Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bobby Singer likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's been around. He's seen it all. Well—he surmises—mostly. But when the Winchester brothers barge through his front door on a hot summer afternoon, juggling something that startlingly resembles a girl between them, even he has to admit that he wasn't quite expecting this outcome from a simple beer run into town.

And he says as much.

"Holy balls of God Almighty," he curses. "You two can't even buy a couple of cases without something shedding blood. What the hell happened?"

The brothers are not mindful with her, and Bobby is about to bark at them for their carelessness when he sees the blatant look of urgency in their eyes, that their grips on the girl are slipping from the blood swathed like paint across her skin. Shedding blood, he realizes, is putting it lightly, because it’s already pooling beneath their footfall. In one quick movement, Bobby sweeps his arm across his desk, ignoring the crash of various century‑old tomes and empty whiskey decanters and other oddities as they litter the floor.

"Shit, boys," he says when they settle the girl down. "I ain't no army medic. Tell me something."

Sam is an open book, all shaking hands and wide, worried eyes, but possessing the steadfastness of a saint. Dean is different, a still sea on the surface with a raging tempest below, nothing but clenched jaws, popping tendons, and flashing eyes. But they are brothers, and they are Winchesters, therefore they feed off the others energy like a lifeline, hovering over the girl with the same sense of panic.

It's been a long time since he's seen it in their eyes.

And Bobby Singer has already guessed what has happened.

"She just appeared out of nowhere, Bobby," Sam says, raking fingers through his hair and streaking it crimson. "We tried to stop, but she just appeared out of nowhere."

"Bobby," Dean's eyes lock onto him, and the intensity within them reminds Bobby instantly of John Winchester. "She fell from the sky."

Bobby exhales with a gust. "Balls," he mutters, eyes sweeping over the girl, trying to make her out under all of the blood, and then his eyes widen as the seconds pass. "This blood isn't because of the collision with the Impala, is it?"

Dean smirks humorlessly. "No shit about you being a medic, huh?"

"Har–freaking–har, boy."

"Do you mind if we skip the pointless banter?" Sam snaps as he bends over the girl, leveling them both with a glower. The tremor in his hand vanishes the moment he presses his fingers to the side of her neck, and Bobby watches as the younger Winchester's ferocious goodness rears its head. "She's bleeding out at too fast a rate and her pulse is stuttering. We need to do something."

Bobby's gaze roams the length of her body. There is nothing discernible about it, other than she is only a little thing. Blood coats her hair, drenching her clothing until she appears nothing more than a small mass of dark, wet red. There is too much blood to determine its origin. Within an instant, Bobby is more horrorstruck than he has felt in a long time, and it surprises him because he is no stranger to blood or pain or death; it’s the aftershock of guilt a hunter feels when harming an innocent, however, that makes his paternal instincts flare.

He knows the Winchester boys inside and out, and he knows that they are feeling an innate sense of responsibility for the girl's state of being.

Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, Bobby sighs. "Boys, this girl is knocking on death's door. I don't think there's much I can do."

"We should have taken her to the hospital," Sam says, grabbing hold of her ankles. "Come on, let's go. It's not too late."

Something flashes in Dean's eyes, something that Bobby can't quite make out. The eldest Winchester's gaze flickers down towards the girl, his teeth clenching in something more synonymous to resolute than stubborn. His hands ball into fists.

"And tell them what, Sam? That she fell from the sky? That she's bleeding out but from no visible wound?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Dean, half of what we do is make up stories. She's going to die here if we don't do something."

Dean bristles, shoulders setting in the way they do whenever he gears himself up against the world. "We are going to do something," his gaze flickers to Bobby. "You with me?"

Bobby sighs again and feels something within him deflate a little. "I'll grab the first aid kit. You two peel off what clothing you can. Carefully."

He leaves the room to Dean muttering, "It feels like I'm seven and playing Operation all over again. Dammit, I sucked at that game." Bobby hurries to the bathroom cabinet, decade‑old work boots pounding against the wooden floorboards of his century‑old farmhouse. Dust motes twirl in the afternoon light, golden and lively, the complete opposite of how he feels.

Bobby Singer likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's been around. He's seen it all. (Well, mostly.) After everything he's had to do to make the world a little less evil, after killing creatures that should only live in myths, after watching nearly all his comrades die in the process, Bobby knows that everything boils down to trusting your gut.

He wonders what Sam and Dean's guts are telling them.

He wonders if they know that trying to save her is nearly futile. That the girl will be gone much sooner rather than later. That it won't matter how or why she fell out of the sky. That although she is an enigma, she is one that is going to die no matter their attempts to keep her alive.

When he returns, a shredded jacket and shirt lies on the floor of his study. The skin beneath glistens red, dark with fresh blood that has not even begun to coagulate, but there are no puncture points. It's then that Bobby Singer realizes that she's bleeding from within, that he can't fathom how her skin seems to be seeping out her own blood.

Her chest barely rises.

Sam is bent over her again, eyes scanning and darting to discover some blood‑chocked orifice. Dean has his arms crossed, lips pressed, eyes hard and battle‑ready. His glaze flits over to Bobby for just a moment.

Blood drips over the corners of his desk, pooling around each leg.

Then, when Bobby treads towards the girl, she gasps suddenly, loudly, a piercing sound that stuns them all. Just like that, the weighty silence in the room is ruptured and three pairs of eyes lock onto her. She doesn't move, but when Dean hurriedly steps forward, Sam tensing, Bobby clutching the kit like a vice, her eyes spring open like she's been struck by fingers of lightning. She cries out, a sound so riddled with anguish it causes the hair on the back of his neck to prickle.

Within the moment between heartbeats, all three hovers over her, careful, muscles poised for action. Bobby still can't make out her features underneath all of the blood, but the stark contrast between her eyes and the crimson stands out almost like a harvest moon against night’s swarthy purple-blue sky.

They are bright and the color of honey.

And are filled with pure, unadulterated pain.

She clutches at her chest, crying out once again in agony. She grabs at her skin, whimpering as tears fill her eyes, the blood on her face dripping into her mouth and coating her teeth. Bobby's breath hitches in his throat, watching her fiercely rake at her heart.

Dean is the first to act.

He pulls her arms away before she hurts herself, hands swallowing her small wrists in a firm grip.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says. "Careful. Where are you hurt? What happened–"

She thrashes against him, cutting him off, crying out.

Dean's eyes find Sam's, and the look of panic they share is augmented by the helplessness Bobby feels when they both turn towards him. He swiftly sets the kit beside her, popping it open and tearing out bandages and whatever else looks of immediate use. White hot adrenaline rushes through his veins when she pulls from Dean's grasp and starts clawing at her chest again, fingernails digging into flesh, as though she's trying to pry her own heart out with her hands.

Dean struggles against her frenzied movement, struggling to keep her from doing further damage, struggling to keep from harming her. Then she stills, gazing up at the ceiling, tears trailing down her face, leaving a smeared pathway through the blood and offering a glimpse of her skin beneath. Her eyes lock onto Dean's fingers wrapped around her wrists, then slowly, painstakingly, follows them up towards his face. They lock onto him, unblinking, immovable.

Bobby watches, his heart trouncing his rib cage, nearly breathless.

He doesn't know what to do.

And then she speaks.

"Crowley," she says, voice barely a whisper.

And then she stills, eyes sliding shut, arms going slack in Dean's grip. She's gone as quickly as she came. Bobby remains as motionless as Sam and Dean, but his thoughts are racing and racing and racing. Then, three heartbeats later, Dean is laying her arms at her side and Sam's brows are lowering over his face.

"Holy balls," Bobby mutters.

Then Dean stiffens, eyes lighting with the appearance of having some sort of epiphany.

"Castiel," he shouts, voice gruff and angry. A look of determination fills his eyes, and then Sam's eyes, and Bobby Singer once again thinks that the world is a better place with them in it, his world is a better place. But Dean is impatient and grits his teeth. "Cas, come on. We need you."

They wait, breaths suppressed.

And then Bobby notices the stricken expression on Sam's face.

"Dean," Sam says quietly. "Look."

Their eyes meet and then fall onto the girl, who is even more still than before, whose chest has ceased to rise and fall. Sam is the first to look away, somberly casting his eyes to the floor. Dean is coiled, fist clenching and unclenching, bloodless and white and then full of blood‑blush.

Bobby sighs, not realizing he had held his breath the entire time.

There is a fluttering of wings, like that of morning doves, like that of descending crows, and Bobby feels the presence of an angel behind them. Being in the presence of an angel makes Bobby think of stepping one foot into warm sunlight and the other into icy water, never knowing which side will take over and not trusting when both merge as one.

"Sam. Bobby," Castiel breaks the silence, voice void of emotion and filled to the brim with gravel. As always, he knows what has happened without them telling him. As always, he speaks more to Dean. "Dean, I'm sorry. She's gone."

"Bring her back,” he responds, voice hard.

Castiel doesn't look away. "I can't."

"Bullshit. You brought me back from Hell."

"She's not in Hell."

"Cas," Sam says, almost hesitant. "She fell from the sky."

Castiel shakes his head. "She's not an angel."

Bobby nods towards the girl. "She said Crowley's name before she...well, before she bit it."

Castiel is silent as he gazes at each of them in turn. His eyes, bright and aloof, narrow infinitesimally when settling onto Dean. But when he glances at the girl, his chapped lips press together, something ethereal and otherworldly sparking within his gaze. Bobby shifts uncomfortably, not liking the way the angel is staring cryptically at her one bit, and decides that while he's been around, he clearly hasn't seen it all.

Finally, Castiel says: "She's with Death."

Dean scoffs. "No shit."

"No, you do not understand," Castiel reiterates, finality in his tone. "She's with Death. He's speaking to her now as I speak to you, just on an entirely different plane. One between this world and the afterlife."

Silence fills the room, weighty and utterly cold despite the summer's heat. Nobody breathes, nobody looks away from her. It is Sam, however, that regains his composure first.

"Is..." he begins, and has to recollect himself. "Is that normal?"

When Castiel responds, his eyes flicker towards the girl, then to Dean.

"No."

Chapter Text

Katherine West does not remember much. What she does remember is a moment of flying—that weightless sensation that seems to only exist in dreams, and then an arsenic gray roadway zooming towards her face at an ungodly speed. A speck of black. A sickening crunch as her body folded inside itself. Blood spurting her vision, erupting from her stomach, damming her throat.

The smell of old books, of whiskey.

The brief flicker of green eyes.

Now, she sits at a picnic table. The summer air is hot like before, but...before when? She doesn't remember coming here, sitting down, and she stares at the small plate of deep-fried cheese curds settled neatly in front of her, a dipping container of ranch dressing to the right that she sure as hell does not remember purchasing. The scent of her surroundings—the recently mowed fairground grass commingled with the sweet faintness of cotton‑candy, how the Ferris Wheel perpetually wafts oil ever since the summer she turned nine because it had creaked to a terrifying halt for three hours—sends a rippling of familiarity and panic up her spine.

It has been years since she looked upon this place. Ages ago. Hundreds upon thousands of breaths and memories and synapses ago.

Although the picnic table is nestled into the shade of a large oak tree, sweat that has nothing to do with summertide heat trickles down her back. Kate eyes the mound of cheese curds with the utmost of distrust, her mouth watering despite herself. She clenches her teeth together, glaring at her childhood surroundings. 

In the distance, black smoke arises from one of the Tilt‑A‑Whirl's cars, catching her eye immediately. A horde of tool‑wielding carnies descends upon it, but Kate locks onto the billowing plumes of smoke and feels her blood slow to a crawl. Her fingers curl into fists, her nostrils flaring like some frightened foal. 

The sight fills her with something inexplicable. It's familiar, vague, and dangerous—on the outskirts of her mind where it cannot be recalled.

Blind instinct has her clutching frantically at her sides, her chest, her thighs, any place where she stores something to defend herself, a burst of adrenaline humming hotly in her veins and causing her ears to ring. Grasping nothing but grease‑stained jeans and a holey shirt she had swiped from a laundry mat's dryer in Texas, another round of panic grapples within her stomach.

Then anger.

"Well, shit."

"Language, Katherine."

Kate jumps at the voice, nearly knocking the cheese curds onto the ant‑filled ground. She recoils, blinking up at the man standing to her left, his silhouette remarkably slim and edged in nothing but sharp corners. He moves fluidly despite the cane in his grasp, and settles himself across from her on the picnic table with the faintest of smiles on his face.

If his silhouette rendered him as sharp edges, it is nothing compared to him in full view.

He sets a lunch tray before him, which bears another order of cheese curds, two Diet Cokes, and two of the largest cream puffs in existence, ones that she remembers with bittersweet fondness. The man finally peers away from her, taking a cheese curd in his slender fingers, dips it into his own ranch dressing, and pops it into his mouth with movements so controlled and so uncanny that something instinctively leery bridles within her.

"Mmm," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Extraordinary."

Kate regards him with a hawk's cognizance, keeping her distance and never glancing away. He is old. Very old. His face both gaunt and angular, lined from years of existence, with black hair slicked back to reveal a widow's peak hairline and a large hooked nose. There is something very sharp, very archaic, and very somber about his face. It is his eyes, however, that holds a predatory stare, an expression that reads that he is a man of importance, that he is a man that possesses the knowledge of everything that is infinite. That he is not to be trifled with.

There is something almost Victorian about him. Something inherently metaphysical.

He raises a brow and nods towards her. "Are these not your favorite? Eat."

Kate's eyes narrow. "How do you know these are my favorite?"

The man suppresses a smile, but it reaches his eyes and ignites them, making his cold exterior seem almost cordial. It is then that Kate realizes that the crowd of fair‑goers around them take no notice of how very odd he is amongst them, dressed impeccably in a suit and clutching a silver‑tipped cane. That no one takes notice of her. Fear prickles beneath her skin, waking her up further, yet she raises her own brow at him and smothers the fear with a brashness that has yet to fail her.

This only causes his smile to widen, and it almost seems fond, as if he is already aware of her little idiosyncrasies.

"You've always had a death wish, Katherine West. Aren't you going to ask who I am?"

Kate smirks humorlessly. "Would you answer?"

He regards her for a moment, grabbing one of the Diet Cokes and setting it next to her untouched cheese curds. He sips his own, grabs a napkin and carefully wipes his mouth, all the while watching her with a very unyielding gaze.

"You are a brave one," he states eventually.

"Reckless, mostly. Or so they say."

His brows rise. "They?"

"Alright, fine," she amends with a shrug, ignoring how every muscle in her body quivers with unease. "My mother."

Something flashes within his eyes, something that does not seem very warm or very friendly, nothing at all like the guise he was displaying. For the briefest of moments, his eyes taper.

"I see. Tell me, Katherine, do you know who I am?"

"Someone who could afford to eat a dozen more cream puffs."

Rather than insulted, his eyes grow pensive. He tilts his head in question. "Did your mother encourage you to be so free spoken?"

Wariness flares within her. She folds her arms on the table, feeling the wood prick splinters into the skin of her forearms. "What would you know about my mother?"

He smirks, one that is less genial than his initial smile. Instead of answering, he picks up one of the cream puffs and takes a careful bite. Cream spills on each side as the large choux pastry is sandwiched together, and he looks ridiculous doing so while attired like a dapper businessman coming from a meeting on Wall Street.

He sighs, clearly savoring the decadent flavor.

"I've been waiting a long while to try out these cream puffs," he says nonchalantly after wiping his face clean, primly folding the napkin on the table. It is then that Kate notices the large, ornate white ring on his finger, but shifts her gaze before he can catch her staring at it, unwilling to contemplate how eerily familiar it is to her. "I was once told they're legendary."

"They are. And you're dodging my question."

"Indeed," he affirms ceremoniously. "Unfortunately, it is not working. Tell me something else, do you remember how you got here?"

She frowns. Then scowls. Raking her brain results in a black haze that merely reminds her of a careening plume of black smoke, a shadow that had been following her every move. But she does not remember why, or what the black smoke symbolizes, or why it now makes her feel as though her blood has been compounded with gasoline and lit on fire with the fiercest, bottomless rage.

Her eyes sting at the thought, and she turns away from the man's gaze. She bits her lip until she nearly tastes blood, until the strange rupturing of wrath abates. She clears her throat and takes the Diet Coke he offers to her, throat suddenly dry.

"I'm sending you back," he says simply.

"Back?"

"It's evident that you don't remember what's happened to you, nor the reasons why. That is well. How is your mother?"

Kate nearly chokes on her soda. She recovers quickly and attempts to pierce him with her own gaze. He merely raises a brow in inquiry, however, which causes her to bristle in response.

"Dead. Thanks for asking. And yours?"

His lips disappear into a sharp line.

"You don't know who you are dealing with, do you?"

"Is this the part where I get a demonstration?"

"Such wit. Good," he nods, then reaches into the inner breast‑pocket of his suit. His voice is as smooth, as shadowed, as in control, as ever. "Here, take this. I am sending you back, but on one condition."

What he offers Kate is a replica of his elegant white‑stoned ring, one that is sized for a thinner, feminine finger. His expression remains void of any emotion as he holds it out, but there is something very analytical in the way he observes her reaction.

Kate eyes him, fists curled atop the picnic table. Realization dawns upon her, refusing to give attention to his beautiful offering, or what it could possibly mean. It feels like her lungs are abruptly deflating, punctured by a legion of needles, or like an invisible, colossal force has sucker‑punched her straight in the gut. The feeling of breathlessness leaves her feeling vulnerable and more than afraid, but harrowed. Her heart thuds like a conga drum against her chest, a contradiction to what she truly is.

It is so very hard to breathe.

Her voice is a whisper. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

He nods once. "Yes."

"Shit."

"Language, Katherine."

Her eyes sting. Life after death had never been a concept to Kate, and trying to wrap her head around it leaves her brimming with questions and wariness and fear. But his arm is still outstretched towards her, the white-stoned ring catching a beam of sunlight in a way that is all too real and lovely and comforting. She exhales shakily.

"Dammit, sorry. What's this condition?"

She takes the ring, a tremor in her hand that she dutifully tries to hide, but fails. It is much heavier than it appears, but it feels like silken folds of metal between her own small fingers. It is not cool to the touch, but gives off a pulsating warmth that resounds through her skin and into her bones like a familiar, sweet nocturne she has known since infancy. Goosebumps rise on her arms and the thought of death momentarily eases its claws from her mind.

He is watching her intently. "You stay with the Winchesters."

Kate frowns. "Winchesters?"

"They will protect you."

She snorts, “If this is what death looks like, what is there to protect me from? The Grim Reaper’s second coming? Does he not like doing the same job twice, or does he have a mean cousin humanity doesn’t know about?”

“There are worse fates than death,” he replies, voice clipped and acerbic. His eyes have tapered. “You don't even know what you need protection from, dear girl. You stay with the Winchesters."

She matches his tone. "And if I don't?"

"I won't be able to bring you back next time."

The cold finality in his voice makes her shudder. He moves to press his fingertips together, reminding her of a monk in prayer, but his steely gaze is locked onto her. After a moment he spreads his hands apart and pops another cheese curd into his mouth. Watching as he chews, his attention flits to the ring still in her grasp.

Instead of slipping it onto a finger, Kate stuffs it into the one pocket that doesn't have a hole inside, feeling a brief flicker of victory when his brows furrow upon her not wearing it. She cocks a smile, but it soon fades when he bites into another curd.

"What do I matter, especially if I'm dead?" she asks, voice soft, every layer of mistrust momentarily yielding. "You won't tell me who you are, so I won't ask. But why do you care?"

The man sighs through his nostrils at that, wiping his face with his pristine movements and whetted fingers. He swallows before answering, eyes beginning to lighten with a strange and sudden amusement. He pushes the tray away from him, standing into the sunlight and falling back into the sharp‑angled silhouette, but she can feel his inexorable eyes on her, the ill‑fitting smile starting to widen his grim face.

"All in due time, Katherine West. You loved your mother, but remember that no amount of vengeance will bring her back."

He reaches out to her, and before she realizes what she is doing, Kate lays her hand in his and feels a pull to close her eyelids, feels the coldness emanating from him spread through his fingers to her own. But then there is warmth. Then there is fire. Searing, blistering, sweeping through her veins, wrapping around her bones, igniting within her every fiber, and she is suddenly so, so alive.

Then, abruptly, her lungs heave with oxygen, and she smells the dusty scent of old books, then the acrid tang of blood, and when she opens her eyes, Kate West catches a brief flicker of green and then nothing else.

Chapter Text

TWENTY‑THREE MINUTES AGO

Outside the Impala, everything is gold. 

A sunbaked prairie spreads into every direction like a giant gilt canvas, split in two by the pavement of a crackling highway. The light glaring off the rims of the Impala is gilded, each beam of the afternoon sun encompassing everything in oven‑like heat.

Inside the Impala, the Winchester brothers cannot move.

Steam rises from the front of the car, wavering in the summertide weather. Behind, skid marks weave a jagged trail. The Impala's lacquered hood is utterly in ruins, rumpled within itself like blackened cavity. The force behind the collision had been like a beast from hell.

Each breath Dean takes shudders painfully against his chest, and he grips the steering wheel like a vice. Once he takes stock of his surroundings—namely that Sam is okay and unharmed—he allows himself to blink away the haze edging his vision and moan from the whiplash.

"Sam," he says, "What just happened?"

Sam's hands are curled into bloodless fists on his lap. He slowly turns at the waist to look at Dean, eyes wide, nostrils flared, and looking stunned beyond comprehension. He clears his throat.

"Um. I think you just hit someone with the Impala."

Dean scowls, glaring ahead at the wreckage, unable to perceive anything through the pall of smoke. Abruptly, he bangs his fists against the steering wheel, sweltering within his particular brand of rash anger.

"How the hell can I hit someone? We're in the middle of flipping nowhere!" he growls, then points. "Look! There are tumbleweeds."

Sam rubs his neck, grimacing in pain, then twists his head to the side and releases the tension with a rapid‑fire sequence of pops. He casts his own investigative glance to the seat next to him, making sure his older brother is unscathed from the collision, before urgency rebounds him into action.

"Dean," he says, grabbing the door handle. "Calm down."

"I am freaking calm!"

Once outside, Dean's initial groan of distress over the Impala is cut off when he sees something red glinting through the wafts of steam. Then he realizes its blood, wet and thick and spilling over the ruptured hood and pooling onto the roadside. Sam's eyes are locked onto it, too, and he waves away the steam to reveal the body of a girl.

She is splayed almost carefully within the indentations of the hood, looking like she had fallen asleep atop the car rather than falling from the sky and into it.

"She fell," Sam breathes. "Dean, she fell from the sky. Oh my God."

"I doubt God had anything to do with it," Dean responds brusquely. "Dammit, this is batshit insane, even for us. She's bleeding everywhere."

She is indiscernible beneath all the blood, and neither of the brothers can detect where she's bleeding from; there are no darkened entry points, no one place where it is gushing forth. The girl is small and unmoving. But when Sam hurriedly steps forward and presses two long fingers to her neck, his head whisks towards Dean.

"She has a pulse."

Dean sets his shoulders, pressing his lips together in the way he does when bridling with impervious determination. Sweat trickles down his back, feeling his chest tighten when he moves and reaches for the girl.

The blood is slick within his grasp, and he has to adjust his grip before pulling her listless body from the Impala's hood. Her head rolls to his chest, leaving feathery trails of blood where her hair brushes against his shoulder. He can feel it soaking into his clothing, can feel how fresh and warm the blood is when it saturates clear through to his skin, can feel its dense metallic scent filling his nose.

She feels nearly weightless to him, which causes another unsettling, urgent pull deep within.

"Come on, Sammy," he says, boots kicking up dust as he rushes to the Impala's passenger side. "Gotta go."

Sam is right behind him, opening the door and pulling back his seat, allowing Dean to hastily settle the girl into the wide backseat of the Impala. Within an instant, blood stains the upholstery, the girl's arm flopping to the side like some abandoned marionette. A drop of blood falls from her fingertip.

"Back to Bobby's?" Sam asks, slamming his door once inside.

Dean glances behind, starting up the Impala with brief difficulty, jaw set.

"Yeah."

Above, near the golden oppressive heat of the sun, a black plume of smoke disappears.

NOW

She is not the first woman to die in his house.

Bobby Singer realizes this when Castiel departs—who glances towards Dean with somber eyes and vanishes with the flapping of celestially immense wings—and he can't help but think of his wife.

Karen had chosen the wallpaper for the living room they stand within. He remembers how she'd immediately fallen in love with the detailed molding of the old farmhouse, the rich woodwork and the vast fireplace and the open kitchen. Then, she had breathed life and light and goodness into each room, dusting away all the bad memories he had of his father.

Now, the dust had resettled.

It hadn't taken long for the transformation to occur. Her death was far more haunting than memories of an abused childhood, and so Robert Singer reconstructed the living room into a library, encasing it with thousands of esoteric books on lore and religion and demonology. Volumes stacked the floor in columns, the curtains were kept drawn on bad days, and papers began to pin the walls like an archaic mosaic depicting the supernatural, all with the single goal of wiping the earth clean of the monsters who had possessed his wife.

Like most hunters, he was born from vengeance.

Like most hunters, it consumes him still.

Abruptly, he wonders if there's someone out in the world to mourn the girl's death. If there's someone who would eventually dredge up the inexplicable events leading up to it. If there's someone who would avenge her and make their own transformation from birdbrained civilian to jaded hunter. Or, like so many of the people they had exorcised demons from, those who couldn't endure the trauma of playing host to pure and unbridled evil, if she would fade into obscurity.

But, then—

—she moves.

Bobby freezes.

Her fingers twitch. Bobby's heart stutters. All thoughts cease to be. It's not a pleasant sensation to be dumbstruck—it's not something he's exactly used to feeling, even in his line of work, where he is constantly tracking down and clamoring against denizens of Hell. Even the angel—who is more a righteous pain in his ass than something seraphic should be—isn't so mystifying.

Once upon a time, he thinks cantankerously, nothing surprised him. He'd been around.

He'd seen it all.

And now he's rooted to the worm‑holed floorboards of the living room his late wife had once decorated, feeling like he's been caught asleep at the switch and bushwhacked with lightning. White hot shock courses through his body, zapping each one of his senses until he's feeling numb and breathless and more than disbelieving.

This is what a blasted coronary must feel like, he thinks. Swell.

It's Dean, however, that is the first to notice the girl.

Bobby can see it within the tension in his shoulders, broad muscles compacted together beneath red flannel. His eyes are locked onto her, wide and glinting and no longer verged with war. This surprises Bobby more; it's only Sam who has the ability to stun the eldest Winchester into dropping all his guard.

"Sammy," Dean says urgently. "Look."

Sam, who had been standing silent like some sentinel of old, head bowed, hands clasped, eyes staring distantly past the spot where Castiel last stood, jumps at the gruff sound of his voice. He spots the cause for Dean's urgency within a millisecond, a savant when it comes to understanding his brother. Sam stiffens, eyes reaming with a jolt of surprise.

Bobby takes a moment to appreciate the intricate synchronicity the brothers share, the bond that Hell and Lucifer and a legion of demons and an army of angels could not fracture. Pride swells inside his chest.

But then his attention is sucked back to the present, one where Sam is hurrying over to the desk, the quick thuds of his boots nearly assailing Bobby's shock‑numbed senses. Dean's fingers are curled around the edge of the desk, tendons popping along his forearms. They share a look that no words in any language—modern or cryptic—can describe, one that even Bobby cannot read, but then their concentration is pulled by the small, bloodied girl before them.

Because, once again, she moves.

Her eyes open, like a quick switch of a light.

It's abrupt and bright, and startles the three of them that they simultaneously hitch their breaths. It takes a moment for Bobby to get his bearings.

"Shit," he huffs. "Put me down as not expecting that."

"Agreed," Sam exhales.

The brothers are clearly teetering between being struck with awe and disbelief, unsure what to do. But Bobby is already wondering where his flask of holy water has wandered off to, itching to know whether or not there is something besides the girl's soul setting up shop inside her meatsuit.

Her eyes have locked onto the first thing they see, and she has yet to look away from Dean.

And suddenly Bobby can't help it, but once again he thinks of his dead wife. Then of John Winchester. Then of Dean himself.

Or, more precisely, the time after John Winchester passed away, when Dean was struck with unfathomable guilt. Suddenly, Bobby is brimming with wariness, because he is unsure what the expression unfolding on Dean's face means, unsure of the way his brows are furrowing like they do when he's about to fill a spirit with salted buckshot. Unsure of the glint in his eyes, the firm press of his lips. The way he has yet to move or look away from her.

He remembers what Sam had told him after their father traded his soul for Dean. What Dean had said.

"What's dead should stay dead."

He wonders if that's something he still believes, deep down. Because, like vengeance, guilt never truly fades. Because, right then, it's showing on his face.

It's not a ridiculous thought, Bobby surmises, but after everything that's happened since then the rules of death haven't exactly been enforced when it came to the Winchester brothers. Because, long ago, he had killed Karen. John had made a deal with Azazel. Sam had been stabbed by Jake. Dean had been in Hell.

And half of them returned.

Now, this girl had fallen from the sky, died in his study, and was personally reaped by Death.

It's her resurrection that has Bobby eyeing her with distrust. He can count on one hand how many preternatural deities have the ability to return life, and only one has ever been a willing grantor. So, what, exactly, makes her life so meaningful that it's been given a second chance?

Now the girl is truly gaining consciousness, chest shuddering as she breaths in as much oxygen as she can, heaving lungful after lungful as though a windstorm resides within her ribcage. And she is trembling. Shuddering. No longer writhing in death but quivering with life, honey‑hued eyes open and wide and flitting between Dean's eyes with an incomprehensible expression.

One hand flutters at her side, and Bobby notices something very small protruding from her pocket.

Beyond the blood, he sees nothing else. It's beginning to coagulate even though it's only been minutes since the brothers had carried her inside, since she had died, and it's swathed across his palms, sticking to his skin whenever he unclenches his fists. It's everywhere—too much of it lost for anything to sustain life. Too much for any of them to see the features that lay beneath.

Too much for even a hunter to remain unfazed.

His living room looks like the set of a horror flick. Her blood has unsettled the dust that has been accumulating for years, speckled across his moldering red sofa, dotting some of his favorite books, staining his nicely unswept floor. Sam has thick streaks across his face from brushing back his hair. It's Dean, however, that is utterly swathed with it.

The girl's rapid‑fire breathing begins to calm, her hands beginning to ball together. Bobby then notices that beads of sweat are appearing on her forehead, commingling with the blood and forming milky droplets. Tear tracks still stain her face, remnants of her death throes, and now the sweat trails down cheeks in parallel lines.

She sighs, momentarily closing her eyes, chest rising and falling to a normal tempo.

Dean moves.

"Hey," he says quietly. “Keep your eyes open. Stay with us.”

He is nothing but tension, but he moves carefully, slowly, watching her as she watches him, and Bobby wonders what kind of exchange is unfolding before his eyes. Another tremor rips through her body, but it's faint and doesn't appear to be causing her pain.

Dean shifts once on his feet, frown deepening. He reaches out hesitantly, but then pushes a strand of her blood‑clotted hair from her face, coating his fingers further, leaving a route of white‑pink flesh behind. At first Bobby thinks it's a gesture of comfort, but then Dean's eyes flicker towards Sam.

"She's burning up," he says, then looks towards Bobby. "What do we–"

"Cheeseburger."

There is a brief moment of silence, then Bobby makes a face.

"Did she just say cheeseburger?"

They stare at the girl, who is still breathing without difficulty, whose fists have uncurled and has closed her eyes, who, underneath her veil of blood, looks to have an almost peaceful, almost nonchalant, expression on her face. Her voice is weak from death.

Her eyes open, a light brown that warms the blood.

"That she did," the girl confirms with a groan, running a trembling hand across her face. "Someone get me a cheeseburger. Extra cheese. Hell, extra burger."

When she struggles to sit upright, the brothers immediately step forward to help. They are careful as they aid her, unlike when they had initially brought her into his old farmhouse, and he had almost barked at them for their inattention. Sam's shoulders are no longer rigid, and there's even a faint quirk of amusement on Dean's lips.

Bobby takes off his hat and rubs the sweat‑matted hair beneath, a compulsory habit of his when needing to do something but not knowing exactly what.

He likes to think that not much surprises him anymore. He's been around. He's seen it all. And even though he now stands corrected on the matter, he can't help but grow more and more leery over the girl's abnormal death, over her abrupt thrust back into life. How it reeks of the supernatural. How his gut is pegging her for trouble. How she had fallen from the sky. How her final words had been Crowley's name. How Castiel had told them Death had spoken to her.

And he ruminates how Death is neither frivolous nor charitable.

That everything he does comes with a cost.