Just a
Vagabond,
Hitch-hiking down unlit, unmarked and forgotten roads of 'REASON' & 'PURPOSE'.

- L.V. Hall

Michelle sees the black car in the late afternoon light, and, for a split second, she doesn't recognize it. Her mind seems to be – sluggish, somehow. Like whatever that connection is between eyes and brain, it's not working properly, or even at all.

(Corbin's body in the morgue: not Corbin.)

And then she does recognize it. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Her dad would love it, she thinks, a bit absently.

Look at how shiny it is.

Before she can think better of it, she steps to one side, raises a hand in greetings, and the thing slows down, comes to a stop next to the decrepit bus stop.

“Michelle?” Sam asks, earnest and worried despite the slight wince that flashes on his face when he tries to move around on the seat. “What are you doing here?”

Michelle still can't look at Sam. It's not his fault. Of course not. He's been nothing but kind to her, and she can see, beyond the bruises and the weariness, someone who could actually be fun to know – uncomplicated and easy to please. But, what she also sees: someone her husband killed so she could live. Someone who was dead because of her.

(No. Not her husband. Not Corbin. That was – someone else. Something else.)

Uneasy, she bends down, seeks Dean's eyes instead. He's looking at her as well, and suddenly she can see, quite clearly, that they're brothers – they don't look all that much alike, but here it is – the same sweet something around the eyes, the same way to express concern (Dean licks his lips, and it's very clear he doesn't know he's doing it, before frowning slightly at her).

“Everything okay?”

For a second, the question makes no sense at all. What is she even doing here? She was supposed to be on her honeymoon, and – oh. Right. No more honeymoon. No more husband.

Michelle pushes her hair behind her ear, tries to smile. Fails.

“I – yes,” she says. “I'm waiting for the Lewiston bus. I can get back home from there. Or - Boulder, I mean. My parents’ home.”

“Doesn't – isn't anyone coming for you?” Dean asks, and Sam turns, briefly, to look at him, as if to reproach him for the direct question (very nearly bordering on bad manners).

Michelle doesn't mind.

“Corbin's dad,” she starts, and the sun of this late March afternoon suddenly grows cold. She stops, tries again. “We were never close, but he'll be here by Thursday to – get Corbin home. I just – I didn't want to wait.”

Both brothers shift a bit; identical movements of acknowledgement and discomfort. Michelle can guess well enough that in their line of work they see a lot of people die; that, in fact, they kill a lot of people –

(Not people, though. Not anymore, because Corbin -)

- themselves. And she can also see, easily enough, that funerals is something they just don't do. Signing to get a body out of the morgue, picking a suit, organizing a wake: not part of the job.

As she stands there, her leg seeking the heavy comfort of the rucksack propped up against the bench, she remembers Dean turning away from the park ranger and heading back for the woods; wonders, for a split second, what he would have done with his brother's body (if he'd gotten there; if Sam had been dead). Burned it? Or killed himself? The idea brings tears to her eyes again, and she shakes her head.

They, at least, are fine. Thank God, and no need to think about that.

“What about you guys? Where are you headed?”

“Kansas,” Sam says, and there's something in his eyes now – like he knows exactly what Michelle was trying very hard not to think about. “Want a lift?”

“I wasn't – I don't –'”

“Well, we’re offering,' Dean says, getting out of the car. 'We can drive you to Boulder, no trouble. Is someone waiting for you there?”

“I don't want to -”

“You won't,” Dean says, stepping around her gracefully as if unaffected by his injuries (somehow, despite everything, he looks worse than his brother), and easily picking up her heavy rucksack (her things; mostly Corbin's). “Look, we're not angry at you,” he adds, in a low voice. “Or Corbin. We get it.”

Michelle nods, then. She watches as Dean puts her things in the trunk of the car (sees a flash of metal, and some weird squibbles drawn in white paint, before he slams it shut) and then gets in the backseat and next they're off and this is her life, now: not a young wife walking in the mountains with her husband (her best friend; the love of her life) but a scared, pale woman, driving back East with two guys she doesn't know at all. She fiddles with her phone for a second; considers letting her mother know (the old instinct: never get into a car with someone you don't know, never get on a date without telling your friends where you're going to be), then thinks about what she would say (about how worried she is already), and pushes the phone back into her bag.

;

In the beginning, the drive is silent. Dean fidgets from time to time – his right hand moving towards the radio, then falling down to rest on his leg again. Michelle wonders if they're silent on her account, or if this is what they do. She thinks about cowboy films. Corbin was a right chatterbox, but these are real men.

(There is no disloyalty in thinking about Corbin that way. They'd often joked about it – as a primary school teacher, Corbin was used to people looking at him weirdly, or even thinking he was less of a man because he loved taking care of kids. He was as proud as they come of his 'unmanly' hobbies – mostly, collecting Pokemon cards and reading kids' books – because his pupils still thought he was cool as hell, and that was all that mattered. And after he’d grown that ridiculous hipster beard, well, people who didn’t know him had sort of stopped to pick on him, anyway.

So it’s not like Michelle is drawn in by this - by these straight-jawed men who can drive and drive without saying a single word. She isn’t, not particularly. What she’d liked about Corbin, from the very start: how unconventional he was, and the quiet confidence it took to be different.)

And these two - they have a stink about them, somehow. Motor oil and blood and a time when men were men and drank strong liquor from bottles with a dead snake inside. Look at them now - badly shaven, badly bruised, and ready for more.

Or maybe that's unfair.

Michelle vaguely remembers having a talk with Dean (after). How he'd almost taken her hand, and the look in his eyes.

“So, how – how does anyone become a hunter?” she asks, trying to break the silence because it's not really clear if it's uncomfortable or not.

Sam looks at Dean, then up at the rearview mirror. His surprisingly open face flashes at Michelle in the little rectangle, contrasting sharply with the darkening road in front of them.

“Someone dies, usually,” he says, as if discussing the weather. “In our case, our mom,” he adds, and Michelle is both grateful and horrified by the small addition, because she'd been about to ask and yet had stopped herself, realizing just in time the question was inappropriate.

“I'm sorry,” she says, quietly, and Dean shrugs and answers without turning around.

“It was a long time ago.”

“What about your dad?” she adds, and, again, the brothers share a look.

“He turned full Jack Nicholson after that,” Dean says, a bit too easily. “You know the drill. The Shining, Cuckoo's Nest – the whole nine yards. Still, he taught us how to hunt, so there’s that.”

Sam lowers his head, looks up again. It’s obvious there’s more to it than that, but, then again, isn’t there always?

Michelle thinks about her own parents – plain, boring people who by now have surely organized everything that needs done – a guest room for her, a list of people for the wake, and food, and possibly that therapist mom's friend Marcia went to after her divorce, because goodness knows, Michelle will need to talk to someone. Dreadful business. And to think she and Corbin had bought a house already.

God, the house. What is to be done about the house? No way she'll be able to pay for that by herself. Also, Michelle is both enthralled and repulsed by the idea of living there alone – to step inside the rooms and see Corbin everywhere – his books, his clothes, and all those colourful drawings the kids made for him – endless repetitions of houses and trees and dogs, all echoing, like a slightly creepy, colourful chorus, Corbin - Corbin - Corbin -

“You okay back there?”

Michelle looks up with a start. Sam is still looking at her, and there is such kindness in his eyes Michelle feels the tears coming.

“I'm sorry I didn't – I couldn't – I –”

“Don't worry,” he says, softly. “Not the first time I get beaten up.”

“Hell, not the first time you died,” says Dean, and Michelle doesn't know if that's supposed to be a joke.

(Probably not.)

Outside, the world is darker and darker. Michelle suddenly realises she hasn't even taken a shower yet. Her clothes are grimy and dirty, and, more than that, she's desperate to wash away those other memories – hands feeling her up; someone kissing her neck, then almost biting down.

“What time is it?” she asks, but Dean understands the real question.

“We were planning to drive through the night,” he says, carefully, and Michelle shudders.

“I hate to – I mean, it's your car, and – I just - it would be good to have a shower, at least. Do you think we could stop?”

“We could,” says Sam, glancing at Dean, and Michelle sees Dean's hands tightening on the wheel.

“It's not like we have someplace to be,” Dean agrees, but it comes out all wrong.

“If someone's waiting for you, I don't want –”

“No one's waiting,” says Dean, with such finality not even Sam says anything; and then he turns the radio on, and they all pretend to listen to some old rock album for the next half an hour or so, until the neon sign of a motel pops up on the horizon and Michelle breathes out in relief.

;

Michelle is silent as they get out of the car and look around. It’s not late, but she’s exhausted; and yet, she’s never felt less like sleeping.

“Dinner first?” Dean asks, as if any of this is normal, and they’re just a group of friends out for a weekend of fun.

He’s pointing towards a building on the motel’s right - a small thing with neat little sign which says Ann’s Diner over the door - and Michelle shrugs.

As she walks behind them, she can’t help but notice how tired they both are - Sam is limping a bit, and Dean keeps passing his hand on the back of his neck (an unconscious, nervous gesture). She’s suddenly struck by the realization they’ve both died (sort of, and yet completely, in every sense that matters) in the last six hours, and yet here they are - walking into the room as if it’s nothing - again, Michelle is flooded by a strong sense of unreality as she sees the way they scope out the place - Dean’s eyes moving over the few people present (an elderly couple; two kids) and Sam’s checking out the possible exits (three large windows; a bathroom door) - before they turn on the charm and smile at the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

Michelle sort of listens as they ask about the day’s special, but her brain is quickly disconnecting again; instead of doing its job, it makes her touch the wood of the table, it makes her look at the tacky paintings and the tired old jukebox in the corner; it keeps murmuring in her ear, Corbin is never going to see this place. Corbin will never be here. Your life from now on: something Corbin will never know; and didn’t you promise him you would share everything? Because I was there. I remember.

“Hey,” Sam says, and Michelle jumps, shies away from him. “Sorry,” he adds, and that’s the thing about this man: he actually looks sorry. He even moves, even if he’s sitting with his brother on the other side of the table, and wasn’t touching her at all; just shifts a bit to his left, somehow giving her more space. “What do you feel like? A burger? Something more?”

The last thing she’s eaten: a candy bar Corbin has given her in the hospital (his hands very large on her arm; very warm).

We made it out, Michelle. We’re okay. God, I love you so much.

“I’m not hungry,” she says, miserably, and knows she will soon cry again.

“She means she wants pie,” Dean says, and her head snaps up at that, because he’s barely recognizable as the guy who sat on a bench with her and stared into space as she talked.

Now he’s grinning, the light in his eyes almost enough (he’s a good-looking guy, after all) to somehow mask his injuries. The woman serving them (a neat brown-grey braid and a clean apron over her pink uniform) still frowns at them, because the last thing any place needs is trouble, but Dean’s smile is so open and boyish, she ends up smiling back.

“Coming right up,” she says. “Anything for you boys?”

“Burgers,” Dean says, at once, and Sam adds, “And a salad, if you have some.”

“Dude,” Dean hisses, once the woman is gone. “Live a little.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m still having the stupid burger, okay? I’m just -”

Michelle loses track of what it is that Sam wants to just do. She zones out instead, her eyes blinded by the lights of a car parking outside; and, when the lights turn off, she’s trapped by the sight of the own reflection in the window. A messy ponytail, bruises, cuts; wide, empty eyes.

(A widow.)

A hand on her arm. Dean, still open and boyish (his hair caked with blood).

“I’m going to book the rooms, okay? Be right back.”

“Wait,” she says, suddenly remembering how to be human again. “I’m coming with you. I’m paying.”

“What? No way.”

“Look, you didn’t even want to stop, it’s only fair.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not up for discussion,” she insists, rummaging in the pocket of her (Corbin’s) jacket until she finds her wallet.

You saved my life, she’d been about to say, but the sentence chokes her, never comes out.

Still, Dean must have heard it, because he takes a step back, gestures for her to join him.

Outside, the world is cold already. Much colder and darker than it was even ten minutes ago.

Michelle grabs Dean’s blue jacket by the hem.

“I have a stupid - this will sound insane,” she says, and Dean stops, turns to look at her.

They stand there, just staring at each other (Michelle fidgeting, Dean very, very quiet) for what seems like a short eternity before Dean shakes his head.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not weird.”

“What isn’t?” she asks, hoping against hope that he understood anyway, because she can’t find the words to say this.

“You don’t want to be alone, right?”

“I - it’s not like that.”

“I know,” he says, and the thing is, he looks like he really does.

Michelle holds on to the jacket for another few seconds as she sees it happen on his ruined face - because he knows exactly what she means - that, yes, they don’t know one another and this wouldn’t be weird, perhaps, if they were about to have sex, which is not happening, so it is weird, yes, and yet it’s also okay, because they could have died and they didn’t and the night is full of things Michelle knows nothing about and the last thing she wants is to be alone in some room and hide from them.

“Look, these places generally have double rooms. You know, two queens. I’ll share with Sam - he’s a damn sasquatch, but it won’t be the first time.”

Michelle lets go, then, and Dean remains there, looking very earnest and a bit sad.

“It’s really stupid,” she says, unable to even thank him, and he shakes his head again.

“You’re an okay lady,” he says. “We’ve had worse.”

He was clearly trying to make a joke, but it came out very lame and a bit rapey. Still, Michelle is not worried at all. She feels like she knows him, inside and out. She’s going to be okay.

;

“So, what do you do for a living?” Sam asks her, when it becomes obvious that things are not normal at all (Love Me Again is on the radio, and the two kids in the corner - both girls, as far as Michelle can see, even if it’s hard to tell because of the sheer amount or piercings they have on their faces - are now holding hands, and it has been exactly seven hours and twenty minutes since this man sitting right here and pushing a tired cucumber slice around with his fork - this man with his hair a bit too long and a face way too young - shot Corbin in the back and killed him).

And, funny how it works - that moment? Not even in today's top three.

(In third place: Corbin moving closer and closer to her, his hand red with blood - You’ll see. We’ll be together - forever.

In second place: waking up in the dark, the tent pressing down on her mouth - Michelle had thought a branch had fallen over it or something, and she’d been scared shitless - she couldn’t breathe - and then - then -

In first place: the smell of that old, dirty blanket; a whispered conversation tugging at her ears - He won’t leave you. And we won’t last out there without him. - Wait, what? - and then - Michelle had been inside out with fear, and she’d been hurting everywhere, but the muted sounds now reaching her from behind the tall desk - somehow, she’d never been so frightened in her entire life. The werewolves, she could take, but this -)

She forces herself to look up.

Unlike his brother, Sam looks almost normal. His face is perfectly clean, and he - he could pass for any ordinary guy. Possibly an underwear model, that is, but, apart from that, an ordinary guy. He holds her gaze, a soft smile almost appearing around his mouth, and he sort of nods, because, of course, this is not - they shouldn’t even know each other, and perhaps it’s weird to sit here and talk about their jobs (because Michelle already knows, intimately, what it is that they do for a living), but, on the other hand, why not? Life goes on, and she has to start somewhere.

“I - I work with lace,” she says, her eyes falling back on the chipped wood of the table as she tries, and fails, to ignore the sudden bout of memory (Corbin asking her the same thing, a million years ago). “I studied a bit of everything - German bobbin lace, tatting - but now I mostly work with crochet. I design crochet flowers.”

There is an expectant silence from the other side of the table. Michelle can perceive, without even looking, the amount of confused staring as Sam and Dean decide who drew the short straw and has to say something to that. Men are always wrong-footed when she talks about her job. It’s so not new it’s almost comforting.

Apparently, tonight the loser is Dean.

“Crochet flowers,” he says, slowly, as if he’s going to add something to that; and then, “Wow, I - I’m sorry, but that’s the most boring thing I ever heard.”

“Dude,” Sam hisses, but Michelle smiles, looks up.

It’s good that Dean is telling the truth, because if he’s telling the truth about this, then maybe - maybe - he was also telling the truth about -

(Maybe she’ll be okay. One day.)

“I know. It’s really not, though. Boring. I wrote a book of designs, you should check it out.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing Sammy would be into,” Dean grins, taking another bite of his burger, and Michelle’s smile widens.

“Dean,” Sam tries, again; he looks horribly embarrassed for a second, and then visibly decides ignoring his stupid brother is the way to go.

“It does, actually,” he says, coughing a little, and he’s clearly lying, but still.

It’s nice of him.

“It’s called Flemish Flora,” Michelle says; and then, just to mess with him (because she’d been this, sometimes, in a previous life: a sarcastic bitch), she adds, “It’s out of print now, but the Boulder Gros Point society has it on pdf. I can get them in touch with you, if you want.”

Sam looks horrified now, and Dean is trying so hard not to laugh his entire face is about to explode. He swallows his bite, quite audibly, and then washes it down with what must be his third beer (Michelle hasn’t been counting, but hasn’t missed Sam’s worried glances, either).

“Oh, you must do that,” he says, when he can talk again. “Please do that.”

For a split second, Michelle is twenty-three again. She’s who she was before meeting Corbin - before being seduced into a quiet life of nature hikes and Parks and Recreation marathons and sleepy sex with only one person, but the person who really matters. She fishes a pen out of her pocket and grabs Sam’s large hand.

“Sure. Here is my number,” she says, with a cocky smile, and he remains absolutely still as she finishes writing it down and signs with a heart.

“Wow, look at that. You still got it, man. I’m proud of you.”

Sam ignores Dean’s easy banter. He looks at Michelle instead, and she bites her lip, willing him to understand - she just needs this one thing to be normal. She needs to think of this guy as a tall nobody she met in a diner, and not - not -

And he gets it.

Of course, he must have lost people too.

Losing the love of your life: not a unique experience, but something that actually happens to people, every day.

“Thanks,” he says, in a brave rally, and he pushes his empty plate to one side as he finds his phone, puts the number in before it can get smudged. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“Celebrating your good luck with the ladies.”

The waitress comes back, and nods in approval when she sees they’ve both devoured their burgers.

“That was fantastic,” Dean says, and it’s almost scary how good he is at this - whatever it is that they do all day long, acting must be some part of it, Michelle thinks. “I’ll have another slice of your awesome pie, and - would you happen to have a bottle of Johnny somewhere?”

The woman rolls her eyes, swats Dean’s hand away from her wrist.

“We don’t sell bottles, young man. But I’ll bring you a glass, if you want it.”

“Make that three, and keep them coming.”

“Wait, I -”

Sam’s protestations come to nothing. Again, Michelle sees something more pass between them - Sam is clearly unhappy about his brother drinking, but now Dean has changed again, easy charm giving way to something that’s almost scary, a smile which very clearly says, Go on - give me a chance to break your jaw - and Sam backtracks.

“So, these flowers,” he says, defeated, turning back to Michelle, “are they, like, for weddings or -”

“Told you he’d be into it,” Dean says, clapping his brother on the shoulder; and then, as soon as the discussion is underway, he turns his attention to the glass now in front of him and his face changes again - Michelle can see the storm clear enough, now, and a whole horizon of very dark clouds.

;

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t even seem surprised when Dean gets his key out and they all pile inside the same room. He just puts down his duffel bag, and looks longingly towards the bathroom.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You’re not getting those stitches wet.”

“I wasn’t -”

“Right.”

“Look, I know how to take care of stitches, okay?”

“You know because I taught you, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Michelle ignores them. She managed to eat some of that pie Dean kept raving about, but she’s still feeling empty and weird. She collapses on the second bed and just watches on as the brothers bicker. Dean tries, again, to offer the bottle of whiskey he somehow obtained from the waitress to Sam, but Sam keeps insisting he’s on antibiotics and is not supposed to -

“My God, you’re such a teacher’s pet!”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Well, excuse me for following actual medical advice.”

“As opposed to what, you mean?”

“As opposed to your medical advice. Which sucks.”

“You suck.”

“You just told me alcohol would prevent blood poisoning.”

“I meant that mepha - metaphorically.”

“Sure you did.”

Dean turns around then, looks at Michelle as if to invite her to take part in the conversation, but she shakes her head.

“Fine,” he says, turning back to his brother. “I kept you alive, bitch. For years. You can be damn grateful to my medical advice.”

This changes the mood as if a switch has been flicked. Michelle was in the process of getting her heavy boots off, but she stops for a second, looks up.

Sam was opening his duffle bag, but he stops as well.

“I am,” he says, sounding faintly surprised. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well.”

“You alright, Dean?”

Dean ignores that. He takes a few steps back instead, sits down on Michelle’s bed. He doesn’t look drunk, but there’s still something off about him. He glances at her, then away, and Michelle suddenly realizes Sam doesn’t know - he doesn’t know about the overdose, about whatever happened when Dean was unconscious - Dean hasn’t told him.

Which seems wrong, because he wanted to die for his brother and -

Or maybe he just wanted to die, period.

Michelle bends down again. She finishes unlacing her boots, peels the socks off and then sits back on the bed. She’d been desperate for a shower, but now she can’t be bothered.

Your skin now - the last thing Corbin touched before he died. And as soon as you wash -

Suddenly, there is a bottle in front of her. A thing of brown glass, only half full.

“Dean, I hardly think,” Sam starts, but Michelle takes it.

;

When someone (probably Sam) turns off the lights and Michelle finally lies back against the pillow, the ceiling is still moving.

“What else is there?” she asks, in the darkness, and she’s actually talking to herself, sort of, because her blood is now a golden, viscous liquid and even this widow business looks like it’s happening to someone else; and when Dean’s voice echoes from the foot of her bed (“What do you mean?”) she turns her head and smiles against the cheap fabric simply because she’s not alone.

“I mean, so werewolves are real. What about vampires?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know about them,” says Sam, from the other bed.

He sounds exhausted.

“Witches?”

“Ugh,” Dean says, shifting to make himself more comfortable; Michelle sort of adjusts around him, fidgets until she feels the rough texture of his jeans under her naked feet. It feels nice.

(Warm; solid. Alive.)

Neither of them move away.

“Wait, demons are not real, are they?”

Sam laughs.

“Dean’s best friends with the king of Hell,” he says, but, surely, that can’t be true.

“What?”

“Shut up.”

“Is he serious?”

“I’m not best friends with the guy, okay?”

“Why do you keep all his voicemails, then?”

“Sam -”

“And why you guys have a Flickr album together?”

“I didn’t know he was taking pictures, okay? The guy’s sneaky,” Dean says, only the slightest slur on the last word indicating how much he’s actually had to drink.

“Comes with the job description,” says Sam, unrepentant. “You should know better.”

Michelle closes her eyes, opens them again.

“So he’s a demon? And you’re friends with him?”

Dean swats her ankles in mock offense.

“Demons are - complicated,” he says, looking anywhere but at her; or at his brother.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

“What about angels?” Michelle asks in complete fascination, because she doesn’t want the thing to become a fight and Dean’s profile is sharp as glass and very pretty in the half shadow.

The silence in the room is almost deafening.

“Yeah, there’s angels,” Dean says, in the end, and now he sounds completely sober.

His hand starts to stroke her left foot, his thumb tracing light circles on the skin, and it’s - it’s not unpleasant, but it still feels - Michelle sits up, crosses her legs.

“What are they like?” she asks, and she’s way too tipsy to even notice how uneasy they both are.

Sam sits up as well.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth,” he says, in what must be the most unsubtle move in the entire universe; and then he looks at Dean with - is that pity? or a warning? - and disappears in the bathroom, the door closing softly behind him.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Dean passes a hand on his face, and hisses in annoyance, because he’d clearly forgotten about his bruises, and Michelle doesn’t want to think about what that says about him.

“No. Sam’s touchy. And angels - you don’t want to meet them. They’re dicks.”

“Dicks?” she echoes, and frowns.

That seems unlikely. Not that Michelle has ever believed in angels, but now she knows they’re real - and she does - she trusts Dean and Sam like she’s never trusted anyone before in her life - it seems wrong that they should be anything but good. Her grandma had been a big fan; Michelle still has somewhere an overly kitsch painting she’d received for her tenth birthday (Ever this day be at my side/ To light and guard, to rule and guide).

“Dicks,” Dean says, curtly; and then he sighs. “They don’t get us, you know.”

There’s something so far gone in his voice Michelle moves a bit closer to him, puts a hand on his shoulder; and when he sort of leans into that, turns to look at her, she sees that, in fact, he may be much, much drunker than she’d initially thought.

“Yeah,” he says, even though she hasn’t asked anything. “They think they can come and go - they just fuck off whenever, and never mind - never mind -”

“Never mind what?” she says, after a short pause, and he shakes his head.

“Sammy almost died on me today. And then - I - how am I supposed to do this alone?”

On instinct, and just because that’s what you say, Michelle squeezes his shoulder.

“You’re not alone.”

And now Dean turns around properly, and then they’re kissing, and it’s weird how it all happens - it’s so unbearably sweet for about one second, because Dean’s lips are soft and there’s still some apple pie on his breath and he’s so solid and present and alive under Michelle’s fingers - but then something breaks, and it’s like a dam exploding between them, and he’s the first to break off the kiss and “Fuck, I’m sorry - fuck,” and Michelle knows she’s crying, but she can’t - she feels Dean’s warm hand on her shoulder for a second, and then he stands up, and the front door makes a noise which is not quite slamming.

“What’s going on?”

Sam has reappeared, and he sounds worried. Michelle shakes her head, unable to even look at him, and fishes inside her pocket for a tissue instead.

“You should go after him,” she says, thickly, and, after that, she’s alone in the room and everything is quiet.

;

When she wakes up and she figures it’s actually the right time to wake up (the first two times, the room had been way too dark around her), Michelle feels like she hasn’t slept at all. She experiences a sudden, terrifying thing - it’s like she’s looking at herself from outside - she sees a thin, pale woman in clothes that are way too large - she sees the woman sitting up in bed and look around the room - and she wonders who, exactly, this woman is.

(Dissociation: common in trauma cases, Lauren says in her ear.

And she’s right. Lauren doesn’t know about Corbin yet, but she’s a nurse, and Michelle’s best friend, and that’s exactly what she’ll tell Michelle as soon as they see each other. That everything will suck and weird things will happen and it’s perfectly normal and, one day, it will pass.

Just like Dean said.)

Michelle blinks, tries to regain control.

This woman is me. Corbin died yesterday. Werewolves are real, she thinks, gripping the cheap sheets in her fingers and taking deep, calming breaths.

None of that is your fault, she thinks next, because that’s what Dean told her last night and he knows this stuff, so he must be right.

Then she stands up, walks to the small desk - she remembers seeing a bottle of water there somewhere. There isn’t one now, though. Slowly, she turns around, and she ends up hesitating for a moment in front of the second bed, simply looking at them - these people who came crashing into her life and changed everything.

(They saved her; they saved both of them, in a way.)

Sam is on his back (Michelle can tell this is something both of them know how to do - were perhaps trained to do: sleep in any position, and don’t move, so that stitches and casts and cuts won’t be disturbed) and looks way too big to be allowed. Now he’s sleeping, though, there is a childish sweetness about him that’s even more evident. It’s sort of obvious that he’s the younger brother, and Dean -

Despite last night’s protestations about how unfair sharing a bed with Sam actually is, Dean has moved in his sleep (or perhaps he hasn’t; perhaps it was a conscious choice) and he’s now on his side, his dark head next to Sam’s shoulder, his nose pushed against the flannel of Sam’s shirt. His left hand is closed into a fist - like her, he apparently fell asleep clutching at the sheets.

They are still fully clothed, both of them, and Michelle wonders at it - if it’s because she’s there, or because they’re sharing a bed. Or maybe it’s something hunters just do, like on-call doctors and firefighters. For the first time, she takes a step back from her own personal tragedy to consider the look in Dean’s eyes as he’d told her about them needing a holiday. Because, yes, she’s going back to an empty house, but, apparently, so are they. And they’ll have to fight more monsters - they’ll have to kill and be killed while she sits in her parents’ guest room and she looks down at some new design in her lap and then back at the garden again.

She doesn’t know if she pities them or envies them.

Her eyes follow Dean’s arm back to Sam’s chest, and then up to Sam’s face, and she almost startles when she finds him looking back at her.

“I -” she says, but he brings his finger to his mouth, glances down at Dean.

Something softens around his mouth, and Michelle bites her lip.

Taking a step back, she walks to the door, opens and closes it as quietly as she can, and, next, she’s throwing up all over the unkempt flower beds.

She knows and doesn’t know why she’s suddenly feeling sick. It’s a bit of everything - it’s being sure (quite sure) she’d been about to die in that cabin, and it’s Corbin’s hazel eyes lighting up as he stepped closer and closer to her, his hand and sleeve dripping with blood, and it’s his white body lying under a sheet and not looking at peace, as they tell you it will be, but just - dead.

“This will happen a lot. Better get used to it,” says a voice from her right, and how can such a large man move so quietly?

“How do you get used to throwing up?” she asks weakly, pressing a hand to her mouth and turning her face away.

Sam closes the distance between them, passes her a tissue.

“Don’t fight it,” he says, simply. “You’re gonna feel like crap, and you’re gonna feel guilty as hell, and your body can’t take it - you’ll cry and throw up and not sleep and stare creepily at sleeping men in strange motel rooms. It’s okay. Don’t fight it.”

Michelle had been on the brink of crying, but she finds herself laughing instead, and now she’s making a mess in her tissue, both blowing her nose and trying to blot her eyes and also laughing so hard she can’t control it.

“I wasn’t - oh God, I’m so sorry,” she splutters, and Sam grins.

“Oh, we’re used to it,” he says, and he was trying for humour, but he’s a good-looking guy, and he knows it, so it comes out a bit shyly instead. “Our last case was in a retirement home,” he adds, trying to cover it up. “Believe me, I had to rescue my brother more than once.”

Michelle’s still smiling, because, yes, she can just about imagine it.

“You actually look sweet when you’re sleeping,” she says, in a brave attempt to justify herself which somehow makes the situation even worse.

“We should hook you up to our Instagram feed, then,” he says, and she splutters again, grateful for how gently he’s handling this.

“I meant, the both of you,” she insists, and he cocks one eyebrow. “Oh, stop it - I meant - it’s obvious you care about each other a lot.”

Sam stops smiling, then, and whatever he was about to say - possibly some kind of quip about threesomes - gets lost in the space between them, because that space is suddenly real again - one foot of dirt where Michelle lost her husband and Sam almost died and now everything in the world is messed up.

“We do,” he says, quietly. “Our mom died just after I was born, and Dean basically raised me. It’s the kind of thing that leaves a mark.”

“Not all marks are bad,” she says, a bit awkwardly, and she stuffs her dirty tissue deep into the pocket of her jacket.

“No,” he agrees; and then he reaches out, grabs her shoulder. “Hang in there, okay? It’s gonna be terrible, and it’s never gonna to go away completely, but it will fade. You will be normal again one day.”

Michelle wonders for a split second if he’d been listening in the day before, or if Dean told him, or if they’re both following some kind of hunter’s manual detailing how to deal with the victims’ families; but when she looks up at Sam’s open, earnest face, she knows she’s being stupid. They’re just that much alike, that’s all. They both lost something which is very close to everything, and yesterday they both died, and yet they didn’t, and today is a new day, and someone has to do it, so they do it. They survive and drive on in their glossy car and drink a bit too much and fall asleep in depressing motel rooms before going back to God knows where - a place where, Dean had said, no one is waiting for them.

“Thank you,” she says, trying to put all of that into the words, and Sam smiles.

“Anytime,” he says.

;

Two months later Michelle is exactly where she thought she’d be: sitting in a chair of her parents’ guest room, a sketch book open in her lap. On her mother’s insistence, the curtains are open, and she has a view of the garden (the tall magnolia is still blooming, and if she only opened the window, Michelle could smell those white and pink flowers; she doesn’t, though).

The room is just a guest room, but there is a photo of her and Corbin on the desk. Michelle can’t look at it, and yet feels guilty about even thinking of removing it, so there is stands - two kids in goofy clothes, the light not ideal, the lake behind them shimmering with a thousand lights. Michelle remembers that moment - they’d just bought a new camera, and they’d had to try about a dozen times before figuring out how the self-timer worked. And still, the picture isn’t perfect - there is a small yellow flower on the foreground, just in the corner, and there’s where the focus is.

Thinking on it now, it could be a kind of message, but it probably isn’t.

Her mother turns on the radio in the other room, and Michelle looks down at the sketchbook again. She should finish her second book by the end of the summer, and she hasn’t worked on any new projects for weeks. Before, she’d been way too busy planning her honeymoon, and now - now -

You’ll be fine, Dean had said, crushing her into a bear hug, and Michelle had thought maybe he was talking to himself, but she hadn’t said anything - it was nice to be held like that, to feel a man’s body against her own, and God knows that would be the last time for years, probably - definitely the last time she would ever connect with anyone over Corbin’s death ever again; so she’d turned her head against his jacket (it’d smelled of leather and cheap cologne and, very faintly, of blood - it shouldn’t have felt comforting, but it still did) and looked at the world for a second (her parents, supportive yet bewildered - simply a sixty-something couple in better than average clothes; and Sam, looking very out of place beside them with his plaid shirt and his pale face); and then she’d turned her face again, hiding against Dean’s chest, and she’d just sobbed as he stroked her hair.

You’ll be just fine, he’d said again, over and over.

And that is, surprisingly enough, almost true. Michelle goes downstairs to take her meals, now. She sleeps without pills. She’s even taken a call from Corbin’s sister, and even if they’d both cried like absolute babies, it had been a good call. Her friend Lauren comes by once a week, and yesterday she’s even said - well, her on/off boyfriend is definitely off for good, so if Michelle wanted to rent the other room in Lauren’s house -

Michelle is thinking about it. She’s seen the room, after all, and it’s a good room. It’s a bit bigger than this one, but not too big. And there’s a bed with a memory foam mattress.

Her phone pings, and Michelle frowns. She was sure she’d turned it off last night. Her mom must be meddling again.

When she picks it up, though, it’s not a text - it’s a notification from her website, a review for her book. Too intrigued to remember she doesn’t care about anything right now, she clicks on the icon and the message comes up.

Definitely the best book about crochet I ever read, it starts. I must admit - I always thought making flowers with twine was a bit of a creepy pastime, but I stand corrected - my brother got me some pink thread for my birthday, and now I can’t put the thing down. I won my local Lace Tulips competition, and I was drafted for the Nationals - my life has changed for the better, and this book is the reason why. Would highly recommend. SW

Michelle reads the message a second time, smiling despite herself, and then there is a second ping - this time, a text.

Sorry about that. Dean’s a jerk.

Yes, she’s definitely smiling now.

Ignore him. He’s just bitchy because I found out about his secret hobby.

He only did that because he was too chicken to ask you how you were doing.

I should have a pic of him crocheting, hang on -

Michelle doesn’t know if the brothers can read each other’s texts. Despite their light tone, she’s seized by a horrible thought - that maybe they’re not in the same place at all - maybe they’re stuck in two different hospitals, or maybe -

But, of course, she’s being stupid.

And we hope you’re doing fine, by the way.

There is a picture, next - Sam sleeping against the seat of Dean’s black car, something colourful (a paper flower?) on his head and a bib around his neck reading World’s Greatest Baby - Michelle can’t help it - she starts laughing, and then she feels guilty when she hears the radio being turned down, because she knows what that means - it’s been so long since she laughed, her mom must be wondering if she's hearing things.

Sorry, wrong one.

That was Dean’s bib, reads the next message, and now Michelle knows that, wherever they are, they are together. Which means, surely, that they’re okay?

The next picture is a selfie - Dean and a handsome man with blue eyes looking gently bewildered - and this time Michelle can’t help texting back after Dean’s hasty Sorry, wrong again.

And who was that? she asks, and she almost adds a winky face, because, well, there was just something about that picture -

For a few long moments, there are only points on the small screen as Dean writes what is probably the next Great American Novel and then erases it all again.

I got him back, the text finally says, and even though it’s not really an answer, something inside Michelle’s chest tightens all the same as she remembers that night all over again - how Dean had said, without looking at her, Losing the person you love - I know what that’s like.

I’m happy for you, she writes, impulsively; and then she looks up at the framed picture on the desk, and, for the first time in weeks, her smile doesn’t falter.

In fact, I have some good news as well, she types next, standing up and opening the window without even noticing she’s doing it, just to let in the summer breeze, and she’s so engrossed in telling them all about Lauren (and Lauren doesn’t know Michelle has decided yet, and that she’ll take the room, but she’ll be happy about it, that’s not even a question) that she doesn’t see her mom standing on the threshold, her hand against her mouth as she tries not to smile too loudly and not to cry too loudly either, because this is it - this is the exact moment she can finally be sure her baby girl will be okay, and that’s - there is just nothing like it.