The house felt hollow.
Ali had spent the last few days in her room, barely moving, barely eating. She existed in a haze of exhaustion and grief, lost in the silence of her own thoughts.
She could hear them moving around the house at times—Sam and Dean, their voices low, their footsteps careful. She knew they were giving her space, probably because they didn't know what to say to her. Maybe they were afraid of setting her off again.
She couldn't blame them.
But now, as she finally stepped out of her room for the first time in days, the house was different. Quieter. Emptier.
Dean and Sam were gone.
The realisation hit her like a dull thud in her chest. She wasn't sure how long they'd been gone or where they had gone to, but she figured it was a hunt. That was what they did, after all. Keep moving. Keep fighting.
She wasn't sure if she was angry at them for leaving or relieved that she didn't have to face them just yet.
She moved through the hallway cautiously, as if she were stepping into unfamiliar territory. The air in the house was stale, thick with unspoken words and ghosts of memories.
As she made her way downstairs, she finally found Bobby sitting in the living room.
He was hunched forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, a glass of whiskey in his hands. His eyes were heavy, dark circles carved beneath them. The exhaustion clung to him, not just physically but emotionally.
He looked tired.
Not just from lack of sleep, but from the weight of everything.
Ali hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unsure if she should even be here. But Bobby must have sensed her presence because he let out a quiet sigh and spoke without looking up.
"You finally decided to come out of your cave, huh?"
His voice was gruff but not unkind.
Ali swallowed, shifting on her feet. "Guess so."
Bobby nodded slowly, taking a sip of his drink before setting it down on the table beside him. He didn't say anything right away, just sat there, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the room.
Ali stepped further inside, her arms wrapping around herself as she glanced around. The place looked the same, but it felt different.
"Where are Sam and Dean?" she asked.
Bobby exhaled heavily. "Took off on a case two days ago. Thought you knew."
She shook her head. "No one told me."
Bobby gave a tired chuckle. "Well, you weren't exactly making yourself available for conversation, kid."
Ali flinched slightly but didn't argue. He wasn't wrong.
She glanced down at the table, noticing the stack of books and scattered notes. Old lore books, news clippings—signs of another hunt in progress. But Bobby hadn't gone with them.
"Why didn't you go with them?" she asked quietly.
Bobby sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. "Somebody had to stick around, in case you decided to stop wallowing in your own misery."
Ali tensed. "I didn't ask for that."
Bobby scoffed, shaking his head. "Didn't have to."
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. Ali shifted on her feet, arms still wrapped around herself. She felt exposed standing there, like Bobby could see every crack, every piece of her that was barely holding together.
He didn't say anything else, just reached for his glass and took another slow sip of whiskey.
Ali hesitated before finally moving toward the couch. She sat down stiffly, staring at the floor.
"Did they say when they'd be back?" she asked after a moment.
"Nope."
She chewed on her lip, nodding slowly.
Bobby eyed her, his voice quieter this time. "You mad at them for leaving?"
Ali opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn't know what she felt. It wasn't anger, exactly. Maybe just… emptiness. Like everything around her was still moving while she was stuck in place.
"They had a job to do," she said finally.
Bobby let out a low hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
A long pause stretched between them before he finally spoke again. "You eat anything yet?"
Ali exhaled sharply through her nose. "Not hungry."
Bobby gave her a pointed look. "That wasn't the question."
She rubbed her fingers against her temples. "Bobby—"
"You gotta eat something, Al." His voice was firm, but there was something else underneath it. Worry.
She swallowed hard, staring at the table. She wanted to tell him she was fine. That she didn't need to be taken care of. That she just needed time.
But Bobby wasn't the kind of guy you lied to, and they both knew it wouldn't be the truth anyway.
Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. "I don't know how to move on."
Bobby sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You don't."
Ali frowned, looking up at him. "What?"
"You don't move on from somethin' like this," Bobby said simply. "You just learn to live with it."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I don't think I can."
Bobby stared at her for a long moment before nodding toward the books on the table. "Then find somethin' to fight for."
Ali followed his gaze, taking in the notes and old research materials.
Dean's deal.
She let out a slow breath.
Bobby must've seen something shift in her expression because he nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, let's get you somethin' to eat before you pass out on me."
Ali sighed but didn't argue this time.
She wasn't sure if she was ready to live with it yet, but maybe Bobby was right. Maybe she just needed something else to fight for.
The sun was starting to set, casting long streaks of orange and pink across the sky. The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of oil and metal from the salvage yard. The rhythmic crack of gunfire echoed through the open space, the sharp sound breaking the quiet stillness of the land.
Ali stood near a rusted-out car, her stance firm, her arms steady as she aimed down the sight of her pistol. A row of empty cans lined the wooden fence a few yards away. She squeezed the trigger—crack—one of the cans flew off the fence, tumbling to the ground.
She barely reacted, just lined up her next shot.
Dean spotted her from a distance as he and Sam stepped out of the Impala. He exchanged a quick glance with his brother, but Sam just shook his head slightly and headed inside.
Dean sighed.
Dropping his duffel by the porch, he made his way over, his boots crunching against the dirt and gravel. He watched as Ali fired again, missing by an inch. That wasn't like her.
"You're pulling to the left," Dean called out.
Ali didn't even flinch at his voice, just let out a breath, adjusted her grip, and fired again. This time, the can flew off the fence.
Dean smirked. "Better."
Ali didn't smile. She just reloaded, flicking the magazine into place with a practiced motion.
Dean stopped a few feet away, watching her carefully. She looked functional. Not good, not okay—but like she was forcing herself to be something again.
"Didn't know you were back," she said, finally acknowledging him.
"Yeah, just rolled in," Dean replied. "Hunt went fine. Nothing we couldn't handle."
Ali nodded, but she didn't ask for details. She lined up another shot, fired.
Dean hesitated, then gestured toward the pistol in her hand. "You mind?"
Ali glanced at him before sighing and handing it over. "Knock yourself out."
Dean took it, checking the weight before raising it toward the cans. He fired—crack—one can went flying. Fired again—crack—another one gone.
Ali crossed her arms, watching. "Show off."
Dean smirked, handing the gun back. "Just keeping you on your toes."
Ali took it, rolling her shoulders. "I don't need babysitting, Dean."
"I know."
Silence stretched between them.
Ali loaded another round and raised the gun, her jaw tightening. She hesitated for a moment before finally speaking again. "I've been helping Bobby with research on how to break your deal."
Dean tensed. His eyes flicked to her, guarded. "Ali—"
"I need something to do," she cut him off. "And this? This is something I can do."
Dean exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Ali, we've been over this—"
"You're dying, Dean." She fired again—crack—her voice eerily steady. "You've not got long left, and if you think I'm just gonna sit around and watch it happen, then you don't know me at all."
Dean clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue, but what was the point? He did know her. She wasn't going to let this go. And he was almost flattered that she still cared enough to fight for his soul.
Another shot rang out.
Dean exhaled. "You think we can fix this?"
Ali lowered the gun, finally looking at him. "We have to try."
Dean studied her for a long moment. The fire in her eyes—the determination—was something he recognised all too well.
She wasn't okay. She was running.
But hell, maybe running was better than sinking.
Dean sighed, stepping back and reaching into his jacket. He pulled out his own pistol, checking the chamber before nodding toward the fence. "Alright then."
Ali raised an eyebrow. "Alright what?"
Dean smirked. "You think you're gonna outshoot me?"
Ali scoffed, rolling her eyes, but for the first time in days, something almost like a smile tugged at her lips.
Dean grinned, raising his gun. "First to miss buys the next round."
Ali huffed. "You're on."
Dean aimed and fired, sending another can flying off the fence. Ali followed suit, hitting her target dead-on. They went back and forth, neither one missing.
Then, after a long pause, Dean finally spoke again. His voice was quieter this time.
"I know you don't want to hear it, but we should talk about what happened," he paused. "With Tyler."
Ali stiffened mid-reload.
Dean watched her carefully, giving her an out, but she just clicked the magazine back into place and raised the gun again.
"No, we shouldn't."
"Ali—"
"I said no." Her voice was sharp, final. She fired again—crack—not missing a beat. "Talking about it isn't going to change what happened."
Dean's jaw tightened. He shifted on his feet, debating whether to push further.
Ali let out a slow breath, her fingers flexing around the grip of the gun. "I didn't mean what I said before," she muttered, not looking at him.
Dean frowned. "What?"
She exhaled through her nose. "About Tyler. About… you." She hesitated, then finally turned to face him. "It wasn't your fault, Dean. None of it."
Dean studied her, searching her expression for any sign of hesitation.
"I was pissed. I wanted someone to blame," she continued, voice quieter now. "And you were just—there." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "I didn't mean it."
Dean let the words settle between them before he gave a small nod. "I know."
Ali huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh. "You always say that."
Dean shrugged. "Because I always do."
Ali shook her head, but she didn't argue. Instead, she just turned back to the cans and lifted her gun again.
Dean smirked and did the same.
"Alright," he said, cocking his pistol. "Loser still buys the next round."
Ali rolled her eyes, but the challenge was enough to pull her back into the moment. She raised her gun, aiming steady.
They fired in sync, the echo of gunshots carrying into the cooling evening air.
Ali felt odd sitting in the back of the impala again. They hadn't planned on heading out for a hunt today, but all the searching for answers about Dean's deal had made them antsy, and after Bobby had found a potential case only a few hours out of Sioux Falls, it made sense for Sam and Dean to head out and get it done quickly.
Ali had tagged along, much to the annoyance and more importantly, concern, of the others. It was clear from their expressions and protests that they didn't think she was ready so soon after what had happened to Tyler, but she had insisted. She really needed to get out of the house. The air still felt suffocating, and she really needed to kill something.
The sun had barely set by the time they arrived at the old farmhouse. The place was falling apart, long abandoned, with boarded-up windows and a roof that looked ready to cave in. Dean cut the Impala's engine, scanning the overgrown yard.
"Classic haunted house," he muttered, grabbing his shotgun.
Sam flipped through his notes. "Two deaths in the last six months, both hikers. Bodies were found drained of blood, throats torn open."
"Sounds like a vamp." Ali's voice was flat, businesslike, as she loaded a machete into her belt. "God, I hate vampires."
Dean gave her a look. "Could be a wraith. Maybe even a ghoul."
Ali shrugged. "Only one way to find out." She was already moving toward the house, her grip on her weapon tight.
Dean shared a glance with Sam. She'd been like this since they got in the car—quiet, focused, like nothing else mattered but the hunt. Like she was trying to outrun something.
Or bury it.
Dean sighed. "Alright. Sam, you take the back. Ali, you're with me."
She didn't argue. Just nodded and kept moving.
The air inside was thick with dust, the scent of mould and decay curling around them as they stepped over broken furniture and shattered glass. The place had been abandoned for years, but the way the dust had been disturbed told them someone—or something—had been here recently.
Dean moved cautiously, flashlight sweeping across the walls. "Alright, if this thing's a vamp, there's gotta be a nest somewhere—"
A noise upstairs.
Ali was already moving before Dean could stop her, gripping her machete tight as she strode toward the staircase.
"Ali, wait," Dean hissed.
She ignored him, taking the steps two at a time, boots thudding against the wood.
Dean clenched his jaw, cursing under his breath as he followed.
Upstairs, the hallway stretched out before them, dark and silent. The wallpaper was peeling, exposing rotted wood underneath. The air smelled stale, like something had been left to decay.
Ali's grip on her machete tightened. She could feel it—something was here.
A floorboard creaked.
Then everything exploded into motion.
A blur of pale skin and tattered clothing shot from the darkness, slamming into Ali like a freight train.
The impact sent her flying, her back colliding with the wall hard enough to make the wood groan. Her vision blurred for half a second, but she didn't have time to recover before the thing was on top of her.
Not a vampire. Not a wraith.
A revenant.
The corpse-like creature snarled, its hollow eyes locking onto hers, its bony fingers curling around her throat. Ali gasped, hands scrambling to push it off as its grip tightened.
Dean fired.
The shotgun blast hit the revenant in the shoulder, knocking it sideways. Ali coughed violently, sucking in air, and grabbed her machete just as the creature lunged again.
She swung, the blade slicing deep into its side. The revenant shrieked, staggering back, but it didn't fall.
Dean pumped the shotgun. "Oh, come on."
The revenant moved fast—faster than it should have. It whipped around, clawing at Dean, knocking the shotgun out of his hands. He barely had time to react before it grabbed him, its inhuman strength forcing him back against the wall.
Ali didn't hesitate. She charged forward, driving her machete into its back.
The creature screeched, twisting violently, sending her stumbling. Its hollow eyes locked onto her, something hungry flashing in them.
It lunged.
Ali barely had time to react before it slammed into her again, sending them both crashing through the rotten floorboards.
Ali hit the ground hard, her body slamming into the cold, damp basement floor. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp, but she forced herself up, rolling just as the revenant landed beside her.
Her machete was gone, lost somewhere in the fall.
The creature lunged again.
Ali barely dodged, her body screaming in protest as she scrambled backward. Her hands found something solid—a rusted pipe. Without thinking, she grabbed it and swung, the metal connecting with the revenant's head with a sickening crack.
It staggered, but it didn't fall.
Ali didn't stop.
She swung again. And again. And again.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her arms shaking, but she didn't stop.
Dean's voice rang from above. "Ali!"
She barely heard him.
The revenant's hollow eyes burned into hers, something unnatural and hateful in them. It reached for her again, its fingers curling around her arm.
Ali snapped.
She wrenched free and slammed the pipe into its head one last time, the force of the hit sending the creature sprawling. Before it could recover, she grabbed a jagged piece of wood from the broken floor and drove it into the revenant's chest.
The thing let out a final, gurgling shriek before going still.
Ali didn't move.
Her breaths were uneven, her hands shaking, her body covered in dust and sweat. She felt like she was still fighting, like her muscles wouldn't stop.
Dean dropped down beside her, grabbing her wrist. "Ali, enough."
She flinched, her eyes snapping up to his. She didn't even realise she had been going to stab it again. Her grip loosened. The piece of wood fell from her fingers.
Dean's face was tight, his eyes unreadable. "You alright?"
Ali swallowed, nodding. "Yeah." Her voice was hoarse. "I had it."
Dean didn't let go of her wrist. "You almost got yourself killed."
She yanked free, pushing to her feet. "We should burn the body." Dean exhaled sharply, watching her. She didn't meet his eyes.
Ali set to work quickly, moving methodically as she gathered the gasoline from the trunk and set the body alight.
The ride back to Bobby's afterwards was silent.
Ali sat in the backseat, staring out the window, her fingers still curled like they were ready to hold a weapon. She could still feel the revenant's grip, still hear the way its bones had cracked under her hands.
She knew what Dean was thinking. She knew what she was thinking.
When they got back to the house, she didn't wait for the conversation. She just grabbed the whiskey bottle from the counter and walked upstairs, shutting her door before anyone could stop her.
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
Sam, who had been quiet the entire time, finally spoke. "She's not okay, Dean."
Dean looked at the staircase where Ali had disappeared, his jaw tightening. "Yeah. No kidding."
Sam hesitated. "She needs time."
Dean exhaled sharply. "Yeah, well. I don't think we've got much left."
The house was quiet when Ali finally emerged from her room.
Her body ached everywhere. Her muscles were stiff, her ribs sore with every breath, and her wrist—well, she didn't want to look at it too closely. She already knew it was bad. The revenant had grabbed her hard, its bony fingers clamping down like a vice, and the way it twisted her arm during the fight - yeah. It wasn't great.
But the last thing she needed was Dean hovering over her.
She padded into the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and disappear before either of them noticed. But, of course, that wasn't how her luck worked.
Dean was already there.
He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, sipping coffee that smelled way too strong. His eyes flicked up the second she stepped into the room.
Ali hesitated for half a second before walking past him toward the fridge. She didn't acknowledge him, didn't say a word, just grabbed a bottle of water and twisted off the cap.
Dean watched her, too quiet. That was never a good sign.
"Sleep okay?" His voice was casual. Too casual.
Ali took a sip. "Fine."
"You look like crap."
She rolled her eyes. "Thanks."
Dean didn't smile. His gaze dropped, scanning her with that sharp, assessing look she hated. "You're moving like an eighty-year-old. You hurt?"
Ali turned away, taking another sip of water. "I'm fine."
Dean's eyes narrowed. He wasn't buying it. "Your wrist is swollen."
She tensed. She had been keeping it tucked close to her side, trying to hide the bruising, but of course he noticed.
"I said I'm fine." She moved toward the door, but Dean stepped in front of her.
"Ali." His voice was firmer now, serious. "Let me see."
"No."
He exhaled sharply. "You might have cracked a rib, you know that?"
Ali swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. She could feel the bruising all over her torso, the deep, aching pain every time she moved. He wasn't wrong—it might be cracked. But admitting that would mean letting him check, and she wasn't about to do that.
"I said I'm fine," she repeated, pushing past him.
Dean grabbed her arm—gently, but firm enough to stop her. She winced before she could stop herself.
Dean's eyes flicked down to her wrist. "Ali—"
"Don't," she snapped, yanking her arm back.
The silence stretched.
Dean studied her for a long moment, his jaw tight, frustration clear in his expression. But there was something else in his eyes, too—something softer.
Worry.
Ali looked away. She didn't want to see that.
She turned toward the stairs. "I'm going back to bed."
"Ali," Dean called after her.
She didn't stop. She didn't want to hear what he had to say. Not now. Not yet. She just needed everything to stop hurting.
Ali barely made it to the bottom of the stairs before she heard Dean's footsteps behind her. She clenched her jaw, tightening her grip on the water bottle in her good hand.
"Ali," Dean called again, voice edged with warning.
She ignored him.
"Ali."
She kept walking.
Then suddenly, a hand clamped down on her good wrist—not hard, not rough, but enough to make her stop.
Ali spun, glaring at him. "I swear to God, Dean—"
"Sit down."
His voice was low, firm. A command.
Ali's hands curled into fists. "No."
Dean's jaw tightened. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"Like hell you are." His voice was sharp, frustration spilling into every word. "Your wrist is swollen, you're holding yourself like you got hit by a truck, and you won't even look me in the eye. So just for once, stop acting like you've got something to prove and let me—"
"I said I'm fine, Dean!" Ali's voice rose, anger snapping through her like a live wire. "Back the hell off."
Dean didn't move. His eyes burned into hers, his frustration clear, but underneath that, concern.
She hated that look.
Sam's voice cut through the tension.
"Ali."
She turned, seeing him standing just a few feet away, watching her carefully. Unlike Dean, he wasn't pushing. Wasn't demanding. He was just there.
Her anger wavered for a moment.
Sam took a slow step forward. "Just let me check, okay? Just your ribs."
Ali swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't want this. She didn't want them to see how bad it was. But Sam's voice was calm, careful, like he was giving her the choice—not forcing it.
And maybe that was why, after a long, tense pause, she finally exhaled and muttered, "Fine."
Dean huffed in frustration but didn't push it further. He just stepped back, crossing his arms, watching as Sam gestured for her to sit on the couch.
Ali moved stiffly, every motion sending a fresh wave of pain through her ribs. She hated how slow she was, how obvious the pain was. Sam crouched down in front of her, his movements slow and measured.
"Can I?" He gestured to her shirt.
Ali hesitated. She hated this.
Finally, she exhaled and pulled her hoodie up, just enough for him to see.
Sam's eyes darkened at the sight.
Dark bruises bloomed across her side, ugly shades of purple and blue stretching from her ribs to her stomach. Some were deep, some fading into yellow at the edges, but they all told the same story—she had taken one hell of a beating.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath from across the room.
Ali looked away.
Sam was careful as he reached out, fingers pressing gently along her ribs. She flinched, biting back a sharp inhale.
"Sorry," he murmured. He moved slower, pressing a little more in certain spots.
Ali clenched her jaw. "It's not broken," she muttered. "I can tell."
Sam didn't look convinced. "Could be cracked."
"Doesn't matter."
Dean scoffed. "Yeah, it does matter, dumbass."
Ali shot him a glare, but Sam cut in before she could start another fight.
"You need to wrap these up, at least," he said, meeting her eyes. "Compression will help. And you should ice it."
Ali exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "Fine."
Sam nodded, satisfied. He stood, offering her a hand. She hesitated before taking it, letting him help her up.
Dean, however, was still standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"Are we done now?" Ali asked tiredly.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're still an idiot."
Ali rolled her eyes. "And you are a pain in my ass."
Sam sighed. "Okay, I think we've all established our positions here."
Dean didn't budge. He just gave Ali one last, long look before muttering, "You should've told us."
Ali looked away. She didn't have an answer for that. Because he was right. She just wasn't ready to admit it yet.
The tension still clung to the air, thick and unyielding, but for once, no one was pushing. The fight with the revenant had left them all exhausted, bruised in more ways than one, and even Dean—who usually had a hell of a lot to say—had decided to let things lie. For now.
Ali sat stiffly at the table, rolling a beer bottle between her hands, the condensation dampening her fingers. Her ribs ached with every breath, but she ignored it, just like she ignored the looks Dean kept throwing her way. She knew what he was thinking—that she should let one of them check her over again, make sure nothing was broken. But she wasn't in the mood for another argument.
Across from her, Sam was flipping through one of Bobby's books, though she doubted he was actually reading. His eyes flicked up every so often, checking on her in that quiet way of his.
Bobby moved around the kitchen, heating up leftovers from the night before. It wasn't much, but the simple act of someone cooking—something normal—felt strangely grounding. The house had been full of too much silence lately.
Dean sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table, his jaw tight. He was holding himself back. She could tell. Probably still thinking about her ribs, or her wrist, or the fact that she'd refused to let him check either. She half expected him to start another fight over it, but instead, he exhaled sharply and reached for the bottle of whiskey in front of him.
"You're lucky that thing didn't snap your damn neck," he muttered, pouring himself a drink.
Ali snorted, taking a sip of her beer. "Lucky is not the word I'd use."
Dean shook his head, but he didn't push.
Bobby set a couple of plates down on the table. "Eat," he ordered, voice gruff but gentle. "You all look like hell."
Ali didn't argue. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until now, and the warmth of the food actually felt good. For the first time in days, the silence wasn't so unbearable.
For a while, they just ate, the clinking of forks against plates the only sound in the room. It was a strange kind of peace—not completely comfortable, but not as suffocating as before.
Halfway through his plate, Sam finally spoke. "Bobby, any word on… you know?" He didn't need to finish the sentence. They all knew he was talking about Dean's deal.
Bobby sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'm working on it. Got some leads, but nothing solid yet."
Ali took another bite, chewing slowly. This was good. This was something. A distraction.
Dean, on the other hand, just scowled. "Leads. Great."
"It's better than nothing," Sam shot back.
Dean muttered something under his breath but went back to eating.
Ali set her beer down, pushing past the dull ache in her ribs. "Then let's focus on that. Keep looking into it."
Dean's eyes flicked to her, something unreadable passing over his face. She knew what he was thinking. That she was avoiding talking about Tyler. That she was throwing herself into this to not deal with what had happened.
She didn't care.
"So that's it?" Dean said, watching her. "You just wanna move on like nothing happened?"
Ali stiffened, her fingers tightening around the bottle. "No," she said quietly. "But I do want to stop sitting around waiting for the world to fix itself." She met his gaze. "That's not what we do, is it?"
Dean clenched his jaw but didn't answer.
The room went quiet again, but this time, it wasn't as heavy.
After a moment, Bobby stood, grabbing the empty plates. "I don't know about you boys, but I'm about done for the night." He glanced at Ali. "You should get some rest."
She nodded, pushing herself up from the chair, wincing slightly as her ribs protested the movement. Sam noticed—of course he did—but didn't say anything.
Dean, however, was still watching her.
She met his gaze, forcing a small smirk. "Don't look so worried, Winchester. I'm fine."
Dean exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Yeah. Sure you are."
But for once, he let it go.
As Ali made her way upstairs, she heard Sam murmur something to Dean, something she couldn't quite catch. Whatever it was, Dean just grumbled in response, pouring himself another drink.
She closed her bedroom door behind her and let out a slow breath.
One step at a time. Tomorrow, they'd get back to work. Tomorrow, they'd focus on saving Dean.
And tomorrow, she wouldn't let herself think about Tyler.