Katherine Louise glared up at the ceiling of her apartment building. A hole had somehow been punched into the acoustical tile, exposing the wiring and pipes and tubes. The girl shook her head and continued up the eighth flight of stairs, leading to her fourth-floor apartment, grumbling about how she doesn't pay so much in rent to live somewhere with holes in places there shouldn't be.

She juggled her keys and her laundry basket for a moment before shoving the gold key into the front door of 408 and twisted to the right, humming Bob Seger's Beautiful Loser. She left the record playing in the apartment, and she can hear the track playing through the thin walls.

Somehow, every front door in the apartment building violated the golden rule of "righty tighty, lefty loosey," which was a big deal to the girl when she moved in at the tender age of sixteen. How could a door not follow the rules of the only thing in her life that hadn't changed?

She felt personally attacked.

The door had always been a heavy thing and creaked—a short and alarming squawk—as it opened and closed. The weight of it slammed into the doorframe time after time. It reminded her of the dozens of dodgy motel rooms she stayed in for years, all with the same creaky door and questionable stains.

The second the shut the door, there was a light noise down the hall, a small clatter, like a glass on her desk. Not broken—set down.

Katherine paused for a brief moment before continuing into her apartment with caution in her step. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and that quiet ringing seemed to intensify, searching for anything that would disrupt it. Another clatter, a floorboard creak, a voice. Katherine glanced to the windowsill above the sink—still lined with salt. And the door to her apartment travelled right over the line, so there was no disruption there.

She ventured down the hallway and set her laundry bag on the ground before flicking her bedroom light on.

She didn't scream. Her eyes had just landed on the figure by her door. He opened his mouth to speak—that was his intention, to speak to her—but then the girl swung.

In retrospect, waiting in her room wasn't his finest decision.

He grunted and averted her fist to the side, wrapped his long fingers around her wrist before twisting it behind her back, and pinned her to the wall. The gun was slipped from his waistband and hammer pulled back before she felt the muzzle press into the small of her back—all in under three seconds.

Katherine stared at the wall with a squished cheek obstructing her vision, breathing a bit labored after the brief tussle. "Look, dude," she huffed, blonde strands of hair moving with her breath. She wiggled her fingers, moving the tendons of her wrist underneath the man's ironclad grip. "If you're trying to rob someone, don't try college kids. They're broker than the next homeless person."

The man's eyes twitched a bit before he released the girl. She slowly moved her arm to her chest, flexing her hand, and quickly swiped the gun from him before turning it around to face the man. Then he got a good look at her face.

Long blonde hair, feathered blunt fringe that hangs just below her brow. He can still see the two long, full dark eyebrows underneath her fringe.

Dark blonde, sandy brown, fades a shade lighter near the temples, then morphs into a wheat blonde, something a little lighter near the ends. 

Her face is beautiful; heart-shaped and surprisingly still holding the last of a summer olive glow. Her cheekbones are high, and her jawline is remarkably angular without being too sharp, and leads into a long, slender neck. Eyes are large and baby blue, but still somehow laced with danger and calculation—just like when she was younger. The leopard spots still litter her nose and the area immediate to her nostrils.

This girl is the hunter he's looking for.

And she's managed to disarm Dean Winchester.

He blames the inhumanly good looks. But regardless, he never gets distracted.

Maybe she really is that good.

Katherine's eyes narrowed a bit as she appraised the handsome man. And then the stranger spoke.

"My name's Dean."

The girl raised a brow. "Is that supposed to make me reconsider calling the police?"

Dean chuckled. "All right, kid—" Katherine lowered the gun from his chest to between his legs, and he swallowed, his smile disappearing.

"Call me 'kid' again," she dares.

Dean's full lips moved, forming a soundless word, or perhaps an attempt at one. He's puzzled. "You, uh...you are Clay Donovan's girl, right?" Katherine's eyes narrowed once more. "I'm Dean Winchester. Remember? We met when you were little."

She switched the gun to safety and shoved it onto his chest with a huff, padding up the hallway, muttering indiscernibly under her breath. Dean tucked the gun away and followed her into the kitchen, where the she pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and rooted around for a few glasses.

"Why pull a gun on me if you are the one breaking into my apartment?" She stopped and turned on him suddenly with suspicious, narrowed eyes. "How did you find me? And why?"

"Uh...you want the truth?"

Katherine rolled her eyes and wrestled out the cork with a dull 'pop.' "No," she drawled. "Lie to me." She looked over at him from underneath her long lashes and feathery fringe. All he had to do was glance at her eyes, and he forgot she asked a question. "Well?" Katherine slid him a chilled glass by the foot.

Dean looked from the white wine and to the teenager. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking?"

"My life was threatened," the girl dryly said, picking up a glass of her own. "I believe I earned this." He smiled. She sipped at her wine and padded past him. "You're lucky my roommate wasn't home," she grumbled into the glass.

Dean's brow raised in interest. "Roommate?" She turned sharply, armed with a glower. "All right, all right," he acquiesced, picking his glass up. Strange hospitality she had, Dean thought as he stared at the wine. Maybe he'd have to start pointing guns more often to get alcohol. Katherine sank down onto the sofa and waited for him to join her. As he walked over to the sofa, his eyes remained on the lines of salt around the place. "You got a ghost on your tail?"

"I like to be proactive in my precautions. I've pissed a lot of things off." Slowly, Dean nods.

"My Dad's missing," Dean told her. "And he said that we could trust Donovans." He sighed and drained his glass in one go.

Katherine smiled. "You're asking for help." Dean turned his lily green eyes to glare at her, and Katherine's grin widened. He was pleasantly surprised to find dimples at the sides of her crooked smile, a feature perhaps hidden underneath the baby fat of her childhood. "I'm not doing anything until you say it. I'm a Taurus, and we don't budge much, so get groveling. "

"Fine, I need your help."

Katherine let out a short musical giggle, amplified by her glass. "Man, you fold like a cheap suit." She downed the rest of her glass and made a little face. Dean noticed a small, glittering diamond on her right ring finger. Then her grin returned, and she tilted her empty glass towards Dean. "Only 'cause I'm an altruist."

"Whatever."

"And because I have nothing better to do."

Dean frowned. "It's a Wednesday night."

Katherine nodded in a bit of a "duh" fashion. "What of it?"

"Don't you have classes tomorrow? Being in college and all."

Katherine smiled, taking his glass from him, and moved into the kitchen. "I just graduated."

Dean blinked. "You what?"

"Graduated. You know...the receiving or conferring of an academic degree or diploma." She smirked.

"You're nineteen."

"I'm a genius," she stated, scrubbing the two wine glasses. Not boasting, just matter-of-fact. "So you want a teenage girl's help finding your old man," Katherine mused.

"Your family is something of a legend."

"So I'm reminded...every time I cross paths with a hunter," she sighed, almost in exasperation, as she tucked a glass into the refrigerator.

"Said you're reliable...Katherine, you help me on this, you'll get my help in return—and my protection. If you know anything about my family, you know that ain't nothin'."

She was intrigued. Katherine hadn't seen a Winchester in years, but she'd heard whispers...like famed creature, the hunters talked about them. A lot. The last she laid eyes on one member of the family, it was in Bobby Singer's living room when she was nine years old and had two Dutch braids. Dean often tugged on them to get a fiery ruse from the little girl. She hit harder than Sam did, that's for sure.

Girls hit harder when they're smaller, and that's just fact.

"Give me thirty minutes to pack and clean this salt up, and we can go."

Those thirty minutes passed quickly, and true to her word, Katherine was packed and ready to go. Now, they sit on the hoods of their cars with glares that could freeze Hell over.

"We don't have time for this."

"I'm not leaving without my car," Katherine firmly says, shaking her head and closing her eyes in a childlike manner.

"It's inefficient to drive two cars to the same place."

"Stranger danger," Katherine retorts with a raised brow. "I don't know you. What if you get grabby when I decide to take a siesta?"

Dean snorts. "I'm not grabby without consent."

After a moment, Katherine pops her gum and pushes herself from her car, grabbing her two duffle bags and slinging them over one shoulder. Then she reaches into her car and pulls a baseball bat from the front seat. Dean carefully watches that bat. She raises her eyebrows as she moves to the trunk of the glossy black Impala. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna trash your Precious. Jeez. By the way you've been looking at that thing, I'm feelin' a little dirty just for being in the vicinity."

Dean lets out a heavy sigh. "Do you really need the bat?"

"Yes."

"You are such a pain in my ass."

"You're the one who stalked me. Open up." She pats the trunk of the car and Dean moves over to her, unlocking it. She hadn't bothered to move much, so the two were in close proximity—close enough that Dean could peer down the scooped neck of the tank top she wears. Katherine noticed, and her eyes narrow ever so slightly. "Pervert," she says, tossing her bags into the trunk, and moves to the front. Dean sighs, shutting the trunk, and moves to the driver's seat. 

He really was staring at her necklaces. Two gold coins, one stamped with two kinds of flowers, and the other a St. Christopher's medallion.

"You're quite confident in your abilities," Katherine says. 

"What?" Dean asks, twisting the key in the ignition.

Katherine pauses, smiling a bit as the engine roars. "The whole obtaining consent if you wanted it," she says, gazing around the car. It's rather clean, surprisingly. The backseat is long, so she could rest there if she wanted to. "You've never been turned down?" She turns to look at Dean.

Dean smirks. "Never. Put your seatbelt on."

Katherine rolls her eyes, but complies. "You put your seatbelt on," she grumbles.

A few minutes of silence pass. "You know what gets me?" Dean asks.

"Gets you..." Katherine raises a brow, staring out into the passing darkness of New Haven. "Angry, sad, happy...turned on?"

"You so easily followed a stranger. Didn't your mom ever tell you not to get into a stranger's car?"

Katherine rolls her eyes. "Well, that stranger wouldn't let me take my own car, and I could very easily beat that stranger's ass if I needed to." She crosses her arms. "You have your abilities, I have mine."

Dean glances to the small band around her finger as it catches the light. It's a thin gold band, and a singular petite rectangular diamond sits in the center. Dean's eyes narrow in speculation and he turns his gaze forward. "You say anything to your fiancé?" He asks. "Wouldn't want to be charged with kidnapping."

Katherine scoffs, almost sourly. "Fiancé," she mutters. "Right." It didn't occur to her to ask how he knew about a fiancé.

Oops.

"Sorry," he says.

Katherine shakes her head. "Don't be. Anyway, to answer your underlying question, it's in our blood, isn't it? Being on the road?" Dean glances to her, but she's gazing out of the window. "No roots. Kinda badass."

Dean snorts. "Sure thing, kid—" He stutters upon feeling the icy glare of the young woman beside him. She smiles a bit and faces forward, sinking further into the leather seat.

"So where are we going?" She asks. "Do you have any leads? What was he doing—" she stops talking as he turns his chin towards her with a set jaw. Katherine's brow slowly lifts. "Don't look at me like that," she defends. Then she sits up and turns towards him. "If I broke into your apartment and said, 'my daddy's gone,' I think you'd have a few questions too."

Dean glances to her once more before looking back to the dark road. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment while he thinks of what details he can get away with omitting. "My dad and I split up a few weeks ago—there was an urgent thing in New Orleans, so I went to work on it."

"What was happening there?" She asks. "It's not Mardi Gras, and they just got slammed by Katrina. You helping out with relief?"

"Voodoo." Katherine nods. "Dad went to the west coast—I'll tell you more when we get Sam. No sense in repeating myself."

Katherine's brows shoot up. "Your brother Sam?" Dean nods, and she smiles that crooked grin once more, leaning back in her seat. "I miss that guy," she hums. "He was so sweet."

Dean smirks. "I'm guessing you have no kind words for me, do you?"

"Sam wasn't the one who broke into my apartment." She looks to Dean. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Stanford," Dean answers. "He needed some 'Sam' time."

Katherine nods for a moment. Then she glances over her shoulder, analyzing for a long moment, before crawling over the bench seat. Dean's eyes blow wide, and for a moment, he's so puzzled, Dean Winchester is actually speechless. "Hey, hEY, HEY! What are you doing, you animal?!"

"I'm getting some sleep," Katherine scoffs, resting her head on her arm as she lies down in the back. "Chill out." He huffs, glaring at her in the rearview mirror. He can only see the crest of her hip, the slight patch of exposed skin between denim and red tank top.

A few hours pass and it's just past midnight—Dean can't keep his eyes open any longer. He pulls into a motel and reaches into the backseat, slapping at Katherine's sneakers. She stirs and lifts her head with a frown.

"Where are we?" She groggily croaks.

"Columbus."

Katherine sits up and yawns, shaking her head. "Why have we stopped?"

"I can't keep my eyes open, so we're turning in for a few hours."

Katherine frowns. "I can drive."

Dean shakes his head. "Absolutely not."

"What? Why? I got a perfect score on my driving test." He purses his lips outward, shaking his head still. "Dean, my motor reflexes are phenomenal—super fast reflexes!" He's not biting. Katherine scoots forward to the bench seat and leans close to him, arms crossed over the top. "I can stitch a double-layered six-inch wound in twenty-three minutes. That's wicked time, in case you were wondering. And guess what? My needlework is so superb, the patient came back with minimal scarring. Seriously, the thinnest line. If I can thread a meatsuit pretty, I can operate heavy machinery."

"Come on," Dean sighs, climbing out of the Impala. Katherine groans and follows after him.

"We're wasting time." As she shuts the back door, she gazes at the rain-spotted glossy black paint longingly. Dean smiles and moves for the front desk.

Katherine sighs jogs in the rain to the motel front desk. She's pleasantly surprised to find Dean holding the door open for her. She smiles a bit and lowers her hood as she enters the warm room.

A man in his mid-thirties stands behind the desk.

"Hi," Dean greets. "Room for two, please." Katherine's eyes widen ever so slightly, and she turns to look pointedly at Dean. She shifts on her heels to face him, toes pointed towards him now, hands stuffed into her pockets.

"Just one?" Katherine softly asks. Dean nods once. She runs her tongue along the curve of her upper lip and tugs him off to the side. "I can pay for my own room, y'know," she mumbles. "I mean, all joking aside, I seriously don't know anything about you." The girl crosses her arms, almost pouting. "You could be a serial killer now or something." Her cheeks burn pink, almost like she's embarrassed, but her comments were intended to diffuse, Dean thinks. Because she seems the type to be comedic in situations that are less than her ideal, in times of discomfort.

He finds himself—shockingly—taken aback by her innocence; it hits him in the face, really. Underneath that bravado and snark, she's still somewhat shy. She hasn't blushed at all, up to this point, nor has she been so quiet. So maybe that's why he didn't poke fun at her.

"One room has two beds," Dean assures her. "One room is safer. If I wanted to be a perv, I would've already perved." He raises a brow at Katherine and she nods once, almost approving. It doesn't take her blush away. Dean sighs, shaking his head, and strides back to the front desk, holding out a credit card for the desk worker to swipe.

Within ten minutes, Katherine is showering in the motel room and struggling to ignore the place's questionable sanitation—and the fact that she's never been in such close quarters with a stranger.

Dean is up next; Katherine fluffs her pillow and grabs her blankets from one of her two duffle bags. She only has time to do this and twist her hair into a single Dutch braid before he emerges from the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He insisted on taking the bed closest to the door. Part of Katherine was a bit touched at his safety concern. The other part of her recognized it's not so unfamiliar. Her father did the same thing when they hunted together.

Katherine closes her eyes with a soft sigh and tries to sleep. She hears the telltale click of the mounted lamp, the light disappears from her eyelids, and her eyes fly open. She sits up and turns the lamp on again. Dean frowns, turning to face her. "What?" She asks again.

"I thought you were asleep."

Katherine snorts. "I'm a sleep-deprived young adult, not a narcoleptic." Dean turns away from her and hesitantly pulls the comforter to the side. Katherine guesses his hesitance to climb into the bed is because her suspicious-matress-statement is taking root. She grins and rests on her pillow, closing her eyes once more.

Dean turns around to stare at the lamp, then her. "Aren't you gonna turn that off?"

She answers with her eyes closed. "Nope."

"Why?"

"If it's bothering you, just face the door." Dean lets out a dramatic, drawn-out sigh.

"You're a hunter and afraid of the dark?" He almost regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. Lots of hunters have fears like that. What's a bigger kick to the gut is how Katherine responds.

Her voice is soft, like a child's. Appeasing. And not at all upset. "Not of the dark. What's in it." She opens one eye to gaze at him. He stares at the ceiling. Katherine closes both eyes again. "And knowing what's out there..." She doesn't finish that thought.

What seems like minutes later, Dean's hand is gently shaking Katherine's ankle through her blanket. That's how he would wake his dad when he was younger. That's how you wake members of the military—their first instinct is to defend themselves if you're at their face.

Katherine turns over and stares at Dean as he brushes his teeth. She runs her eyes. "Wake up," Dean says. Katherine glances to the clock on the nightstand and turns onto her side, closing her eyes once more. "Dude."

"We've been here for three hours," Katherine croaks.

"We need to get going."

Katherine rolls onto her back, frowning. "Okay, but can't that wait another few hours? You can't be rested."

"I'm fine. You can sleep in the car."

Katherine sighs and pulls herself into a sitting position, throwing daggers into his back. While Dean finishes up in the bathroom, she collects her clothes for the day—a black henley and jeans and her tan utility jacket. She collects her necklaces from the bedside table and turns towards the bathroom.

Dean is still shaving.

She sighs and moves to the other side of the room before quickly dressing herself. She pulled her shirt on just as Dean emerged. He seems quite surprised.

"You're already dressed?"

Katherine says nothing, only grabbing her necklaces and toothbrush, and marches into the bathroom with her worn leather boots on.

She reemerges two minutes later as Dean is collecting the bags to bring back to the car.

Katherine shifts on her feet, slightly uncomfortable. "I can carry my own bags," she murmurs, pulling her jacket on.

"I'm sure you can."

Katherine smirks. "You're trying to impress me."

"Impress a little girl? Why would I?"

"Very funny," she sourly mutters, scanning the room behind her, and shuts the door. "Can we get breakfast before we hit the road? I'm starving."

Dean smiles and shuts the Impala's trunk. "What did you have in mind?"

Maybe a road trip with a teenager wouldn't be so horrible after all.