What Isn't and Can Never Be

Jericho is a good three and a half hours away and Deanna floors the accelerator hoping to make it in two. They only stop once for gas near a local fast food restaurant. She orders a greasy burger and Sam picks a salad. She comments that he's still such a girl and he retorts that he's amazed her arteries aren't clogged up, falling right back into their typical sibling banter as if they had never separated. He picks on her taste in music and she cries blasphemy at his nerve to insult her rock music. Motörhead is turned up obscenely loud in retaliation and he suffers most of the drive listening to her off-pitch voice singing along. He muses if she's aware of how terrible she sounds.

"I still can't believe the audacity of that man," he sighs exasperatedly, "to let you hunt on your own." It's been grating on his nerves since he learned she had hunted on her own in Louisiana for some voodoo gig and he's certain she knows he was bound to bring it up at some point. It went against everything their father had ever taught them and drilled into their heads. Growing up, John Winchester had been resolute they never hunted alone, and that if a hunt should turn south, under no circumstances were they to leave each other. Which is why Sam still can't fathom their father willingly agreeing to part ways.

Deanna swiftly turns defensive, catching onto her brother's petulant tone that he normally reserved solely for their father. "Dude, I'm twenty-six years old! I've hunted on my own for three years now. Remember I've been shooting before you could barely walk."

"Deanna, I know you're capable of hunting. It's just that, you're a girl, traveling by yourself, god damn it Dad never cared enough about our welfare, more concerned about these stupid hunts—"

"Sammy," the threat is visible in her terse tone, "I can handle anything. Werewolves. Vampires. Wendigos. Ghouls. Don't you worry about my chastity little bro. We both know that was gone long ago."

"That's not the point," he explains hastily, really not wanting to remember all the times he's nearly walked in on his sister about to have sex back when they had to share a bedroom. Or the numerous occasions that Deanna had threatened murder if he breathed a word to their father whenever she had someone over. Deanna always seemed to attract someone (male mostly but occasionally Sam picked up on the shy, lingering stares girls would give too) wherever they went, partly thanks to her ability to flirt with anyone who glanced her way but mainly because her looks. He'd been around twelve when he became painfully aware of his sister's attractiveness and he simply blamed their family circumstances on how they were raised. After all, she was the only constant female he had been around his entire life so it was only a natural, consequential reaction. Sure, Deanna is far from the innocent vulnerable female archetype, but despite that Sam really hates to think how easy if would be for a petite girl like his sister to become outnumbered.

"The point is, you should not be hunting in the first place. Don't you want something better for yourself? Nobody ever walks away from hunting without it haunting them, that is if they don't die first. It's a life of nothing but misery and loneliness. Are you trying to die before you're thirty?"

"You know what they say," Deanna grins coyly at him, "only the good die young."

"At least Uncle Bobby and Dad had a chance at a real, normal life before they got involved in hunting. Uncle Bobby and Dad were married and actually got to experience happiness for a while—"

Deanna glowers. "Jesus, Sam, listen to yourself. Marriage is not for everyone. I'm too wayward to even think about being monogamous much less popping out a few kids. You know what my happiness is, Sammy? Killing every single god damn supernatural thing out there and preventing what happened to our family from happening to someone else's. You have no idea how many people I've saved. That's my purpose in life, Sam."

"Fine," he grits out, "then at least explain why Dad would break his number one rule."

Deanna considers her brother for a moment. She'd rather hoped they could prolong this conversation long enough so it never happened, but she knows her little brother can be annoyingly stubborn. She sighs.

"I told you. Dad's hunting after the thing that killed Mom. We were together hunting and gathering clues a whole year after you left, then I got hurt because of some damn Egyptian curse that even Bobby couldn't find anything on and was comatose for days. Dad disappeared in search for a cure and when he returned, I don't know, Sammy, whoever or wherever he'd went to must've spooked him out or riled him up so badly because after I got back on my feet, he just insisted we go our separate ways. Like us being together was more dangerous than being apart. I didn't question it."

Of course Deanna would never question a direct order from their father. Deanna has always been all yessirs and never one to question their father's authority. Sam, on the other hand, would've demanded answers and refused to listen until he got an explanation. Deanna, as if reading his mind, then adds sheepishly,

"I'm not like you, Sam. I...maybe I should've pried Dad for more info," she admits reluctantly, and Sam can tell she regrets it too. Because maybe if she had, they would have a better idea where their father was at. "Dad just had that serious ex-Marine mad-eyed look to him and I sure as hell didn't want to blow his casket." She desperately wants to add their father had made a trip to Palo Alto but she doesn't want to bring that up quite yet. Knowing her kid brother, he'd probably be pissed their father never bothered to make his presence known. But she knew even before the trip to Jericho, their father had been to Palo Alto. Anytime a job took him to California, John Winchester always stopped by Palo Alto to spy on Sam. It was an unspoken ritual. Like he was scared something was after her brother and had to check on him. She and her father had exchanged GPS accounts on their phones so they always had a way to track one another in case of them went missing, and when she noticed her father's signal showing up in Palo Alto only a few days after he'd left her that cryptic voicemail, she had no idea what it could've meant. She just pushed it to the back corners of her mind. Until now.

She looks at her brother beside her, noting his stony bitch face and the corners of her mouth curl up. Definitely never going to mention that little tidbit, she decides. As much as Sam and her father butted heads, she knew their father always worried and cared about Sam, even if her brother couldn't see past their differences to recognize that truth. Sam catches her stare and opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but Deanna abruptly pulls the Impala to a halt on the shoulder of the road without warning, stepping out of the vehicle. Sam calls after her, watching her sprint towards the two police vehicles blocking the bridge they were about to cross, marked off with yellow tape. He curses in irritation and runs after her.

"Whoa young lady, there is a detour back there—" The police officer blocks his sister path, grabbing her arm to gain her attention. Sam's surprised that his sister doesn't reflexively throttle the man, Deanna hates it when people touch her without permission.

"I just, recognized that vehicle," Deanna gasps breathlessly, expression distraught and eyes turning glossy, "is he okay?"

Fake tears or not, Sam's impressed. His sister plays the distressed female perfectly. Sam finally catches up, wondering what the heck is going on, and as if the officer discerns what she's frantic about, he now addresses his sister with sympathy.

"So you know Troy huh?"

Deanna nods and asks quickly, "what happened?"

"Well we're not sure, it's best if you turn around and take the detour."

Deanna looks like she wants to argue but Sam grabs her hand, curling his fingers around hers, tugging and smiling apologetically at the officer. "Excuse my sister, officer, she and Troy are friends."

"He's disappeared, hasn't he?" Deanna demands, as if she has the right to command a police officer. Sam raises a brow when the police officer actually answers her,

"We're not sure yet, honestly. No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints. Spotless."

"Please, is there anything I can do to help? None of this is like him," Deanna pleads, and the officer puts a hand on her shoulder and regards Sam fully now, "why don't you two go help my daughter, Amy? She's putting up posters in town as speak. That's really all you can do. We need to keep this area closed off to civilians so we can investigate and found out what happened to your friend."

Deanna nods, wiping her fake tears with the sleeve of her plaid shirt. "Sorry officer, of c-course—"

"I understand," the man says, and Sam notices his nametag reads 'Hein', "she's at the diner."

Deanna turns around, not pulling away from Sam's hand until they get to the car, dropping it naturally once they're ready to climb back into the Impala.

"How in the world did you..." Sam falters.

"It was obvious. All the victims were male and as soon as I saw that abandoned car, I knew it'd happened again. Plus, male authorities are always such suckers for tears," his sister's eyes are dry now, and she's practically glowing with delight. "It's better than sex, Sammy, a woman's ultimate secret weapon."

Sam groans. "I really don't need to know this, Dee."

"Oh please," she continues, amused how red his face is turning, "as if you haven't ever used your boy charms on women before. I still remember that case where this grandma was pawing at you and Dad and I had to save you. With your puppy-eyed looks and my body, we would make one hell of team. Who could resist us?"

"Dee, please," he hides his face in his hands, mortified. "I really don't need the details."

Deanna chuckles. "Please, Sam, I may be a flirt but I still have my standards."

He scoffs. "I'm sure."

"I would never sleep with someone to get information," she deadpans, then adds as an after thought, "unless they're hot. That's totally different."

Sam's positive that is an admittance that she has. She turns the ignition on and drives towards the diner while he contemplates the sudden ache in his chest. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and notices he has 1 missed call from Jess. He texts her instead, not wanting to talk to her while his sister is within earshot. He simply types, 'in jericho. love you. sam.'

Within four hours, after talking to Amy (Deanna and Sam once again are perplexed why people assume they're a couple, Amy seems genuinely shocked to learn that they're brother and sister), scouring the local library and finding an article on a woman named Constance Welch, Sam is pretty optimistic that he knows what they are dealing with. A vengeful spirit but for what exactly, Sam's unsure.

Deanna is the one who picks up on the location of her suicide. She clicks her tongue, sending Sam that determined look she always gets right before they go in for the kill. Only, Sam still has questions, like what any of this has to do with their dad. Reluctantly, he agrees to go back to Sylvania bridge that night.

Soaked to the bone, smelling like a sewer, and cursing a storm, Deanna finally pulls into the parking lot of a nearby dingy hotel that barely looks like it's holding itself together. The hotel clerk at the front desk greets them as they walk in, the bell above the door announcing their presence, and Deanna hands the woman her fake credit card that reads Rhonda Aframian. The woman reads it.

"You having some reunion or something?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asks sharply.

"I had another guy, Burt Aframian, he came and bought a room for a whole month."

Deanna looks at her brother.

Minutes after accepting the keys to their room ("All I have is a king size bed," the clerk apologized when Deanna asked for two beds), Sam keeps a look out while his sister picks the lock of the room their father had occupied. Deanna flashes him a triumphant grin when the door finally opens, and they step inside quickly before anyone walks by. Every vertical surface of the room has papers pinned to them: maps, newspaper clippings, pictures, notes, and even pieces of string connecting everything together in some intricate webbing that Deanna studies for a moment and comprehension dawns on her face. Meanwhile Sam glances over the assortment of books on the desk and nightstand, recognizing his father's handwriting on some of the pages. Nothing significant unfortunately.

Sam notices the salt lines and Deanna picks up the half-eaten burger by the nightstand, her face scrunching up in disgust at the odor before dropping it. She stands there, face stoic with her hands on her hips, green eyes assessing.

"I don't think he's been here for a couple of days at least," she says at last, breaking the silence between them.

Sam snorts. "You think?" He points out the cats-eye shells, and gestures to the salt lines on the ground. "He was definitely worried, trying to keep something from coming in."

Deanna crosses the room walking purposefully towards him and he shoots her a look. She ignores it and rips one of the papers off the wall behind him, biting her lower lip. She hands it to him.

"Centennial Highway victims," she reminds him.

Sam studies the pictures and names of the victims, all from diverse backgrounds that he can't formulate any connection. Deanna sighs loudly, frustrated.

"I don't get it. I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?"

He looks at the papers pinned to the walls, one in particular catching his eyes. The familiar scrawl of John Winchester is unmistakable.

"Dad figured it out," he remarks, taping the scrap of paper that reads 'woman in white' with his finger along with the same article they'd found earlier in the library. "Constance Welch is the woman in white."

The woman in white had different versions, depending on which country, Sam faintly recalls. But all the versions had one particular detail in common: a betrayed woman whose spouse or lover had either cheated on or killed her, and out of revenge, the spirit of the scored woman would seek out other unfaithful men or misogynists and punish them.

"Those sly dogs," his sister grins, tucking a loose hair behind her ear. "Of fucking course. Dad would've found her corpse and burned it by now, though. Too easy."

"Maybe he missed something," Sam shrugs. "Maybe she had a piece of jewelry, anything that her spirit can still connect with."

"No, no," Deanna shakes her head adamantly, "Dad's better than that. Better than you and me, combined. He's a pro at this, he wouldn't miss a thing."

"Well, we'll have to ask her husband," Sam quips thoughtfully, noticing the next article pinned up. "Joseph Welch. If he's still alive."

"Awesome," Deanna runs a hand through her still wet hair, "you look up an address, I'm gonna go back to our room and take a shower. I smell like a toilet." Sam chokes back a laugh but she notices anyway and sends him a miffed look and Sam's certain he hears her mutter 'bitch' and 'burn' before she exits the room.

He's in the middle of researching Joseph Welch's residence when his sister steps out of the shower, dressed in one of their dad's old Marine shirts that falls past her knees, hair damp and smelling of flowers. When she bends down to dig something out of her duffel bed, Sam yelps.

"Jesus Christ, Dee, could you please—"

Deanna blushes and actually looks embarrassed.

"Sorry Sammy, not used to sharing a room anymore." She puts on a pair of gym shorts over her underwear. Which are short and still show off her trimmed legs. "Though, c'mon, it's not like you haven't seen the opposite sex in their underwear. Your girlfriend is way out of your league, by the way."

"You practically eye-raped her," he accuses dryly.

"The girl was prancing around in her underwear! Besides, I know she's off-limits, I respect other people's committed relationships," she replies. "Besides, I'm proud. I was beginning to worry you were gonna be a virgin forever. Glad to see college fixed that."

The floor fails to open up and swallow him and she proceeds.

"I had to share a room with you growing up. Oh trust me, you weren't as quiet as you thought when you jerked off. Only virgins jerk off that much."

"We are having this inappropriate discussion, why?"

"Because I'm your big sister and it's my job to fuck with you," she replies smugly. He throws one of his dirty socks at her, but it falls too short and Deanna shrugs nonchalantly before plopping down on the bed and turning the television on. Minutes later he hears loud moaning emitting from the television and he almost loses it. He slams his laptop shut loudly. She doesn't notice.

"Could you, er, not do that with me in the room?" He marvels at how his sister can't see the apparent wrongness of watching porn while one's brother is in the same room.

"All right, sorry," she concedes, turning it off, "I'll admit I've gotten a bit spoiled not having to share a room with anyone anymore these last three years."

"Well, in less than 48 hours, you can go back to watching your porn uninterrupted," he mutters.

Deanna frowns. "Monday. Right. The interview."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some hot-shot lawyer? Marry your girl?" Her moss-green eyes scrutinize him and Sam all of a sudden feels edgy, like he's on trial.

"Maybe. Why not?"

"Jessica doesn't even know who you really are! Christ, Sammy, I'm no expert on long-term relationships here, but even I know that isn't something you should keep to yourself. The whole honesty mumbo jumbo crap . Sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are."

"Like you said, you're definitely no expert," he repeats icily, "all your relationships never last more than one night."

"Oh fuck you," she snarls. Sam instantly regrets the words the second they leave his mouth but it's too late to admit remorse over it. Deanna slams him roughly against the fading wallpaper of the hotel room, the walls rattling. For a woman who is only a mere five feet two inches, Sam's honestly a bit scared. Very few have lived to tell of the wrath of Deanna Winchester.

"Dee, I didn't mean—"

"I know," she spits out, eyes glittering dangerously like a knife, her bony elbow digging into his clavicle as she holds him against the wall. Sam may have grown taller and greatly outweigh her, but Deanna always did have agility on her side, thanks to her short, small stature. She's too fast for him to predict her next move, so he doesn't attempt to fling her off. "I know, Sammy. I'm just, trying to help. If you're really serious about Jess, you need to tell her. To protect her."

"I have," he whispers pleadingly, "I made sure to lay the salt lines before I left. I'm not stupid."

"No, Sam, sneaking around doesn't count. Dad didn't do that with us, if he had, we probably both be dead now. He trained us to defend ourselves."

"Train?" he wants to laugh. "You want me to train Jess? Jesus Christ, Deanna. I'm not Dad, I'm not gonna treat someone I love like a soldier."

"It's the same thing as training a girl to defend herself against rapists! It's not brain science, kid. You bring an innocent civilian into this mess, you better fucking protect them, and that means training them to protect themselves, because, news flash, you can't always be there to do salt lines for them," she mocks him, releasing her grip on him and stalking back over to the bed, rummaging through her duffel.

"I am not one of you. I'm not bringing Jess into anything."

She slips on her hoodie, stepping into her jeans. "I know." She grabs the keys and slams the door loudly behind her. Sam closes his eyes and decides he's way too tired to follow her, much less argue anymore. He's so riled up he can't even concentrate on doing more research for the case. Eventually after two hours and no sign of his sister returning any time soon, he climbs into the bed and finds sleep.

He dreams of fire licking his skin.