech he always gives when he's trying to convince someone to join the team. Dean's not great at admitting when they need help, but he knows it's true. Annie is good at this—maybe even better than they are in some ways. And if she keeps going the way she is, alone, there's a chance she won't make it out alive.
Annie shoots them a look, sceptical but not surprised. She's quick to turn them down. "I don't work with others."
Sam frowns, determined not to let it go. "Why not? You're good at this. You could help us."
Annie's eyes narrow, her jaw tightening. She crosses her arms, frustration creeping back into her voice. "You don't understand."
Sam's brow furrows in concern, but Dean stays quiet, watching her closely. He can see the tension in her posture, the way her shoulders are stiff, like she's holding something in—something she doesn't want to let out. He has a sinking feeling that he's not going to like what she says next.
Annie hesitates, her eyes flickering to the window, her mind clearly elsewhere for a moment. The silence stretches on before she finally speaks again, her words quiet but sharp. "I've worked with hunters before... and it's always been the same. They think I owe them. They expect things from me..."
The words hit both harder than they expected. Sam's heart tightens as he realizes what she's talking about. He knows exactly what she means, though he can't imagine what it must have been like for her to live through it.
Dean's jaw clenches, but he stays silent at first. His eyes betray a flicker of something, anger, disappointment, maybe even guilt. He's heard stories. No one deserves to be treated that way, especially not someone like Annie, who has more strength and skill in her little finger than most hunters would ever have in their whole lives.
Annie's gaze is distant, like she's seeing something far beyond the walls of the motel room. She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. Annie turns her body slightly, facing away from them as she speaks, her voice low but full of emotion. "You fight monsters and ghosts. You fight to protect people. I fight to stay alive. That's all there is to it."
Dean, for a moment, is silent. He knows that what she said is true. She fights in a different way than they do, not because she wants to save the world but because she must survive it. But still, it doesn't sit right with him. It never will.
"You shouldn't have to fight alone," Dean says quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
Sam notices her hesitation. "You don't have to do this alone, Annie. You won't be some... guest here. You'll be family. That's what we do. We protect our own."
Annie doesn't answer, her eyes still lowered as she seems to grapple with her thoughts. Her eyes flicker as she turns around to face them, and for the first time, there's a hint of something, maybe a smile. She can't help the small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. She isn't used to this—being treated like a person, like someone worth protecting, instead of just another tool for someone else's use.
Annie hesitates for a long moment. She opens her mouth as if to say something but closes it again, as though the words don't come out right. The idea of letting people in, of letting herself trust again, seems terrifying. But maybe… maybe it isn't such a bad idea after all.
Dean gives her a moment of silence, letting the weight of their words hang between them. When she doesn't respond immediately, he adds, "Look, I get it. You've been on your own for a long time. And that's... well, that's tough. But if you think for one second that we'll hurt you, or that we'll let anyone hurt you... you're wrong. We'll protect you, Annie. Just like we'd protect each other."
Annie takes a deep breath. Slowly, her eyes flicker towards the both of them, searching their faces for some trace of a hidden agenda, but there's none of that. Just two people who have seen more than their fair share of darkness but are still willing to help another.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Annie sighs, her shoulders relaxing. "Fine," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not one for family... but I guess I could give this a shot."
Dean claps his hands together, breaking the tension with his usual cocky grin. "Alright, then. Let's get going. We've got monsters to hunt, and they're not gonna hunt themselves." He turns toward the door, a sense of purpose returning to his step.
Annie lingers for a moment before beginning to follow them. She slides her weapons into their holsters and grabs the bag she'd packed—a simple, worn duffle, holding only the essentials.
Dean stands in the doorway, holding it open for her, his eyes briefly flicking to the bag, the only item she carries. It strikes him hard—the emptiness of it. No reminders of a family, no trinkets or souvenirs from a life before the hunt. Just weapons. Just survival.
For a moment, he feels a pang of something—maybe sympathy, maybe concern—but he keeps it buried, offering only a quiet nod as she passes by him. "Ready?" he asks, though it doesn't really need an answer.