⌜ chapter one ⌟

Hazel eyes scan the bar, always being mindful of what's around her — whether it be looking for any potential threats or simply looking for the person that she arrived with. Her gaze lands on the boy who left her alone at their table, and she shakes her head when she sees the blonde that he's now flirting with.

Typical.

A man sits down across from the girl with the dull green in her eyes and the dyed red hair. He's drunk, sloppily so, and smiles at the young woman. She tries to pay him no attention, hoping that he'll take the hint and leave her alone. No such luck.

"How are you, pretty lady?" He asks, the question coming out slow. She can smell the alcohol on him, even from the distance across the table.

"That seat's taken." She tells him, her tone disinterested.

It's not technically a lie, though it's not technically true either. It's Dean's seat — one that he clearly has no intention of making it back to.

"I haven't seen you with anyone." The stranger persists, and she glances at him. His dark hair is slicked back — reminding her of black oil — and his clothes are dirty and disheveled. He looks like he came to the bar after a late shift, which is entirely plausible for a Friday night.

"He's running late." Is all she says in reply.

He reaches across the table toward her, and she pulls her hands back as she sits up straighter in her seat. Her eyes flit over to Dean again, finding that he's still preoccupied in his conversation with the blonde across the crowded bar. Him abandoning her for other, prettier women isn't an uncommon occurrence, and usually she doesn't care. Tonight, however, is different.

"Come on, sweetheart." He smiles, and her jaw tightens. "I'm just tryin' to have a little fun."

"Not your sweetheart. Not interested."

"Well, what is your name?" He asks, completely disregarding the second part.

"Goodbye." She stands up and then walks away from him, leaving her half-finished beer behind with no intention of retrieving it.

Dean's all smiles as he talks to the woman sitting across from him, who seems more than pleased by the looks of the man who came to flirt with her. She touches his hand every chance that she gets, and giggles every time he makes a joke. The blonde pushes her hair over her bare shoulder, smiling and nodding as she listens to his story — one that's entirely made up because he can't tell her the truth about anything that he does.

His attention is pulled away from the blonde when another woman walks up beside the table that they're seated at. "Little Red." He smiles up at her. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanna go home." Isla tells him, not so much as glancing in the blonde's direction.

"I don't."

"It's late, and drunk guys are creepy." She argues.

"You knew that before we came out."

The redhead grinds her teeth as she looks at him, her hazel eyes never leaving his apple green ones. "Fine. Just give me the keys, and you can stay here."

"You're not driving the Impala." He shakes his head. "Call a cab." 

"Really?" She questions. "You want me to take a cab home this late at night, in this part of town, alone?"

"You know damn well how to take care of yourself." He says, and she scoffs.

"Okay. Fine." Isla nods as she turns away from him. "Prick." She mutters as she walks away from him and the blonde woman, who was happy to hear that he's staying.

After seeing the amount of people that are currently outside the bar, who look more than a little sketchy, she decides against calling a cab company and waiting outside the building. They're in a bad part of town, and the motel that they're stopped at for the night is only a couple blocks away as it is. So she slides her hands into her sweater pockets and slips her fingers into the brass knuckles that John gave her, then she starts down the sidewalk toward the motel.

Approaching their rooms, she sees that the light in John and Dean's is still on, so she knocks on the door. She knows that the leftover pizza from their dinner earlier is in their room, and she's hungry. Plus, John never minds her company, and she prefers his to being left alone.

He lets her into the room, and they start cleaning the weapons that the boys used for their last hunt. Hours pass, and John's reassembling the last gun that he cleaned. Isla's sharpening a knife when he looks over at her.

"Be careful with that." The dark-haired man says, and she halts in her movements as her hazel eyes travel to him.

"I'm supposed to move the knife toward me, right?" She asks, feigning naivety. "This way?" The redhead moves the blade up, though not allowing it to touch the stone she's using.

"That's not funny."

"And I'm not stupid, I know what I'm doing." Isla says as she moves the sharp end of the blade down the sharpening stone, toward the floor.

"It's not about intelligence." John argues as the door opens, and his son walks in. "Accidents happen, and it's my job to make sure that you don't hurt yourself."

"If I accidentally cut myself, it's gonna be while I'm sparring. Not while I'm sharpening the damn thing." She shakes her head as she sets the stone down and picks up the sheath from the table beside her before sliding it in. "I'm going to bed. Night, John." She walks over and hands the knife back to him.

"Night, kid. Make sure you—"

"Lock the door and the windows, and lay down the salt. I know." She nods as she starts for the door.

"Goodnight to you too, Little Red." Dean glances over at her when she doesn't say it to him like she usually does, but she remains silent as she shuts the door behind her. "What'd I do?" He asks as he looks over at his dad, and John sighs as he shakes his head.

"I imagine her walking home alone probably has something to do with it." The older man says as he stands up and starts packing up their weapons so that the three of them will be ready to leave tomorrow morning.

"Walking— She was supposed to call a cab."

"There was someone bugging her in the bar, and unfriendly types outside — she didn't want to wait." He explains, and Dean sighs.

"She didn't tell me that anyone was buggin' her." He grabs his red flannel to throw back on as he heads for the door.

Isla's in her room, about to pour salt in front of the door, when a knock startles her. The redhead sighs as she sets the salt down and opens the door a crack, the chain keeping it from opening any further. "What?" She's irritated when she sees who's standing there.

"Can I come in? It's cold out here." Dean asks.

"It's August, and we're in Nevada."

"So, it was a poorly thought out lie. It's late, I'm drunk." He says as he runs his hand down his face, taking a deep breath. He's obviously exhausted.

"Then go to bed."

"Open the door."

Isla clenches her teeth as she shuts the door and removes the chain before opening it again part way. She still doesn't move to let him in. "What?" She repeats.

"Can I come in?" He tries to push the door, but it won't budge any further than where her foot is holding it in place.

"It's late, Dean. What do you want?" She asks as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"I didn't know that anyone at the bar was bothering you. Why didn't you say something?"

"I seem to remember a comment about how drunk guys are creepy." She argues. "But I totally understand if your conversation with me isn't nearly as memorable for you as the one you were having with Barfly Barbie."

"Okay." He takes a step forward as he bends down, wrapping his arms around her waist so that he can lift her up as he walks into the motel room.

"Put me down!" She hits his shoulder as he kicks the door shut behind them, then she shoves him back a step when he sets her back on her feet.

"Why are you so pissed at me?" Dean questions as he looks down at her. "What happened tonight is no different than how things usually go. Why does it suddenly bug you now?"

She scoffs as she shakes her head. "Suddenly. Yes, because the fact that I don't enjoy sitting alone in the back of some sleazy bar is a new development. You are such an ass." She mutters as she turns her back to him.

"Then why do you always ask to come with me?"

"What are my alternatives — sitting alone in my room or spending the night cleaning guns with your dad?" Her eyebrows are furrowed as she turns to face him again. "I mean, no offense to him, 'cause I'm grateful for everything that he's done for me, but I'm twenty-one; that's not exactly how I want to be spending all of my time... And, you know, I wasn't even going to go with you tonight, I've actually gotten pretty tired of always getting abandoned so that you can find a hookup. But you asked me to come, and I thought—" She shakes her head. "You know what, it doesn't matter what I thought. I was wrong, as always."

"You didn't think that..." He trails off, and she raises her eyebrows as she waits for him to continue. "Look, I mean— You're nice and all, you're just— You're not my type." He says, and she scoffs.

"Yeah. Believe me, I know." Isla mutters as she looks down. She knows full-well all the multitude of ways that she's absolutely nothing like the women who interest him. "I didn't think you asked me out tonight, Dean. I thought that you were actually gonna show me the ropes on hustling pool, teach me how to play darts. You know, like you've been promising to do for months. But that's fine. I'm used to being an afterthought. You're just like everyone else I've known my entire life, so... Don't worry about it."

"Wait, hold on. That's not—"

"Look, I really just want to get some sleep. Can you go now?" She cuts him. "Shouldn't be too hard. You do it all the time."

Dean looks down as he turns for the door, feeling guilty for the way that he's treated her. He didn't even realize that she was always alone while he was talking to other women, and he'd completely forgotten that he promised to help her learn how to make money the same way that he and his father do.

The door shuts behind him, and he sighs when he hears the click of the deadbolt. He knows that she's locking up for the night, but part of him can't help but think that she's also locking him out. He really doesn't know much about her, so maybe he should've been taking the time to get to know her better and help her more with adjusting to their lifestyle.

The next morning, John knocks on the door to Isla's room, but he doesn't get a response from the other side. He tries the knob and finds that the door isn't locked, so he makes his way inside only to find that the room's empty. There's a note on the pillow of the perfectly made bed.

Dean's woken up, practically jumping from his bed, when the door to their motel room slams shut. He's on his feet, knife in hand, looking around the room for any signs of danger. All he sees is his father, who seems to be fuming. John discards the paper onto his bed — the one closest to the door — and then he starts pacing the room.

Confused, Dean lowers his knife and watches his dad for a moment, then he drops the weapon onto his bed. The younger of the men walks over and picks up the paper that John walked into the room with; he recognizes the writing, but can't immediately place it.

Growing up the way that I did, I learned to recognize the signs. And I am tired of being somewhere I'm not entirely wanted, so I'm leaving before my presence becomes more trouble than it's worth.
Thank you for everything that you've done for me. I'll never be able to repay you for saving my life and teaching me to protect myself.

— Isla

Dean jumps when he hears a loud crash behind him, but he doesn't turn to see what damage his father's done. He can't tear his tired eyes away from the paper in his hand. He can't believe that she actually left them...and it's all his fault.