Penumbra
Title: Penumbra
Genre: Roswell/Supernatural Crossover.
Pairing: No pairing, but Drifter tendencies.
Rating: Teen.
Warnings: Mild language, light violence.
Setting: Post canon for Roswell. Predates Supernatural canon.
Summary: Paths cross, lives intertwine, and people are forever altered by the bonds they form.
********
Empty car. Abandoned building. Cracked and weed-ridden asphalt. Terrified screams. Loud, harsh hissing. He was too late. He knew the moment he jumped from his truck.
John sprinted towards the noise, gun in hand. The shells were loaded with silver shot, but it would not matter. The lamia was impervious to the metal, resistant, really, to most everything. Fast in a superhuman way even if it had once been a person. Deadly teeth, claws. Cold touch. The ability to manipulate and control minds. It was dangerous, and one of the more deadly creatures he had hunted.
Another voice, a woman’s, rang through the air. High-pitched, shrieking, angry and frightened. John spotted her form a moment later. Arms raised, blood smearing her cheek, advancing on a large, dark shape. The lamia. It crouched over another body-a man-its arm elbow deep in the guy’s stomach. He pushed back the nausea, forced his mind through the horror.
“Get back!”
The woman paid no attention, too lost to anger and fear. John quickened his pace, trying to place himself between her and the lamia. He succeeded, barely, and threw an arm out behind him to capture the woman. They collided, she struggling against his hold, him fighting to keep her from throwing herself at the lamia. It was distracting, and he didn’t have time for it. He shoved her hard in a safe direction, and aimed the shotgun in one fluid movement.
Shot sprayed the lamia, and its back arched, an unnatural shriek issuing from its lips. It reared back, its arm slipping from the man. The acrid smell of iron wafted towards him. Wet, sucking noises stained the breeze. John gritted his teeth at the lamia’s bloody hand, at the glistening shape held within it. Bile crept up his throat, hatred was blinding. It was the man’s heart.
Bright silver eyes turned on him, and John quickly averted his gaze, firing another round. Its body jerked, but it kept to its feet. Tall, heavily muscled, the lamia had been a beast in life before trading its soul for immortality. It was a minion, near indestructible, a monster feared by monsters. But he did not fear it, or death, only the possibility he would never see his sons again. He’d seen too much in his life for panic.
“This is not your problem, John Winchester.” Raspy, a voice animalistic and ill-used.
The lamia had read his mind. John bit back a curse, fortifying the feeble walls in his brain. A stupid mistake; something that would get him killed.
“You’re wrong.” John shook his head, leveled the shotgun at the lamia’s face.
It started moving towards him, kicking the dead man’s figure from its path. A step closer and the lifeless form burst into flames, the fire rolling in a circle from his body. Startled, John blinked at the blaze. It was intense, sudden, and the body succumbed to ashes within seconds. No more man, only orange flames and smoldering grass. The heat of the inferno, the snapping of flames, it had been real. Real and no trick of the lamia.
“So be it.” The voice was closer, but John held his ground. “I will take your soul, and then eat the souls of your sons.”
The barrier had slipped, more information straying from his mind. John’s eyes lifted automatically, angrily. “Stay away from my boys.”
“Hmmm. Sam. Dean.” Silver eyes sparkled, captured his. Sharp, penetrating, they stole his will. “Not as tasty as Max, but, then again, they’re only human.”
Only human…?
It was the last conscious thought generated by his brain. The lamia had broken his concentration, shattered it with a mere mention of his sons. Images flooded his mind, visions of Dean bloody and dead, of Sam held enthralled while the lamia sucked the lifeblood from his veins. They were his weakness, the only thing that had kept him from doing harm to himself after Mary’s death. He would do anything to protect his boys, to keep them safe.
“No.” John fought against the control, to move his limbs, to think. “I won’t let-“
“Yes.” The scent of death and decay crept nearer. It was suffocating, disturbing, numbing. “You will.”
John stared wide-eyed at the lamia, at the hand slowly reaching towards his face. His arms were limp, the gun dangling on his fingertips. It fell to the ground, clattering uselessly in the dirt. He’d never had the upper hand, had never had a chance at it. The lamia was too powerful, out of his class. He’d been rendered useless in a matter of minutes, one more body for consumption. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He would die.
The girl would die.
His children would die.
“No.”
A cold palm flattened to his cheek, the sharp imprint of nails digging into the skin. “Yes.”
Entranced, John watched the smooth lines of the lamia’s face loom closer. Promising. Treacherous. Deadly. Its maw parted revealing sharp canines and bloodstained ivory. Lips traced his jaw, nuzzled into the hollow under his ear. His muscles shivered, but he could not move. Enthralled. He tensed for the lamia’s kiss, for the pain and oblivion it offered.
Blunt force collided with John’s side, and he was flying. Away from the lamia, tumbling to the ground, banging his head on packed dirt. He stared dazedly from his prone position, the girl standing where he had before. The lamia held her arm, talons tearing through jacket and flesh. She had shoved him aside, at least ten yards aside. Impossible.
Something was happening he did not understand, something important. John scrambled to his feet, towards the pair. His ears were ringing, but his eyesight was fine. If disbelieving. The girl was tiny, petite, a waif; she should not have been able to push him out of the way, let alone release him from the lamia’s grip. But she had. It had two feet on her, at least a hundred and fifty pounds, but she faced it alone. Without fear. The lines creasing her face were anger, retribution. Feelings he knew all too well.
Electricity crackled in the air, a warning of a lightning storm. John glanced up. The sky was clear, stars twinkling in a black fabric of space. When his gaze returned to the girl, the lamia was on its back, smoke rising from the center of its chest. He gaped at the image, not understanding. There had been no sound of gunfire, no shriek of pain. It had happened nonetheless; the lamia was down.
“How do I kill it?”
The girl stalked forward, bending over the splayed figure of the lamia. It was a moment before John captured her words, too shocked to process her intentions. She had done that? Where was her weapon?
“You can’t-“
Harder. Authoritative. She glared at him over the monster, her eyes dark and sparking. “How do I kill it?”
Actually, he didn’t know. No one had ever encountered a lamia in his circles. Encountered and lived to tell about it. Most creatures could not function without their brains. Kill the mind and the body dies.
“We have to separate the head from the body.”
He moved to join her, but stopped when the lamia loosed a blood-curdling scream. It chilled his skin, prickled his arms with gooseflesh. Pain. Agony. The knowledge was staggering.
Small hands grabbed the beast’s head, and the noise crescendoed, piercing the eerie stillness of the night. There was no glow, no hint of anything wrong, but, as he watched, the lamia’s head began to melt, dissolve. It lay still. Not fighting, not struggling in any way. Dying and helpless, much like he had been within the monster’s grasp. She was powerful, frightening.
John’s eyes studied the girl, her pale profile. She wasn’t just small; she was delicate, young. Dark-haired and pretty; irises hidden by a black fringe of eyelashes. Sad. Defeated. There was hardness about her, though, a stern determination. Not much older than his Dean, he was certain, but more worldly, more damaged. A gold band encircled the ring finger of her left hand, a brilliant contrast to the pale lamia’s skin.
His face softened. The importance of the dead man washed over him. Husband. Lover. Killed by an unnatural being. So similar, but different. He didn’t know what murdered his spouse, but she did. The lamia. Its death would be agony; its passing a cheap comfort.
He knew he should be frightened of the girl, that he should be running as far from her as possible, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t leave. She had taken down the lamia, alone. She was dangerous, unknown. And she had saved his life.
Heavy, rasped breathing broke his thoughts, brought John’s attention to the girl. She leaned back on her hands, eyelids closed, panting in the grass. He turned to the lamia, gaping at the body. The head was gone, a darkened patch of earth where it had rested. Burned. Scorched. Disintegrated.
“What did you do?”
The girl took a deep breath, eyes riveted on the corpse. “What I had to.”
Nodding, John skirted the lamia’s body to stand beside the girl. “We need to get out of here.”
She shrugged, kept her face tilted towards the ground. “Have nowhere else to go.”
He crouched, stared at the hands dangling between his knees. “I’m sorry.” John paused, gritted his teeth. “If I’d gotten here sooner, your husband wouldn’t-“
A short bark of laughter issued from the girl’s mouth, and her eyes careened to his. “If you’d gotten here sooner, we’d all be dead.”
Black eyes, dark and serious. The girl held no illusions, no innocence. He wondered at that, the loss. She was too young for such disillusionment, such spite.
“If you wanna blame anyone…” She trailed off, breaking eye contact to glance at the spot her husband had died. “…blame Max. We came to help people, but Max… Let’s just say the plan was poorly executed.”
Silence descended, the girl’s pain rendering her speechless. John’s heart panged, his gut telling him to comfort her, to pull her to his chest. He didn’t; he knew she wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. He was a stranger in the strictest sense. Their paths had crossed for a brief moment, and now it was time for them to part ways.
But he wasn’t leaving.
Something about the girl echoed in John. The loss of her husband, the quiet desperation, the surrender. He’d lived it; he’d known her anguish, but he’d had his sons to pull him through the darkest hours. What did she have?
“Can I take you somewhere?” John kneeled, his hands propped on his knees. “Is there someone I can call?”
“Just me.” She smiled, her face wistful. “Pairs were safer.”
John discarded the second statement, frowning at the ambiguity. Pairs. Her and her husband, that much was obvious. It was not time for her story, not time for sharing. Maybe another day.
“No one?” He sighed, knowing he would not abandon her. “You can come home with me.”
When had the implicit confidence in the girl happened? Why was he offering to take her into his home? His boys were there, his reason for breathing. He shouldn’t trust her so quickly, without knowing more about her-why she had no family, what she was, what she had done. But he did. She engendered kindness, protection. He wanted to shelter her, take care of her, help remove the dark shadows from her eyes. Parental instincts. Dangerous or not, she was just a girl.
“No.” She shook her head. “You’ve done enough. Don’t want to bring you more trouble.”
He grinned, and held out his hand. “Not possible. And you’re coming with me.”
Hesitant. She stared at the outstretched palm, questioning it.
“Listen…”
“Liz.”
“Listen, Liz.” He grimaced. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” She met his eyes, frowning sadly. “And I won’t hurt you, intentionally.” She paused. “You watched me kill that…thing, and you never once asked how.”
John breathed deeply, holding her gaze. “It’s not my place.”
“Why?” He stared at her, puzzled, and her forehead wrinkled. “Why are you doing this?”
“Honestly?” She nodded, and he smiled. Truth was always the right choice. “I have no idea.”
“In that case…”
“John.”
“In that case, John.” She took his hand, her palm cool and slippery. “I’d love to go home with you.”
********
“Sammy, if you’re not in bed when I get up there,” Dean yelled, “I’m going to kick your ass.”
There was no answer from his brother’s bedroom, but soft footsteps drummed across the floor. Dean frowned in irritation. Dad was gone, he had the house relatively to himself, and he wanted some alone time with the television. But Sammy wasn’t cooperating. Trust little brothers to interrupt quality Skinamax time.
Three steps up the stairs, and loud, rapid banging echoed through the house. Dean paused, spinning on his heels to appraise the intrusion. It was late, very late, and that alone made the knocking a bad omen. Villains, though, bad guys, the things-that-go-bump-in-the-night, rarely announced themselves. Rarely, but it was known to happen.
“Dean? Open the door.”
“It’s dad.”
Dean rounded on Sammy, the brother that was not snugly buried in the safety of his bed. He shoved him on his butt, and then tramped down the stairs. Another rare occurrence: Sam listening to his big brother.
“I know that, moron.”
Peering through the glass panel to the side of the door, Dean flicked the porch light. A white glow surged out, revealing John Winchester’s large frame. His arms were occupied, a bulky object held loosely in his grip. Dean unlocked the door, pulled it open to allow his father entrance. He hurried inside, gingerly shifting his burden.
Blood stained his dad’s temple, and Dean’s breath caught, the abnormal arrival forgotten. “You’re hurt.”
His father’s forehead crinkled, and Dean touched the side of his head, indicating the injury. “Oh, that.” John nodded, rapidly dismissing it. “I’m fine. Listen, Dean, I need you to-“
“Who is she, dad?”
Sammy pushed forward, shoving Dean out of the way. He reached out to snag the back of his little brother’s neck, and froze partway there. His brain was slow at times, but it had finally processed Sam’s words. He did a double take of the bundle in his dad’s arms, deciphered the shape curled asleep in them. It was a girl, a dark-haired, bloodstained girl.
“Dad?”
Curious. John Winchester did not bring home strays. Ever.
“Can you take her?”
His dad didn’t wait for an answer. The girl’s weight transferred to Dean’s arms, and he pulled her into his chest. It was an automatic response, to bring her soft, warm body nearer to his.
“What am I supposed to do with her?”
“What?” His dad started from his thoughts. He studied Liz, smoothed a hand over her hair.
Dean’s eyes narrowed at the action, the concern his dad had for the girl. Things weren’t getting clearer. “Why did you bring her here?”
Shrugging, his dad caught Dean’s eyes, held them. “She saved my life.”
And it was as simple as that. All question vanished, Dean’s trust in his father too much to doubt his actions. He’d brought the girl home because he wanted to, because she needed their help.
“Listen.” He glanced out the door, anxious to leave. “I’ve gotta take care of something.”
“You kill it?” Sammy piped up.
In the excitement of the girl, Dean had forgotten he was there. Had forgotten, really, much of everything. Their dad had been hunting a lamia. Very dangerous. The fact that he was standing there, in the doorway was good. Very good.
Their dad touched Sam’s shoulder, gave him a one-armed hug. “It’s dead but I didn’t do it.”
Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Who did?”
No answer, only a meaningful glance at the body curled in his arms. No freaking way.
“Boys.” Their dad stepped into the doorway, turning to leave. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Can you put her to bed? She’s exhausted, passed out on the ride here.”
“Sure, dad.” Dean nodded, tilting his head up the stairs. “We’ll take care of her.”
The door closed softly behind their dad, and Sam threw the locks. They shared a moment of incredulity before Dean shrugged and started up the stairs. He was accustomed to the strange slapping him in the face, and knew their dad would explain when he got back.
Sam padded up the steps after him, his bare feet slapping on the wood panels. “So who do you think she is?”
“Don’t know.” He mounted the landing, angling off towards his bedroom. Sam nearly collided with him and Dean kicked a foot out in warning. No connection, the brat was too quick. “Doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “Dad’s fine with her.”
Sam grunted, keeping well out of Dean’s arm’s/leg’s reach. “And whatever’s fine with dad, is fine with you.”
He bit his tongue, not rising to Sam’s bait. It was a constant argument between them, one that neither would budge on. His brother was a romantic, convinced there were other choices, other ways to live. But he was pragmatic, knew their father had he and Sam’s best interests at heart. John Winchester was a good father, a friend, and Dean’s loyalty to him was unending. He didn’t question his father’s decisions, and didn’t understand why Sam did.
“You’re putting her in your bedroom?”
Rolling his eyes, Dean stepped backwards into his room, opening the door with his butt. “Yes, I’m putting her in my bed.”
His little brother pouted, an upset frown disfiguring his face. “But you won’t even let me in your room.”
“You’re an irritating pain in my ass.” Dean leaned over his mattress, carefully placing the girl down. “And I need my privacy.”
“Like I care about your magazines.”
He stepped away from the bed, glowering at his brother. So the little bastard did know about his stash. There would be punishment later, in the form of Sam’s body battered and bruised for trespassing. Not that Sam took Dean’s threat seriously. He had followed him into his room, his feet way beyond the doorway that served as Dean’s barrier from thirteen-year-old drama. He glared until the boy retreated, his face poking around the wooden doorframe. A sigh eased from his lips, it was the best he’d get from Sam. It would have to do.
Light and quiet, Sam’s voice floated across the distance. “She’s pretty.”
Dean nodded, his gaze falling to the girl lying on his bed. “Yeah.”
She was pretty, very pretty in spite of the dried blood adorning her face. Dark hair, ebony in the absence of light, spilled around her head. It was shiny, touchable, and his hands unconsciously reached out to feel it. Soft, silky, his fingers slipped through the tresses, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. Smooth skin, heat, he jerked away as if burned.
“We supposed to undress her?”
A reminder. Their dad had entrusted her care to them. Dean was certain he had not meant for them to ogle the girl. She stirred, her face canting to the side, revealing her profile. Mouth tight, eyelids fluttering, she did not look at peace. Disturbed by whatever images haunted her sleeping mind. Nightmares. He could relate; he’d lived through Sam’s, his dad’s, his own.
Sam didn’t need the reminder, the trigger. Dean wanted his little brother to remain a kid for a little while longer. Someone deserved to have a childhood in their family.
“Go get some water and a washcloth.”
For once, there was no argument; Sam left without a word. Dean sank to the edge of the bed, smoothing dark tresses from the girl’s brow. Her skin no longer scalded him; it tingled and he was very aware of the sensation. Pleasing. Nice even.
It was a mystery. Something his brain was slow in working out.
She wasn’t ordinary; his father’s response proved that. But why was she with his dad? His father never brought his work home with him. Sure, they had daily training exercises, mythology lessons, and target practice, but never a live case inside the bounds of their household. Typically there was a level of separation between John Winchester’s working life and his family life. The training and lessons were for protective purposes, for when he and Sam were smart enough, strong enough to join their dad on the hunt.
The girl was new, unsettling in a strange and terrifying sort of way.
“Dean.”
He turned towards the disturbance; Sam was perched just outside his entryway, a bowl clutched in his fingers. Dean grimaced, and gestured impatiently for his brother to approach the bed. He had the sneaking suspicion Sam was going to be difficult.
“So I can come in now?” Sam smirked. He stood in the doorway, not budging. “You’re asking me in your room?”
For crying out loud. Sometimes he hated being right. “Get over here before I smack that smile off your mouth.”
“I’m not scared of you.” Sam’s demeanor stated otherwise. Little brother was still very terrified of what big brother could do.
Dean lunged off the bed, and Sam startled. Water sloshed over the side of the bowl and a sharp curse slipped from his lips. It was Dean’s time to gloat, but he chose not to. Instead, he grabbed the bowl from Sam and pushed on his brother’s forehead, hard. The boy stumbled across the hall, and into the opposite room. Dean had his door shut and locked before Sam could recover his footing and retaliate.
A shout burst through the door, Sam’s angry fist pounding on the entrance. “Let me in.”
“Shhh.” Dean stepped back to the door, speaking quietly through it. “You’ll wake her up.”
The knocking halted. “Let me in.”
“Go to bed, Sam.” Dean sighed, and rested his head against the door. He didn’t need to be there, too. “I’ll be okay.”
‘Cuz, really, that was the problem. Trust. Sam had lived nearly every day of his thirteen years in fear of the unknown. The unknown had killed their mother. Their dad hunted the unknown every day, every night. The unknown had stripped them of an ignorant, normal life. The unknown threatened them, challenged them, and their father had invited the unknown into their home, their sanctuary. She wasn’t just a girl; she was a risk, an enigma. And Sam only wanted to protect his older brother.
“Okay.” Irritated and tired, Sam’s voice was barely audible. “If you need anything, though, I’ll be awake.”
He smiled as his brother’s footsteps retreated across the hall, into his bedroom. Sam was tired, or he would have fought more. And, in that one act, he had revealed feelings identical to Dean’s own. The girl was strange, a mystery, but not a danger to them. Otherwise Sam would not have left. He had a gift for those things, seeing the bad in a person. She must have passed inspection.
Sam safely tucked away, Dean settled onto the bed, setting the bowl on his nightstand. He studied her-the pearls of sweat forming on her brow, the restless, quivering of her muscles. Feet kicking. Fingers clenching. Whimpers. Static crackled in the air, and somehow he knew she was responsible. It made him pause, acknowledge that even though his gut told him she was good, would not harm him, he knew nothing about her, not even her name.
It was no matter, made no difference. She was in his care, be it for good or bad. He would not disappoint his father.
The washcloth was warm in Dean’s hand as he drew it from the bowl, wringing out the excess moisture. Tentatively, he brought the cloth to the girl’s forehead, dabbing at the dark stains decorating her skin. Tiny scratches littered her flesh, the deep purple of a bruise emerging on her cheek. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, nothing he hadn’t tended on his father. But on her…it was dirty, outrageous, troubling. Such beauty, such fragility should never be marred by violence.
His mind wandered, lost to the reality of the moment, the task of cleaning the girl’s wounds. No, it wasn’t new, repairing what was broken. It was the mission statement for his father, their family motto: Help the helpless; kill the monster. So it shouldn’t continually surprise him she was there, staying in his home. His dad had seen something in her, had responded on some deeper level to her. What was she to him? A savior? A friend?
Whatever else she was, the girl was another person, another body to watch and care for. It was dangerous in their line of work, adding unfamiliar members to their tribe. How long was she staying? What did his father intend? She was a liability, someone who could get hurt. Even though he had only been allowed on a small portion of his father’s hunting trips, Dean knew the peril, the threat. Could they take someone else into their family? Could they protect her? They had failed his mother.
A vice circled his wrist, tugging, halting the movements of his hand. Dean blinked at the disturbance, at the dirty fingers and jagged nails digging into his flesh. His eyes flickered over the girl’s face, the dark irises staring up at him. Wide, questioning, but not scared. He licked his lips, wondering at her response, the unwavering trust in her eyes.
He raked a hand through his hair, speaking softly. “You’re awake.”
“King of the obvious.” Her voice was cracked, dry, and the smile on her lips did not quite reach her eyes. “I presume you’re Dean?”
“You presume right.” Dean’s eyes narrowed; apparently his dad had already spilled their life story. “And you are?”
“Liz.”
Fitting, she looked like a Liz. “So, Liz, you gonna tell me why dad brought you here?”
Liz’s hand dropped from his wrist, and Dean lowered the cloth to his lap. She turned from him, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Her face was pale in the light from the window, shadowed. Forlorn. He hated that he had to question, had to ease his mind. It was hurting her.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Dean shook his head, looked away.
Tears glistened in Liz’s eyes; it was heartrending to watch, to witness and he couldn’t do it. Her sorrow was some physical thing, weighing on his shoulders, burdening his mind. It beat against him, tiny wings fluttering in his chest, his brain. Very palpable; it felt like his own heart was shattering.
Damn. He gasped, eyes flying towards the girl, searching for tangible evidence of what he intuitively recognized. There was nothing, no mark, no brand, but it was there. He was not mistaken. The reason the Winchester family had relinquished their trust so casually was simple. She was an empath.
“Well, he didn’t tell me either.”
A sob wrenched from her mouth, and her body angled away from him, her knees curling into her chest. Dean’s hand hovered over her shoulder, a frown marring his lips. He ached to touch her, to comfort her, but he was hesitant, unwilling to get attached. For the moment, she was transitory, someone who would disappear with time. Forgotten. Another temporary contact in a stream of connections. She would leave soon, and he would lose nothing in offering his solace.
But she was an empath. They weren’t dangerous. Their abilities weren’t to be feared. It was only a power of feeling, of transmitting. She channeled everyone’s emotions, shared their pain, their happiness. It was more a burden than a gift. Always feeling someone else, never completely separating it from his or her own. Empaths moved through life hyper-aware of all that surrounded them.
No, Dean wasn’t scared of her, of what she could do. What did terrify him, what made him cautious was a passage he’d read in one of his dad’s books. Empaths could imprint people in times of high stress, emotional turmoil. She could mark him, know everything about him.
In the end, Dean closed off, dropping the washcloth into the bowl. He couldn’t risk himself, his feelings, because he knew instinctively that touching Liz, holding her would change everything. How exactly? He didn’t know, but wasn’t certain he wanted to risk it.
Hiccupped cries quieted as he stood, trudging to his dresser to rummage the drawers for a pair of shorts and T-shirt. It tugged at his heart, a small wound inflicted by each sob, each harsh gasp of air. He was raw and bleeding, overwhelmed by the emotions buffeting his skin, perforating his resolve. Crippling, agonizing, and it was only a fraction of Liz’s feelings. She was breaking, falling apart. He was the only comfort she had, and, suddenly, he couldn’t be far enough from the room.
She demanded nothing, and too much.
When Dean turned back to the bed, clothing held tightly in a white-knuckled grip, Liz was sitting against the wall, eyes searching him. His breath caught. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she made no move to hide them. She was unashamed in her grief. Pale. Beautiful.
“What are you doing?” Whispered, soft, but strong, unflinching.
“Getting you something to change into.” He tossed the clothes beside her, and leaned into his dresser, arms folded over his chest. “To be more comfortable.”
Liz’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the clothing, before flicking back to him. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Dad told me to take care of you.”
A pause. A bemused smirk. Liz raked his body with her eyes, her gaze lingering on his hips, his chest. “And you always take care of strangers in your underwear?”
Shit. Dean glanced down his body, to the bare feet and naked chest. It was hot; he’d been lounging for the night in his boxers. And he’d completely forgotten that fact in the aftermath of his dad’s arrival.
“Is that a problem?” His reply was probably a little bit sharper than it should have been. He was embarrassed. It wasn’t often-he was sad to admit-that he found himself near naked, alone with a girl.
“No.” Her head shook, but tension had crept into her posture. It wasn’t much, just a tightening of muscles, but it was noticeable. He’d been trained to tell truth when he saw it, and she was lying. “But if you think my gratitude-“
“Whoa.” His arms flailed wildly around his torso. “No.”
Gratitude? Of course he wanted her to be grateful, his dad had gone out of the way for her. The body language, the sudden protective curling of her arms around her knees was clear. She thought he was a threat, a sexual predator. He swallowed, coughing in surprise.
“Just…no.” Dean’s eyes widened to what he figured were hysterical proportions. “I would never…Dad showed up and I forgot-“
“Okay.” Her head tipped. “Good enough.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the floorboards creaking beneath Dean’s feet. He was insulted, but understanding. Something horrible had happened to Liz that night, something traumatic. Everything was in a tailspin, her life uprooted, trusted to strangers. He could relate; he’d been through it once…with his dad and Sam.
“Dean?” She was pleading, her voice quivering. “Look. I’m sorry.” He glanced up to her picking distractedly at her jeans. “It’s just… I’m not… You’re dad…”
“Shhh.” He eased closer, stood at the side of the bed, and offered a small smile. “You should get some sleep.”
Liz nodded, her lips lifting for the briefest of moments. “Thank you.”
Dean tipped his chin and backed out of the bedroom. The door closed behind him, and he fell into it, panting softly. He’d been right, but he’d also been very wrong.
Liz was trouble.
Trouble neatly sewn into his heart.
********
Dean’s eyes flew open, his body jolted to consciousness. Whatever had woken him had caused Sam to rise too; he wriggled excitedly on the bed beside him.
“Dean?” Sam poked his side. “What was that?”
“What?”
Confusion wrinkled Sam’s face, his lips twisting with question. “I thought I heard someone.”
He sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed and scratched his head. “Someone?”
“Some girl.”
“Probably Liz.” Dean stood, glancing at his brother before entering the hallway. “Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of it.”
“You sure?” Sam yawned, his eyes already drifting shut.
“Yeah, Sammy.” He pulled the sheet over his brother, tucking it beneath his chin. “Sleep.”
It was uncharacteristic, Sam snoozing while Liz lay in the bed across the hallway. His little brother was a worrier, easily unsettled. He had trouble slumbering on a normal day, one where his dad was home and safe. A stranger should have had Sam restless and shouting in his sleep or staring bleary eyed at late night infomercials. Anything else, really, but the unexpected complacence and detached drowsiness.
Sam was freaking him out. Seriously.
Stepping into the hall, Dean pulled his brother’s door shut, deciding it would do no good to dwell on his sleep patterns. It was a good sign Sam slumbered so peacefully, even if it were odd and discomforting.
He quickly scanned the hallway, looking into his dad’s room. It was open, dark, the bed empty. He wasn’t home. For a little while longer, Dean was the man of the house, which meant Liz was his responsibility. Sighing, he pressed his ear to her door, listening to the noises within. He shouldn’t be worried; he shouldn’t care about some stranger, but he did. And it was nearly as unsettling as Sam’s behavior.
Quiet whimpering floated through the wooden panel, and before Dean had quite processed the motion, the knob was turning in his hands, the door swinging on its hinges. “Liz?” He stepped inside, tugging the entrance closed behind him. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she snapped. The bed rustled, Liz’s body twisting beneath the sheets. “You want something?”
Dean flinched at the bite of her words, the pain they inflicted. He was trying to be nice; he didn’t need her anger directed at him. He’d made a mistake walking through the door. “Sorry.”
Her next words were lighter, the evidence of her weariness creeping into her speech. “Yeah, me, too.”
Closing his eyes, Dean moved towards the door, twisting the handle. Her desperation was imbedded in his mind. Treacherous. “I’ll leave.”
“Dean.” He paused, his back towards her, unrelenting. “Don’t go.”
His hand fell to his side. A simple request. A simple response. But he was reluctant. Reluctant when he should have been running.
She sighed, a choked sob slipping free. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to…”
Her voice fractured; the sentence left unfinished, hanging. Anguish washed over him, the sense of emptiness, loneliness, desolation. He turned from the door, shuffled towards Liz. His mind was unwilling, his body uncooperative. But he couldn’t leave, couldn’t turn away. Her suffering pulled him to her even as it scared him. To feel something so deeply, so painfully…
Liz shifted, scooting over the mattress to allow him room. Dean stared at the space, at the implication. To lie down beside her, to hold her in his arms while she cried; it was tempting, dangerous. He didn’t want the responsibility. She couldn’t make him do it, couldn’t force his sympathy.
His reticence appalled him. It was selfish. Liz was asking a small favor, to have comfort in a time of great pain, and he wouldn’t give it to her. The dark eyes glistening in the dim lighting wanted nothing more than a warm body and a shoulder to cry on. Why was he being so stubborn? What did his mind unconsciously recognize in her tiny figure?
Ragged breathing shattered his thought, drew his attention to the lips dragging uneven gasps of air into her lungs. She refused to meet his gaze, curling on her side away from him. The heels of her palms flattened against her eyelids, large, choking tremors wracking her body. She was hyperventilating, collapsing, a far cry from the woman he’d met earlier. She had wilted, withered, and that time he could not ignore her, could not imagine it all away.
Hell. She made his decision easy.
Dean edged closer, lifting the corner of the sheet and sliding beneath it. It was real, she was real, but beyond that, he had severed all contact with reality. Disjointed. Thrown out of the normal pattern. Everything was hazy around the fringes, a dreamlike quality clouding fact. He wasn’t there, not really. The Dean he knew was still sheltered in Sam’s bed, held back by his illusions of the truth, natural order. He was still a boy, a child, hiding in so many ways.
Lying on his side, Dean’s hand tentatively touched Liz’s shoulder. Patting. Soothing. Unsure what she expected of him. She stiffened beneath the contact, but immediately relaxed, threading her fingers with his. Her body wriggled closer, back flush to his chest. She shivered against him, and he let her pull his arms around her torso, hugging her into him.
It was strange, but not unpleasant. Her closeness. Her scent. Dean muscles loosened, his body folding effortlessly around hers.
“Thank you.” Her breath feathered against his hand, a light kiss dropping to it.
He froze, his breath taken by the simple gesture. “No problem.”
Time passed, the shudders stilling, the tears lessening. They lay in silence, Dean coiled around Liz, the heat of her body searing his skin. His thumb stroked her palm, and her fingers tightened, nestling their entwined hands against the beating of her heart. It was fast, irregular, thumping wildly beneath her breast. He placed a kiss to the crown of her head, burying his nose in the satiny strands of her hair.
No longer scared. No longer anxious. It was natural to hold her, to count each pulse of her heart, to breathe her in. His misgivings had passed, his reluctance and anger forgotten. He had fought because of that moment, had known on some level what would happen if he relented.
Heat built in his chest, surging through his veins. It was too late for doubt, for regret; he had already let her in, through his pathetic defenses. He was lost.
“You’ve done this before.” It was a statement, not a question, and brought him back to the moment. To Liz. “For Sam?”
“Yeah.” Dean nodded. He didn’t consider lying or avoiding an answer; he wanted to tell her. “He was a baby when our mom was killed, but he remembers when he dreams.”
“Not when he’s awake?”
“If he does, he doesn’t let me or dad know.” Dean closed his eyes, sighed. He was close to his brother, but Sam would always keep things from him. It hurt a little. “Sammy’s strong. Stronger than I give him credit for.”
“Most people are.” Her voice faltered, stumbling on the next words. “But everybody has their breaking point.”
He held his breath, released it slowly. She was unlocking for him, without his prodding. “Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here because fantasies aren’t enough.” Cold. Despondent. Detached. Something had shifted in Liz, something he couldn’t quite detect. She was open, but distancing herself. “They’re always torn apart.”
“Fate has a way of sneaking up on you.” His answer was trite, reflexive. Blame was best placed somewhere not concrete, not understood. It was easier to accept. Less destructive.
“No.” She shook her head, the muscles in her spine tensing, hardening against him. “It wasn’t fate.”
Dean’s face crinkled. The conversation was veering into the serious, the hazardous. “Then what was it?”
“Time. Error. Bad judgment.” She laughed, a short burst of discordant sound. “We thought we could change things, make the world a better place. We didn’t understand…”
“We?”
She hadn’t been alone. Someone had been with her. Where were they? Who were they?
“Me.” She paused. “Max.”
“Max?”
It was a name, but not an answer, not the one Dean wanted. He needed to know how intimately Liz and Max were tied, what the name meant to her. She had shattered in his arms, her grief too heavy to contain. Max had been important to her, and he was gone. He wanted to understand, to help her, to be the friend she was going to need.
Liz’s body trembled, and he clutched her tighter. “My husband.”
The response was crisp, powerful. With those two words, Dean knew Liz had loved Max boundlessly. The proof lay in her quivering breaths, her quaking muscles, the carefully chosen words.
“Where is he?” he asked softly. When she didn’t reply, he loosed her hand, touched the curve of her cheek. It was wet with fresh tears. “Liz?”
“He’s dead.” She yanked his hand away, pressing it between her breasts. “This time he’s not coming back.”
It was her sorrow, her anger at Max’s death holding him to her, forging a bond between them. Without it, she would never have entered his life, would never have shared his bed. She would be gone, and he would be none the wiser, content in his-relatively-happy home. But time had twisted, taken her husband’s life, and she was there, with him, refusing to let go.
A few hours and Dean had given a part of himself to her…his compassion, his understanding, his succor. Maybe even a bit of his heart. Still, he couldn’t be jealous of Max, of the life she had shared with him. If he had been given the choice, her husband would never have been taken away. But he hadn’t, and they couldn’t change the course of events. They were done, over. Nothing would bring Max back.
And Liz knew that.
“The lamia?”
She shivered, and Dean realized he had probably provoked a memory, something she’d tried to purge from her mind ight. “It ripped his heart out.”
“You watched it?” Dean gasped, burying his forehead against her hair. “Of course you did. And my dad?”
“Tried to help.” She shrugged, taking a deep breath. “It was too late for Max.”
“You killed it, didn’t you?” He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. “The lamia?”
“Yes.”
She was less than forthcoming with her responses. Timid, testing him. Liz had secrets, he knew; it was in her posture, the slump of her shoulders. He offered his honesty, and expected nothing in return, but he was curious.
“How?”
“Aren’t you a little old for bedtime stories?” Dean could hear the smile in her tone, and he silently preened that he’d put it there. The lightness was quick to disappear. “My tale’s better left to daylight hours.”
Liz released his hands, and Dean was at a loss where to place them. He settled with her stomach, his palms flush against the soft flesh exposed there. She was hot, damp, but he didn’t move away, didn’t take the reprieve she offered. The room was sweltering, the emotions spilling off Liz chaotic, but he was where he needed to be, where she wanted him to be. He was a distraction, a comfort.
Dean didn’t know about the latter, but he excelled at the former. “I’m eighteen,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Head cocking to the side, Liz peered at him over her shoulder, a rueful smile tilting her lips. “And that concerns me why?”
Eyes rolling, Dean snickered, snuggling into Liz’s back. “We’re already sharing a bed, Liz. I think it’s time we get to know each other.”
Laughter spilled from Liz’s throat, the sound soft and beautiful. “So when you said you were eighteen…”
“You respond with…” He flipped his hand, gesturing small circles.
“Nineteen.”
“Now that you’re with the ‘program,’ I-“ Dean interrupted himself. She was only a year older than him? How was that possible? “That’s all?”
“Should I be offended?” She scoffed, her fingers pulling at the tiny hairs on his arm. “Hell, I can’t even get into a bar with fake ID.”
“No. NO. And ow.” He swatted her hands, disengaging her attack. “It’s just…you’re married.”
“It happens, Dean.” She inhaled harshly. “I loved Max, and I wanted to be with him forever.”
“It was that easy?”
“Not even close.” Her hands found his arm again, but her fingers were soft, petting. “Everything with Max was hard.”
An easy silence spread between them. They had camaraderie, an understanding of one another. It had been instantaneous, binding once he’d stopped struggling. Liz had wedged herself firmly in his heart.
“What are you going to do now…that he’s…?”
Liz rolled towards Dean, faced him, her dark eyes holding his. The loss would fade from them with time, he knew, it would not always be so fresh. But at that moment, with her pain so raw, it was difficult to believe.
“Gone?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Keep breathing.” Liz frowned, her lids closing over a swell of tears. “It’s all I can do.”
Smiling sadly, Dean tipped onto his back, and dragged Liz into him, cradling her head against his shoulder. She snuggled into his side, her hand splaying over his chest. Their fingers threaded, his heart thundering beneath moist palms. They were outside time, suspended in perfection, quiet, release. Together. The world had collapsed around them, destroying all they knew, but they were alive. Breathing.
And that was enough.
“G’night, Dean.”
He kissed the top of her head, hauled her closer. “Night, Liz.”
Keep breathing.
Keep living.
Endure.
They had all suffered trial by fire, by death, by the supernatural. Suffered and endured. Suffered and become stronger. They were the same-him, Liz, Sam, his dad-they were bound by the impossible. Her arrival was not chance. She fit, was one of them. A sister. A survivor. A Winchester.
Eyes slipping closed, Dean hugged Liz tighter, not wanting to release her, to wake and find her gone. He reveled in her, in the trust she inspired. One night, and he was changing, an unknown and broken portion of his soul began to mend. She had lost her life, but saved his father’s. She had come to them cracked and damaged, seeking refuge, but she had brought solace, hope.
Liz belonged there. With him. With his family.
Dean opened his mouth to tell her, but stopped at her soft, even breathing. Asleep. Resting. Tremors no longer disrupted her body. She was free of nightmares for the moment. At peace.
Smiling, he settled the sheet over their bodies, placed another kiss to the top of her head. He’d tell her in the morning.
*******
The End.
Genre: Roswell/Supernatural Crossover.
Pairing: No pairing, but Drifter tendencies.
Rating: Teen.
Warnings: Mild language, light violence.
Setting: Post canon for Roswell. Predates Supernatural canon.
Summary: Paths cross, lives intertwine, and people are forever altered by the bonds they form.
********
Empty car. Abandoned building. Cracked and weed-ridden asphalt. Terrified screams. Loud, harsh hissing. He was too late. He knew the moment he jumped from his truck.
John sprinted towards the noise, gun in hand. The shells were loaded with silver shot, but it would not matter. The lamia was impervious to the metal, resistant, really, to most everything. Fast in a superhuman way even if it had once been a person. Deadly teeth, claws. Cold touch. The ability to manipulate and control minds. It was dangerous, and one of the more deadly creatures he had hunted.
Another voice, a woman’s, rang through the air. High-pitched, shrieking, angry and frightened. John spotted her form a moment later. Arms raised, blood smearing her cheek, advancing on a large, dark shape. The lamia. It crouched over another body-a man-its arm elbow deep in the guy’s stomach. He pushed back the nausea, forced his mind through the horror.
“Get back!”
The woman paid no attention, too lost to anger and fear. John quickened his pace, trying to place himself between her and the lamia. He succeeded, barely, and threw an arm out behind him to capture the woman. They collided, she struggling against his hold, him fighting to keep her from throwing herself at the lamia. It was distracting, and he didn’t have time for it. He shoved her hard in a safe direction, and aimed the shotgun in one fluid movement.
Shot sprayed the lamia, and its back arched, an unnatural shriek issuing from its lips. It reared back, its arm slipping from the man. The acrid smell of iron wafted towards him. Wet, sucking noises stained the breeze. John gritted his teeth at the lamia’s bloody hand, at the glistening shape held within it. Bile crept up his throat, hatred was blinding. It was the man’s heart.
Bright silver eyes turned on him, and John quickly averted his gaze, firing another round. Its body jerked, but it kept to its feet. Tall, heavily muscled, the lamia had been a beast in life before trading its soul for immortality. It was a minion, near indestructible, a monster feared by monsters. But he did not fear it, or death, only the possibility he would never see his sons again. He’d seen too much in his life for panic.
“This is not your problem, John Winchester.” Raspy, a voice animalistic and ill-used.
The lamia had read his mind. John bit back a curse, fortifying the feeble walls in his brain. A stupid mistake; something that would get him killed.
“You’re wrong.” John shook his head, leveled the shotgun at the lamia’s face.
It started moving towards him, kicking the dead man’s figure from its path. A step closer and the lifeless form burst into flames, the fire rolling in a circle from his body. Startled, John blinked at the blaze. It was intense, sudden, and the body succumbed to ashes within seconds. No more man, only orange flames and smoldering grass. The heat of the inferno, the snapping of flames, it had been real. Real and no trick of the lamia.
“So be it.” The voice was closer, but John held his ground. “I will take your soul, and then eat the souls of your sons.”
The barrier had slipped, more information straying from his mind. John’s eyes lifted automatically, angrily. “Stay away from my boys.”
“Hmmm. Sam. Dean.” Silver eyes sparkled, captured his. Sharp, penetrating, they stole his will. “Not as tasty as Max, but, then again, they’re only human.”
Only human…?
It was the last conscious thought generated by his brain. The lamia had broken his concentration, shattered it with a mere mention of his sons. Images flooded his mind, visions of Dean bloody and dead, of Sam held enthralled while the lamia sucked the lifeblood from his veins. They were his weakness, the only thing that had kept him from doing harm to himself after Mary’s death. He would do anything to protect his boys, to keep them safe.
“No.” John fought against the control, to move his limbs, to think. “I won’t let-“
“Yes.” The scent of death and decay crept nearer. It was suffocating, disturbing, numbing. “You will.”
John stared wide-eyed at the lamia, at the hand slowly reaching towards his face. His arms were limp, the gun dangling on his fingertips. It fell to the ground, clattering uselessly in the dirt. He’d never had the upper hand, had never had a chance at it. The lamia was too powerful, out of his class. He’d been rendered useless in a matter of minutes, one more body for consumption. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He would die.
The girl would die.
His children would die.
“No.”
A cold palm flattened to his cheek, the sharp imprint of nails digging into the skin. “Yes.”
Entranced, John watched the smooth lines of the lamia’s face loom closer. Promising. Treacherous. Deadly. Its maw parted revealing sharp canines and bloodstained ivory. Lips traced his jaw, nuzzled into the hollow under his ear. His muscles shivered, but he could not move. Enthralled. He tensed for the lamia’s kiss, for the pain and oblivion it offered.
Blunt force collided with John’s side, and he was flying. Away from the lamia, tumbling to the ground, banging his head on packed dirt. He stared dazedly from his prone position, the girl standing where he had before. The lamia held her arm, talons tearing through jacket and flesh. She had shoved him aside, at least ten yards aside. Impossible.
Something was happening he did not understand, something important. John scrambled to his feet, towards the pair. His ears were ringing, but his eyesight was fine. If disbelieving. The girl was tiny, petite, a waif; she should not have been able to push him out of the way, let alone release him from the lamia’s grip. But she had. It had two feet on her, at least a hundred and fifty pounds, but she faced it alone. Without fear. The lines creasing her face were anger, retribution. Feelings he knew all too well.
Electricity crackled in the air, a warning of a lightning storm. John glanced up. The sky was clear, stars twinkling in a black fabric of space. When his gaze returned to the girl, the lamia was on its back, smoke rising from the center of its chest. He gaped at the image, not understanding. There had been no sound of gunfire, no shriek of pain. It had happened nonetheless; the lamia was down.
“How do I kill it?”
The girl stalked forward, bending over the splayed figure of the lamia. It was a moment before John captured her words, too shocked to process her intentions. She had done that? Where was her weapon?
“You can’t-“
Harder. Authoritative. She glared at him over the monster, her eyes dark and sparking. “How do I kill it?”
Actually, he didn’t know. No one had ever encountered a lamia in his circles. Encountered and lived to tell about it. Most creatures could not function without their brains. Kill the mind and the body dies.
“We have to separate the head from the body.”
He moved to join her, but stopped when the lamia loosed a blood-curdling scream. It chilled his skin, prickled his arms with gooseflesh. Pain. Agony. The knowledge was staggering.
Small hands grabbed the beast’s head, and the noise crescendoed, piercing the eerie stillness of the night. There was no glow, no hint of anything wrong, but, as he watched, the lamia’s head began to melt, dissolve. It lay still. Not fighting, not struggling in any way. Dying and helpless, much like he had been within the monster’s grasp. She was powerful, frightening.
John’s eyes studied the girl, her pale profile. She wasn’t just small; she was delicate, young. Dark-haired and pretty; irises hidden by a black fringe of eyelashes. Sad. Defeated. There was hardness about her, though, a stern determination. Not much older than his Dean, he was certain, but more worldly, more damaged. A gold band encircled the ring finger of her left hand, a brilliant contrast to the pale lamia’s skin.
His face softened. The importance of the dead man washed over him. Husband. Lover. Killed by an unnatural being. So similar, but different. He didn’t know what murdered his spouse, but she did. The lamia. Its death would be agony; its passing a cheap comfort.
He knew he should be frightened of the girl, that he should be running as far from her as possible, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t leave. She had taken down the lamia, alone. She was dangerous, unknown. And she had saved his life.
Heavy, rasped breathing broke his thoughts, brought John’s attention to the girl. She leaned back on her hands, eyelids closed, panting in the grass. He turned to the lamia, gaping at the body. The head was gone, a darkened patch of earth where it had rested. Burned. Scorched. Disintegrated.
“What did you do?”
The girl took a deep breath, eyes riveted on the corpse. “What I had to.”
Nodding, John skirted the lamia’s body to stand beside the girl. “We need to get out of here.”
She shrugged, kept her face tilted towards the ground. “Have nowhere else to go.”
He crouched, stared at the hands dangling between his knees. “I’m sorry.” John paused, gritted his teeth. “If I’d gotten here sooner, your husband wouldn’t-“
A short bark of laughter issued from the girl’s mouth, and her eyes careened to his. “If you’d gotten here sooner, we’d all be dead.”
Black eyes, dark and serious. The girl held no illusions, no innocence. He wondered at that, the loss. She was too young for such disillusionment, such spite.
“If you wanna blame anyone…” She trailed off, breaking eye contact to glance at the spot her husband had died. “…blame Max. We came to help people, but Max… Let’s just say the plan was poorly executed.”
Silence descended, the girl’s pain rendering her speechless. John’s heart panged, his gut telling him to comfort her, to pull her to his chest. He didn’t; he knew she wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. He was a stranger in the strictest sense. Their paths had crossed for a brief moment, and now it was time for them to part ways.
But he wasn’t leaving.
Something about the girl echoed in John. The loss of her husband, the quiet desperation, the surrender. He’d lived it; he’d known her anguish, but he’d had his sons to pull him through the darkest hours. What did she have?
“Can I take you somewhere?” John kneeled, his hands propped on his knees. “Is there someone I can call?”
“Just me.” She smiled, her face wistful. “Pairs were safer.”
John discarded the second statement, frowning at the ambiguity. Pairs. Her and her husband, that much was obvious. It was not time for her story, not time for sharing. Maybe another day.
“No one?” He sighed, knowing he would not abandon her. “You can come home with me.”
When had the implicit confidence in the girl happened? Why was he offering to take her into his home? His boys were there, his reason for breathing. He shouldn’t trust her so quickly, without knowing more about her-why she had no family, what she was, what she had done. But he did. She engendered kindness, protection. He wanted to shelter her, take care of her, help remove the dark shadows from her eyes. Parental instincts. Dangerous or not, she was just a girl.
“No.” She shook her head. “You’ve done enough. Don’t want to bring you more trouble.”
He grinned, and held out his hand. “Not possible. And you’re coming with me.”
Hesitant. She stared at the outstretched palm, questioning it.
“Listen…”
“Liz.”
“Listen, Liz.” He grimaced. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” She met his eyes, frowning sadly. “And I won’t hurt you, intentionally.” She paused. “You watched me kill that…thing, and you never once asked how.”
John breathed deeply, holding her gaze. “It’s not my place.”
“Why?” He stared at her, puzzled, and her forehead wrinkled. “Why are you doing this?”
“Honestly?” She nodded, and he smiled. Truth was always the right choice. “I have no idea.”
“In that case…”
“John.”
“In that case, John.” She took his hand, her palm cool and slippery. “I’d love to go home with you.”
********
“Sammy, if you’re not in bed when I get up there,” Dean yelled, “I’m going to kick your ass.”
There was no answer from his brother’s bedroom, but soft footsteps drummed across the floor. Dean frowned in irritation. Dad was gone, he had the house relatively to himself, and he wanted some alone time with the television. But Sammy wasn’t cooperating. Trust little brothers to interrupt quality Skinamax time.
Three steps up the stairs, and loud, rapid banging echoed through the house. Dean paused, spinning on his heels to appraise the intrusion. It was late, very late, and that alone made the knocking a bad omen. Villains, though, bad guys, the things-that-go-bump-in-the-night, rarely announced themselves. Rarely, but it was known to happen.
“Dean? Open the door.”
“It’s dad.”
Dean rounded on Sammy, the brother that was not snugly buried in the safety of his bed. He shoved him on his butt, and then tramped down the stairs. Another rare occurrence: Sam listening to his big brother.
“I know that, moron.”
Peering through the glass panel to the side of the door, Dean flicked the porch light. A white glow surged out, revealing John Winchester’s large frame. His arms were occupied, a bulky object held loosely in his grip. Dean unlocked the door, pulled it open to allow his father entrance. He hurried inside, gingerly shifting his burden.
Blood stained his dad’s temple, and Dean’s breath caught, the abnormal arrival forgotten. “You’re hurt.”
His father’s forehead crinkled, and Dean touched the side of his head, indicating the injury. “Oh, that.” John nodded, rapidly dismissing it. “I’m fine. Listen, Dean, I need you to-“
“Who is she, dad?”
Sammy pushed forward, shoving Dean out of the way. He reached out to snag the back of his little brother’s neck, and froze partway there. His brain was slow at times, but it had finally processed Sam’s words. He did a double take of the bundle in his dad’s arms, deciphered the shape curled asleep in them. It was a girl, a dark-haired, bloodstained girl.
“Dad?”
Curious. John Winchester did not bring home strays. Ever.
“Can you take her?”
His dad didn’t wait for an answer. The girl’s weight transferred to Dean’s arms, and he pulled her into his chest. It was an automatic response, to bring her soft, warm body nearer to his.
“What am I supposed to do with her?”
“What?” His dad started from his thoughts. He studied Liz, smoothed a hand over her hair.
Dean’s eyes narrowed at the action, the concern his dad had for the girl. Things weren’t getting clearer. “Why did you bring her here?”
Shrugging, his dad caught Dean’s eyes, held them. “She saved my life.”
And it was as simple as that. All question vanished, Dean’s trust in his father too much to doubt his actions. He’d brought the girl home because he wanted to, because she needed their help.
“Listen.” He glanced out the door, anxious to leave. “I’ve gotta take care of something.”
“You kill it?” Sammy piped up.
In the excitement of the girl, Dean had forgotten he was there. Had forgotten, really, much of everything. Their dad had been hunting a lamia. Very dangerous. The fact that he was standing there, in the doorway was good. Very good.
Their dad touched Sam’s shoulder, gave him a one-armed hug. “It’s dead but I didn’t do it.”
Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Who did?”
No answer, only a meaningful glance at the body curled in his arms. No freaking way.
“Boys.” Their dad stepped into the doorway, turning to leave. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Can you put her to bed? She’s exhausted, passed out on the ride here.”
“Sure, dad.” Dean nodded, tilting his head up the stairs. “We’ll take care of her.”
The door closed softly behind their dad, and Sam threw the locks. They shared a moment of incredulity before Dean shrugged and started up the stairs. He was accustomed to the strange slapping him in the face, and knew their dad would explain when he got back.
Sam padded up the steps after him, his bare feet slapping on the wood panels. “So who do you think she is?”
“Don’t know.” He mounted the landing, angling off towards his bedroom. Sam nearly collided with him and Dean kicked a foot out in warning. No connection, the brat was too quick. “Doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “Dad’s fine with her.”
Sam grunted, keeping well out of Dean’s arm’s/leg’s reach. “And whatever’s fine with dad, is fine with you.”
He bit his tongue, not rising to Sam’s bait. It was a constant argument between them, one that neither would budge on. His brother was a romantic, convinced there were other choices, other ways to live. But he was pragmatic, knew their father had he and Sam’s best interests at heart. John Winchester was a good father, a friend, and Dean’s loyalty to him was unending. He didn’t question his father’s decisions, and didn’t understand why Sam did.
“You’re putting her in your bedroom?”
Rolling his eyes, Dean stepped backwards into his room, opening the door with his butt. “Yes, I’m putting her in my bed.”
His little brother pouted, an upset frown disfiguring his face. “But you won’t even let me in your room.”
“You’re an irritating pain in my ass.” Dean leaned over his mattress, carefully placing the girl down. “And I need my privacy.”
“Like I care about your magazines.”
He stepped away from the bed, glowering at his brother. So the little bastard did know about his stash. There would be punishment later, in the form of Sam’s body battered and bruised for trespassing. Not that Sam took Dean’s threat seriously. He had followed him into his room, his feet way beyond the doorway that served as Dean’s barrier from thirteen-year-old drama. He glared until the boy retreated, his face poking around the wooden doorframe. A sigh eased from his lips, it was the best he’d get from Sam. It would have to do.
Light and quiet, Sam’s voice floated across the distance. “She’s pretty.”
Dean nodded, his gaze falling to the girl lying on his bed. “Yeah.”
She was pretty, very pretty in spite of the dried blood adorning her face. Dark hair, ebony in the absence of light, spilled around her head. It was shiny, touchable, and his hands unconsciously reached out to feel it. Soft, silky, his fingers slipped through the tresses, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. Smooth skin, heat, he jerked away as if burned.
“We supposed to undress her?”
A reminder. Their dad had entrusted her care to them. Dean was certain he had not meant for them to ogle the girl. She stirred, her face canting to the side, revealing her profile. Mouth tight, eyelids fluttering, she did not look at peace. Disturbed by whatever images haunted her sleeping mind. Nightmares. He could relate; he’d lived through Sam’s, his dad’s, his own.
Sam didn’t need the reminder, the trigger. Dean wanted his little brother to remain a kid for a little while longer. Someone deserved to have a childhood in their family.
“Go get some water and a washcloth.”
For once, there was no argument; Sam left without a word. Dean sank to the edge of the bed, smoothing dark tresses from the girl’s brow. Her skin no longer scalded him; it tingled and he was very aware of the sensation. Pleasing. Nice even.
It was a mystery. Something his brain was slow in working out.
She wasn’t ordinary; his father’s response proved that. But why was she with his dad? His father never brought his work home with him. Sure, they had daily training exercises, mythology lessons, and target practice, but never a live case inside the bounds of their household. Typically there was a level of separation between John Winchester’s working life and his family life. The training and lessons were for protective purposes, for when he and Sam were smart enough, strong enough to join their dad on the hunt.
The girl was new, unsettling in a strange and terrifying sort of way.
“Dean.”
He turned towards the disturbance; Sam was perched just outside his entryway, a bowl clutched in his fingers. Dean grimaced, and gestured impatiently for his brother to approach the bed. He had the sneaking suspicion Sam was going to be difficult.
“So I can come in now?” Sam smirked. He stood in the doorway, not budging. “You’re asking me in your room?”
For crying out loud. Sometimes he hated being right. “Get over here before I smack that smile off your mouth.”
“I’m not scared of you.” Sam’s demeanor stated otherwise. Little brother was still very terrified of what big brother could do.
Dean lunged off the bed, and Sam startled. Water sloshed over the side of the bowl and a sharp curse slipped from his lips. It was Dean’s time to gloat, but he chose not to. Instead, he grabbed the bowl from Sam and pushed on his brother’s forehead, hard. The boy stumbled across the hall, and into the opposite room. Dean had his door shut and locked before Sam could recover his footing and retaliate.
A shout burst through the door, Sam’s angry fist pounding on the entrance. “Let me in.”
“Shhh.” Dean stepped back to the door, speaking quietly through it. “You’ll wake her up.”
The knocking halted. “Let me in.”
“Go to bed, Sam.” Dean sighed, and rested his head against the door. He didn’t need to be there, too. “I’ll be okay.”
‘Cuz, really, that was the problem. Trust. Sam had lived nearly every day of his thirteen years in fear of the unknown. The unknown had killed their mother. Their dad hunted the unknown every day, every night. The unknown had stripped them of an ignorant, normal life. The unknown threatened them, challenged them, and their father had invited the unknown into their home, their sanctuary. She wasn’t just a girl; she was a risk, an enigma. And Sam only wanted to protect his older brother.
“Okay.” Irritated and tired, Sam’s voice was barely audible. “If you need anything, though, I’ll be awake.”
He smiled as his brother’s footsteps retreated across the hall, into his bedroom. Sam was tired, or he would have fought more. And, in that one act, he had revealed feelings identical to Dean’s own. The girl was strange, a mystery, but not a danger to them. Otherwise Sam would not have left. He had a gift for those things, seeing the bad in a person. She must have passed inspection.
Sam safely tucked away, Dean settled onto the bed, setting the bowl on his nightstand. He studied her-the pearls of sweat forming on her brow, the restless, quivering of her muscles. Feet kicking. Fingers clenching. Whimpers. Static crackled in the air, and somehow he knew she was responsible. It made him pause, acknowledge that even though his gut told him she was good, would not harm him, he knew nothing about her, not even her name.
It was no matter, made no difference. She was in his care, be it for good or bad. He would not disappoint his father.
The washcloth was warm in Dean’s hand as he drew it from the bowl, wringing out the excess moisture. Tentatively, he brought the cloth to the girl’s forehead, dabbing at the dark stains decorating her skin. Tiny scratches littered her flesh, the deep purple of a bruise emerging on her cheek. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, nothing he hadn’t tended on his father. But on her…it was dirty, outrageous, troubling. Such beauty, such fragility should never be marred by violence.
His mind wandered, lost to the reality of the moment, the task of cleaning the girl’s wounds. No, it wasn’t new, repairing what was broken. It was the mission statement for his father, their family motto: Help the helpless; kill the monster. So it shouldn’t continually surprise him she was there, staying in his home. His dad had seen something in her, had responded on some deeper level to her. What was she to him? A savior? A friend?
Whatever else she was, the girl was another person, another body to watch and care for. It was dangerous in their line of work, adding unfamiliar members to their tribe. How long was she staying? What did his father intend? She was a liability, someone who could get hurt. Even though he had only been allowed on a small portion of his father’s hunting trips, Dean knew the peril, the threat. Could they take someone else into their family? Could they protect her? They had failed his mother.
A vice circled his wrist, tugging, halting the movements of his hand. Dean blinked at the disturbance, at the dirty fingers and jagged nails digging into his flesh. His eyes flickered over the girl’s face, the dark irises staring up at him. Wide, questioning, but not scared. He licked his lips, wondering at her response, the unwavering trust in her eyes.
He raked a hand through his hair, speaking softly. “You’re awake.”
“King of the obvious.” Her voice was cracked, dry, and the smile on her lips did not quite reach her eyes. “I presume you’re Dean?”
“You presume right.” Dean’s eyes narrowed; apparently his dad had already spilled their life story. “And you are?”
“Liz.”
Fitting, she looked like a Liz. “So, Liz, you gonna tell me why dad brought you here?”
Liz’s hand dropped from his wrist, and Dean lowered the cloth to his lap. She turned from him, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Her face was pale in the light from the window, shadowed. Forlorn. He hated that he had to question, had to ease his mind. It was hurting her.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Dean shook his head, looked away.
Tears glistened in Liz’s eyes; it was heartrending to watch, to witness and he couldn’t do it. Her sorrow was some physical thing, weighing on his shoulders, burdening his mind. It beat against him, tiny wings fluttering in his chest, his brain. Very palpable; it felt like his own heart was shattering.
Damn. He gasped, eyes flying towards the girl, searching for tangible evidence of what he intuitively recognized. There was nothing, no mark, no brand, but it was there. He was not mistaken. The reason the Winchester family had relinquished their trust so casually was simple. She was an empath.
“Well, he didn’t tell me either.”
A sob wrenched from her mouth, and her body angled away from him, her knees curling into her chest. Dean’s hand hovered over her shoulder, a frown marring his lips. He ached to touch her, to comfort her, but he was hesitant, unwilling to get attached. For the moment, she was transitory, someone who would disappear with time. Forgotten. Another temporary contact in a stream of connections. She would leave soon, and he would lose nothing in offering his solace.
But she was an empath. They weren’t dangerous. Their abilities weren’t to be feared. It was only a power of feeling, of transmitting. She channeled everyone’s emotions, shared their pain, their happiness. It was more a burden than a gift. Always feeling someone else, never completely separating it from his or her own. Empaths moved through life hyper-aware of all that surrounded them.
No, Dean wasn’t scared of her, of what she could do. What did terrify him, what made him cautious was a passage he’d read in one of his dad’s books. Empaths could imprint people in times of high stress, emotional turmoil. She could mark him, know everything about him.
In the end, Dean closed off, dropping the washcloth into the bowl. He couldn’t risk himself, his feelings, because he knew instinctively that touching Liz, holding her would change everything. How exactly? He didn’t know, but wasn’t certain he wanted to risk it.
Hiccupped cries quieted as he stood, trudging to his dresser to rummage the drawers for a pair of shorts and T-shirt. It tugged at his heart, a small wound inflicted by each sob, each harsh gasp of air. He was raw and bleeding, overwhelmed by the emotions buffeting his skin, perforating his resolve. Crippling, agonizing, and it was only a fraction of Liz’s feelings. She was breaking, falling apart. He was the only comfort she had, and, suddenly, he couldn’t be far enough from the room.
She demanded nothing, and too much.
When Dean turned back to the bed, clothing held tightly in a white-knuckled grip, Liz was sitting against the wall, eyes searching him. His breath caught. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she made no move to hide them. She was unashamed in her grief. Pale. Beautiful.
“What are you doing?” Whispered, soft, but strong, unflinching.
“Getting you something to change into.” He tossed the clothes beside her, and leaned into his dresser, arms folded over his chest. “To be more comfortable.”
Liz’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the clothing, before flicking back to him. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Dad told me to take care of you.”
A pause. A bemused smirk. Liz raked his body with her eyes, her gaze lingering on his hips, his chest. “And you always take care of strangers in your underwear?”
Shit. Dean glanced down his body, to the bare feet and naked chest. It was hot; he’d been lounging for the night in his boxers. And he’d completely forgotten that fact in the aftermath of his dad’s arrival.
“Is that a problem?” His reply was probably a little bit sharper than it should have been. He was embarrassed. It wasn’t often-he was sad to admit-that he found himself near naked, alone with a girl.
“No.” Her head shook, but tension had crept into her posture. It wasn’t much, just a tightening of muscles, but it was noticeable. He’d been trained to tell truth when he saw it, and she was lying. “But if you think my gratitude-“
“Whoa.” His arms flailed wildly around his torso. “No.”
Gratitude? Of course he wanted her to be grateful, his dad had gone out of the way for her. The body language, the sudden protective curling of her arms around her knees was clear. She thought he was a threat, a sexual predator. He swallowed, coughing in surprise.
“Just…no.” Dean’s eyes widened to what he figured were hysterical proportions. “I would never…Dad showed up and I forgot-“
“Okay.” Her head tipped. “Good enough.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the floorboards creaking beneath Dean’s feet. He was insulted, but understanding. Something horrible had happened to Liz that night, something traumatic. Everything was in a tailspin, her life uprooted, trusted to strangers. He could relate; he’d been through it once…with his dad and Sam.
“Dean?” She was pleading, her voice quivering. “Look. I’m sorry.” He glanced up to her picking distractedly at her jeans. “It’s just… I’m not… You’re dad…”
“Shhh.” He eased closer, stood at the side of the bed, and offered a small smile. “You should get some sleep.”
Liz nodded, her lips lifting for the briefest of moments. “Thank you.”
Dean tipped his chin and backed out of the bedroom. The door closed behind him, and he fell into it, panting softly. He’d been right, but he’d also been very wrong.
Liz was trouble.
Trouble neatly sewn into his heart.
********
Dean’s eyes flew open, his body jolted to consciousness. Whatever had woken him had caused Sam to rise too; he wriggled excitedly on the bed beside him.
“Dean?” Sam poked his side. “What was that?”
“What?”
Confusion wrinkled Sam’s face, his lips twisting with question. “I thought I heard someone.”
He sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed and scratched his head. “Someone?”
“Some girl.”
“Probably Liz.” Dean stood, glancing at his brother before entering the hallway. “Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of it.”
“You sure?” Sam yawned, his eyes already drifting shut.
“Yeah, Sammy.” He pulled the sheet over his brother, tucking it beneath his chin. “Sleep.”
It was uncharacteristic, Sam snoozing while Liz lay in the bed across the hallway. His little brother was a worrier, easily unsettled. He had trouble slumbering on a normal day, one where his dad was home and safe. A stranger should have had Sam restless and shouting in his sleep or staring bleary eyed at late night infomercials. Anything else, really, but the unexpected complacence and detached drowsiness.
Sam was freaking him out. Seriously.
Stepping into the hall, Dean pulled his brother’s door shut, deciding it would do no good to dwell on his sleep patterns. It was a good sign Sam slumbered so peacefully, even if it were odd and discomforting.
He quickly scanned the hallway, looking into his dad’s room. It was open, dark, the bed empty. He wasn’t home. For a little while longer, Dean was the man of the house, which meant Liz was his responsibility. Sighing, he pressed his ear to her door, listening to the noises within. He shouldn’t be worried; he shouldn’t care about some stranger, but he did. And it was nearly as unsettling as Sam’s behavior.
Quiet whimpering floated through the wooden panel, and before Dean had quite processed the motion, the knob was turning in his hands, the door swinging on its hinges. “Liz?” He stepped inside, tugging the entrance closed behind him. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she snapped. The bed rustled, Liz’s body twisting beneath the sheets. “You want something?”
Dean flinched at the bite of her words, the pain they inflicted. He was trying to be nice; he didn’t need her anger directed at him. He’d made a mistake walking through the door. “Sorry.”
Her next words were lighter, the evidence of her weariness creeping into her speech. “Yeah, me, too.”
Closing his eyes, Dean moved towards the door, twisting the handle. Her desperation was imbedded in his mind. Treacherous. “I’ll leave.”
“Dean.” He paused, his back towards her, unrelenting. “Don’t go.”
His hand fell to his side. A simple request. A simple response. But he was reluctant. Reluctant when he should have been running.
She sighed, a choked sob slipping free. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to…”
Her voice fractured; the sentence left unfinished, hanging. Anguish washed over him, the sense of emptiness, loneliness, desolation. He turned from the door, shuffled towards Liz. His mind was unwilling, his body uncooperative. But he couldn’t leave, couldn’t turn away. Her suffering pulled him to her even as it scared him. To feel something so deeply, so painfully…
Liz shifted, scooting over the mattress to allow him room. Dean stared at the space, at the implication. To lie down beside her, to hold her in his arms while she cried; it was tempting, dangerous. He didn’t want the responsibility. She couldn’t make him do it, couldn’t force his sympathy.
His reticence appalled him. It was selfish. Liz was asking a small favor, to have comfort in a time of great pain, and he wouldn’t give it to her. The dark eyes glistening in the dim lighting wanted nothing more than a warm body and a shoulder to cry on. Why was he being so stubborn? What did his mind unconsciously recognize in her tiny figure?
Ragged breathing shattered his thought, drew his attention to the lips dragging uneven gasps of air into her lungs. She refused to meet his gaze, curling on her side away from him. The heels of her palms flattened against her eyelids, large, choking tremors wracking her body. She was hyperventilating, collapsing, a far cry from the woman he’d met earlier. She had wilted, withered, and that time he could not ignore her, could not imagine it all away.
Hell. She made his decision easy.
Dean edged closer, lifting the corner of the sheet and sliding beneath it. It was real, she was real, but beyond that, he had severed all contact with reality. Disjointed. Thrown out of the normal pattern. Everything was hazy around the fringes, a dreamlike quality clouding fact. He wasn’t there, not really. The Dean he knew was still sheltered in Sam’s bed, held back by his illusions of the truth, natural order. He was still a boy, a child, hiding in so many ways.
Lying on his side, Dean’s hand tentatively touched Liz’s shoulder. Patting. Soothing. Unsure what she expected of him. She stiffened beneath the contact, but immediately relaxed, threading her fingers with his. Her body wriggled closer, back flush to his chest. She shivered against him, and he let her pull his arms around her torso, hugging her into him.
It was strange, but not unpleasant. Her closeness. Her scent. Dean muscles loosened, his body folding effortlessly around hers.
“Thank you.” Her breath feathered against his hand, a light kiss dropping to it.
He froze, his breath taken by the simple gesture. “No problem.”
Time passed, the shudders stilling, the tears lessening. They lay in silence, Dean coiled around Liz, the heat of her body searing his skin. His thumb stroked her palm, and her fingers tightened, nestling their entwined hands against the beating of her heart. It was fast, irregular, thumping wildly beneath her breast. He placed a kiss to the crown of her head, burying his nose in the satiny strands of her hair.
No longer scared. No longer anxious. It was natural to hold her, to count each pulse of her heart, to breathe her in. His misgivings had passed, his reluctance and anger forgotten. He had fought because of that moment, had known on some level what would happen if he relented.
Heat built in his chest, surging through his veins. It was too late for doubt, for regret; he had already let her in, through his pathetic defenses. He was lost.
“You’ve done this before.” It was a statement, not a question, and brought him back to the moment. To Liz. “For Sam?”
“Yeah.” Dean nodded. He didn’t consider lying or avoiding an answer; he wanted to tell her. “He was a baby when our mom was killed, but he remembers when he dreams.”
“Not when he’s awake?”
“If he does, he doesn’t let me or dad know.” Dean closed his eyes, sighed. He was close to his brother, but Sam would always keep things from him. It hurt a little. “Sammy’s strong. Stronger than I give him credit for.”
“Most people are.” Her voice faltered, stumbling on the next words. “But everybody has their breaking point.”
He held his breath, released it slowly. She was unlocking for him, without his prodding. “Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here because fantasies aren’t enough.” Cold. Despondent. Detached. Something had shifted in Liz, something he couldn’t quite detect. She was open, but distancing herself. “They’re always torn apart.”
“Fate has a way of sneaking up on you.” His answer was trite, reflexive. Blame was best placed somewhere not concrete, not understood. It was easier to accept. Less destructive.
“No.” She shook her head, the muscles in her spine tensing, hardening against him. “It wasn’t fate.”
Dean’s face crinkled. The conversation was veering into the serious, the hazardous. “Then what was it?”
“Time. Error. Bad judgment.” She laughed, a short burst of discordant sound. “We thought we could change things, make the world a better place. We didn’t understand…”
“We?”
She hadn’t been alone. Someone had been with her. Where were they? Who were they?
“Me.” She paused. “Max.”
“Max?”
It was a name, but not an answer, not the one Dean wanted. He needed to know how intimately Liz and Max were tied, what the name meant to her. She had shattered in his arms, her grief too heavy to contain. Max had been important to her, and he was gone. He wanted to understand, to help her, to be the friend she was going to need.
Liz’s body trembled, and he clutched her tighter. “My husband.”
The response was crisp, powerful. With those two words, Dean knew Liz had loved Max boundlessly. The proof lay in her quivering breaths, her quaking muscles, the carefully chosen words.
“Where is he?” he asked softly. When she didn’t reply, he loosed her hand, touched the curve of her cheek. It was wet with fresh tears. “Liz?”
“He’s dead.” She yanked his hand away, pressing it between her breasts. “This time he’s not coming back.”
It was her sorrow, her anger at Max’s death holding him to her, forging a bond between them. Without it, she would never have entered his life, would never have shared his bed. She would be gone, and he would be none the wiser, content in his-relatively-happy home. But time had twisted, taken her husband’s life, and she was there, with him, refusing to let go.
A few hours and Dean had given a part of himself to her…his compassion, his understanding, his succor. Maybe even a bit of his heart. Still, he couldn’t be jealous of Max, of the life she had shared with him. If he had been given the choice, her husband would never have been taken away. But he hadn’t, and they couldn’t change the course of events. They were done, over. Nothing would bring Max back.
And Liz knew that.
“The lamia?”
She shivered, and Dean realized he had probably provoked a memory, something she’d tried to purge from her mind ight. “It ripped his heart out.”
“You watched it?” Dean gasped, burying his forehead against her hair. “Of course you did. And my dad?”
“Tried to help.” She shrugged, taking a deep breath. “It was too late for Max.”
“You killed it, didn’t you?” He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. “The lamia?”
“Yes.”
She was less than forthcoming with her responses. Timid, testing him. Liz had secrets, he knew; it was in her posture, the slump of her shoulders. He offered his honesty, and expected nothing in return, but he was curious.
“How?”
“Aren’t you a little old for bedtime stories?” Dean could hear the smile in her tone, and he silently preened that he’d put it there. The lightness was quick to disappear. “My tale’s better left to daylight hours.”
Liz released his hands, and Dean was at a loss where to place them. He settled with her stomach, his palms flush against the soft flesh exposed there. She was hot, damp, but he didn’t move away, didn’t take the reprieve she offered. The room was sweltering, the emotions spilling off Liz chaotic, but he was where he needed to be, where she wanted him to be. He was a distraction, a comfort.
Dean didn’t know about the latter, but he excelled at the former. “I’m eighteen,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Head cocking to the side, Liz peered at him over her shoulder, a rueful smile tilting her lips. “And that concerns me why?”
Eyes rolling, Dean snickered, snuggling into Liz’s back. “We’re already sharing a bed, Liz. I think it’s time we get to know each other.”
Laughter spilled from Liz’s throat, the sound soft and beautiful. “So when you said you were eighteen…”
“You respond with…” He flipped his hand, gesturing small circles.
“Nineteen.”
“Now that you’re with the ‘program,’ I-“ Dean interrupted himself. She was only a year older than him? How was that possible? “That’s all?”
“Should I be offended?” She scoffed, her fingers pulling at the tiny hairs on his arm. “Hell, I can’t even get into a bar with fake ID.”
“No. NO. And ow.” He swatted her hands, disengaging her attack. “It’s just…you’re married.”
“It happens, Dean.” She inhaled harshly. “I loved Max, and I wanted to be with him forever.”
“It was that easy?”
“Not even close.” Her hands found his arm again, but her fingers were soft, petting. “Everything with Max was hard.”
An easy silence spread between them. They had camaraderie, an understanding of one another. It had been instantaneous, binding once he’d stopped struggling. Liz had wedged herself firmly in his heart.
“What are you going to do now…that he’s…?”
Liz rolled towards Dean, faced him, her dark eyes holding his. The loss would fade from them with time, he knew, it would not always be so fresh. But at that moment, with her pain so raw, it was difficult to believe.
“Gone?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Keep breathing.” Liz frowned, her lids closing over a swell of tears. “It’s all I can do.”
Smiling sadly, Dean tipped onto his back, and dragged Liz into him, cradling her head against his shoulder. She snuggled into his side, her hand splaying over his chest. Their fingers threaded, his heart thundering beneath moist palms. They were outside time, suspended in perfection, quiet, release. Together. The world had collapsed around them, destroying all they knew, but they were alive. Breathing.
And that was enough.
“G’night, Dean.”
He kissed the top of her head, hauled her closer. “Night, Liz.”
Keep breathing.
Keep living.
Endure.
They had all suffered trial by fire, by death, by the supernatural. Suffered and endured. Suffered and become stronger. They were the same-him, Liz, Sam, his dad-they were bound by the impossible. Her arrival was not chance. She fit, was one of them. A sister. A survivor. A Winchester.
Eyes slipping closed, Dean hugged Liz tighter, not wanting to release her, to wake and find her gone. He reveled in her, in the trust she inspired. One night, and he was changing, an unknown and broken portion of his soul began to mend. She had lost her life, but saved his father’s. She had come to them cracked and damaged, seeking refuge, but she had brought solace, hope.
Liz belonged there. With him. With his family.
Dean opened his mouth to tell her, but stopped at her soft, even breathing. Asleep. Resting. Tremors no longer disrupted her body. She was free of nightmares for the moment. At peace.
Smiling, he settled the sheet over their bodies, placed another kiss to the top of her head. He’d tell her in the morning.
*******
The End.