Three months later, Rachel was doing well. She'd just gotten off trainee status, had transcribed nearly two dozen books, and was starting to get over the deaths that had sent her running from Virginia. She was even looking at some of the colleges in her area, knowing she'd need at least an associate's and probably a master's if she wanted to do anything other than push pencils the rest of her life. She knew she had an advantage over the other applicants by virtue of the college she'd withdrawn from - it had a fantastic reputation which, coupled with an SAT score of 1450, almost guaranteed her admission. Now that she had settled in and was keeping busy, she was averaging around 900 calories a day and two hours of sleep a night.

So when the phone's ring broke the silence in the middle of the night, Rachel was awake to hear it. She slipped out of bed and got dressed, knowing that Bobby would pick it up and that it was most likely bad news, which meant he would drink himself into oblivion, which meant she had to be awake to turn him on his side on the off chance he would pass out. Even if he didn't drink himself into oblivion, it would be bad news, and she would rather be awake and dressed when he came to pass it on.

Bobby pounded on the door and she yanked it open. He looked frantic. "Dean called. Sam's missing."

"What? How?" Rachel leaned against the doorjamb as her vision went dark. Not now, damn it.

"Apparently, Sam went into a diner and never came out. I'm gonna meet up with him down there. You coming?"

Rachel was torn. She really wanted to find Sam, but at the same time….

"You know I can't," she said. "I'd just get in your way. Let me know when you find him, all right?"

Bobby nodded and was gone. She heard the door slam a few minutes later, then the rumble of a truck's engine.

She slid to the ground and covered her face with her hands. Sam. Missing.

What the hell?

How could he be missing? Did something get the drop on him somehow? Was he even still alive? If he wasn't, could she deal with that? He had, after all, been the person to tell her how the world actually worked. He was one of three people she respected.

She felt tears swarm down her cheeks, but she didn't care. It actually felt kind of good to cry without worrying about whether someone would hear her.

When she went in to work that day, she was more tense than usual. She almost yelled at a stupid man who apparently didn't realize that giving directions wasn't part of a dispatcher's job.

When she got back to Bobby's, she pulled out one of the books she'd been working on and kept typing. Anything to stay busy. She kept her phone on beside the computer, ringer on so she'd be sure to hear it when Bobby called.

She didn't bother making dinner, and she didn't bother going to bed. She checked her phone repeatedly, despite knowing the ringer was on. She finished the book she had been working on and started a primer on ghosts.

Her phone didn't ring until midmorning the next day. She answered before the first ring was through. "Did you find him?"

She heard a stuttering breath on the other end of the line, and her heart squeezed painfully. No, you don't get to quit on me nowshe told herself sternly, just as she had so many times.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, we found 'im, but he's...he's in a bad way."

"How bad is bad?" she asked sharply, knowing that her face would be pinched if she could see it.

"He got stabbed," Bobby said. "In the back. He didn't make it."

Didn't make it.The words repeated in her head, but she couldn't make herself believe them.

Sam Winchester was dead.

She forced herself to pull it together. "Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah," he said gruffly.

"Is Dean?"

There was a long pause. Well, that answers that question.]

"How stupid is he thinking?" Rachel asked at last.

"Well, he threw me outta the room, so pretty damn stupid, is my guess. I'm heading back now."

Rachel leaned her head on her fist. "Anything you need me to do before you get here? Cook, research, call Dean?"

"No. But thanks."

"No problem." The line went dead, and Rachel stared at the phone for a moment, knuckles whitening.

Damn it all to hell. Sam was dead. One of her only surviving friends, the guy who had introduced her to everything, the man that had pulled her out of the fire - dead.

And Dean, she was sure, was almost as bad. She'd heard them described as 'codependent' before, and she didn't need to get past Psych 101 to know the term described them perfectly. Dean wouldn't survive without his little brother to look after. She wondered absently if there were antidepressants in one of the dozens of medical kits stashed around the house; Bobby had much stranger things lying around, after all. Of course, that probably meant he hadn't bothered to stock up on SSRIs like he'd stocked opiates, narcotics and NSAIDs. Hunters took out their rage in a semi-healthy way, and were much more prone to getting hurt than to becoming depressed.

She toyed with her phone, wondering if she should call him, but her anxiety won out. He wouldn't want to hear from her, she was sure, when he'd just lost the most important person to him. It didn't matter she could relate to him better than she was sure most people could, since she'd lost her twin sister and older brother barely three months earlier.

No, she decided, she would leave Dean Winchester alone for now, and when he came back to Bobby's, she would give him his space and let him come to her if he needed to talk.

She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Keep it together. You can't afford to fall apart again.

She only remembered bits and pieces of what had happened the last time she'd let emotion dictate her actions. She still bore scars she couldn't remember getting. She didn't know if she'd been attacked, if she'd instigated a fight, if she'd been drugged, if - the worst possibility of all - she'd done it to herself...all she knew was that she woke up in a hospital from blood loss and had blank spots in her memory. She couldn't let it happen again.

Stay busy. She stood and opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink. She'd clean.

She always had to stay busy, had to do something with her hands. Anytime bad news came knocking, she could either get busy or crack down the middle. She'd cracked three months ago, and she knew if she cracked this time there wouldn't be enough of her left to mend.

So she cleaned. She'd always cleaned when the tingle raced up the inside of her spine, demanding she do something, because she had to move or she'd start having what she thought of as localized seizures, usually her upper body twisting around with no real warning or her arm bending and straightening repeatedly until she held it down with her other hand. She cleaned when she was getting sick, because getting sick made her feel like being domestic for some reason she never had figured out. She cleaned when she saw dust piling up. She cleaned when her anxiety picked her up and she cleaned when her depression bottomed her out. Cleaning and cooking were just what she did.

Hours later, her knuckles were red, raw, and bleeding a little from the movement and moisture, but she really didn't care. She also didn't care that her back was killing her, because really, what was a little more pain on top of all the rest? She dumped the bucket of washwater out in the sink when she heard the door open and a familiar voice call out her name.

"In the kitchen," she called back. "Careful, floor's wet."

She heard the stomp of Bobby's boots and went back to rinsing out the bucket she'd been using. She heard him pause at the door and turned around. Bobby surveyed the place and saw the clean counters, dusted shelves, vacuumed carpet, and mopped floor.

"Well," he said at last, "as far as coping mechanisms go, it could be a lot worse."

Rachel flashed a quick smile. "I would've baked a couple months ago," she said, knowing he would understand what she meant: when she was living with her parents or in her dorm and knowing she was only accountable to herself. "Cleaning's close enough. It's domestic."

"Huh," Bobby said.

They didn't speak the rest of the day. Rachel stayed up again, typing the book on ghosts into her laptop, trying to keep busy so she could numb herself. Bobby went to bed early, and she was almost positive he'd doubled up on the sleeping pills he kept in the bathroom because there was no way he'd be able to rest without them.

She fell into a restless sleep around three and woke up at four, feeling even more tired from her short nap. She considered taking some of the same meds Bobby had, but ultimately decided she didn't know how that would interact with her pain meds - which, judging by the way her lower back was feeling, would be needed to get through her shift the next day. She went back to her book.

She and Bobby spent the morning quietly, and Rachel was almost glad to get out of the house for work. The silence was starting to get to her.

By the end of her shift, her nerves were stretched thin from the overwhelming stupidity of the 911 callers. There had been the usual assortment of stabbings, car accidents, and heart attacks, which she didn't mind, but having to send out ambulances for stubbed toes really made her angry. She didn't understand the people who called the emergency line for reasons that stupid.

When she was safely in the car she'd been loaned, she checked her phone. 1 missed call, it blinked at her. She hit the 'missed alerts' button and saw she'd missed Bobby. Frowning, she called him back.

"What?" he snapped.

"Touchy," she said. "I missed a call from you. What's up?"

She heard him sigh. "We got a problem. I think Dean decided to make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" she asked, heart pounding.

"What kinda deal do you think? A demon deal. Him for Sam."

"Is he okay?" The words were out before she could think them through.

"Stupid and stubborn, but other than that, yeah. He's fine. So's Sam. They're both here. Just wanted to give you a warning."

"Well, thanks," she said. "See you soon."

"Yeah," he confirmed, and hung up. She leaned forward to start her car, shaking her head in disbelief.

She knew how much it hurt to lose someone you were close to. She'd lost her twin sister, hadn't she? She knew all too well how Dean had justified it, rationalized it, and talked himself into thinking it was no big deal. If she'd known about demon deals three months ago, she would have made one in a heartbeat.

At the same time, she knew Sam was going to do the same thing for Dean when his contract came due. They were going to get sucked into an endlessly repeating cycle of demon deals - if, of course, the demons didn't get tired of dealing with them and just killed them instead.

She was so busy thinking she didn't remember the drive back to Singer Salvage or walking in the door. Sam was sitting in the living room, poring over an old book, and she stopped in the doorway. "How you doing?" she asked him.

He looked up and smiled. "Fine. You?"

Rachel looked at his face. He doesn't know what Dean did, she realized, so she just nodded and moved on.

There was a woman in the dining room, and she was pulling out a map. She stopped, suddenly unsure, feeling her old anxiety blindside her. She forced herself to keep moving. Something to drink, she reminded herself, and then some more painkillers. She hadn't taken them in quite a while, but sitting in a dining-room chair all night and a desk chair all day had done nothing for her back. She poured herself some coffee and turned around, only to come face to face with the woman. She jumped, sloshing coffee all over herself.

Her face flamed. "Sorry," she mumbled, putting the coffee down and hastily grabbing a towel.

"It's all right, honey. I'm Ellen."

"Rachel." She knelt down to mop up what she'd spilled. "Nice to meet you." She glanced up from the floor to take in Ellen's appearance. Mid to late thirties, Rachel thought, with reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes.

"You, too." Ellen pulled down a coffee mug of her own. "Whiskey's great, but I need some caffeine, too. Mind?" Rachel shook her head and got out of the older woman's way. "You seem nervous," she remarked. "Anything in particular on your mind?"

Rachel shook her head again, voice frozen. She couldn't feel her face anymore.

"I don't believe it," they heard Bobby say in the living room. Ellen went out to see what was happening, her coffee only half-poured. Rachel let out a quiet sigh of relief and finished making her own drink before she went out.

"I know who could," Sam was saying. "Jake. That's why we'd been dragged to Cold Oak. The yellow-eyed demon wanted the best to break the lines."

Dean nodded slowly. "Makes sense."

"We gotta get there. Now," Bobby said. The three others nodded and went for the door. "Rachel, I'm sorry, but -"

"I understand," she cut him off. "Call when you're done and I'll have something hot waiting for you."

"Thanks." Bobby followed the others out.

Rachel sighed. She didn't know what was happening, but she knew it had something to do with Cold Oak, a demon with yellow eyes, someone named Jake, and the map on the table.

Four hours later, she'd pieced together enough of it to create a picture. Sam had been taken to Cold Oak, the most haunted town in America, with at least one other person. That person, whom she assumed to be Jake, had been chosen to break the iron rail lines Colt had laid down between the churches he'd built. There was a cemetery in the very center that was somehow important, and they'd gone to fix it.

Meanwhile, she was stuck sitting at Bobby's and doing nothing to help. They could die and she could do nothing. She hated that she was helpless.

She went back to the dining room and opened her computer. It was no good dwelling; she needed to keep herself busy. She pulled the book she was working on closer and started to type.

Her phone rang at two. She snatched it up. "Hello?"

"Rachel." It was a girl, which meant Ellen. "We're done."

"Is everyone all right?"

"Sam found out about Dean's deal, but yeah. We're all good. We're about three hours out."

"I'll see you when you get here. Are you going to want food first or sleep?"

She could tell Ellen was smiling when she answered. "Food, probably. We've been up all night, so screw the breakfast crap."

"Gotcha. No breakfast crap." She was smiling too, relieved it had gone well. "I'll find something. I take it you're not a vegetarian?"

"No," Ellen said, sounding horrified. "What kinda pansy do you think I am?"

"My sister was a vegetarian," she explained. "I just like to make sure."

"Oh. Well, no vegetarians here."

"Gotcha. I'll have something ready," she promised.

"Can't wait. See you."

"Bye." She hung up the phone and went into the kitchen to find something for them.

Making some fast calculations, she realized she had time to do lasagna right. She made the meat sauce first from the tomato cans Bobby had in the cupboard and the hot sausage in the freezer, which thawed quickly enough once she got it into a frying pan to brown. While the sauce was simmering, she made the noodles and the cheese mixture. She had it in the oven an hour before they were due back, so she sat back down at the table and popped some more painkillers. It felt good to let her mind disconnect and just not take anything in.

It felt good until someone was shaking her. "Rachel? Rachel!"

She popped back into herself and grabbed the hands on her shoulders. Her eyes focused sluggishly on the face in front of her. It was Dean, looking vaguely scared.

"Oh, hey," she said. "Didn't see y'all come in. Gimme a sec, I'll get the lasagna out." She tried to stand, only to be pushed back down.

"I'll get it, honey," Ellen said. "You just sit tight for a minute."

Glancing around, Rachel saw that Sam and Bobby had the same worried look on their faces. She scowled up at them. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" Sam asked.

"Like I'm about to break," Rachel said bluntly. "I just zoned out for a few minutes. No big deal."

"It is a big deal," Bobby rumbled. "You didn't see us come in, didn't hear us calling you, didn't feel Dean touching you until he started shaking - it was like you weren't even here."

Rachel sighed. "Look, I've always had problems sleeping. Checking out like that is my version of REM. I'm sorry I didn't hear you come in, but it really isn't anything to worry about."

"If you say so," Sam said reluctantly.

"I do. Now let me up so I can feed you."

Dean barked out a laugh and dropped his hands. "Sassy! I like this one."

"So you've said," Rachel grumbled. She stood up slowly, letting her back crack its way to straightness. "Good to see you all are okay. Who's hungry?"

They followed her into the kitchen, where Ellen was shutting the oven door. "It looks like it came out well," Ellen told her. "Where'd you learn it, anyway?"

"My dad," Rachel mumbled, fighting down her blush. She hated how anxious she got around people she had yet to embarrass herself in front of. "He was a bit of a cooking snob."

"Looks like he passed the good recipes on to you," Ellen teased.

"I didn't think I had spaghetti sauce in my cupboard," Bobby said.

Rachel shrugged. "You didn't. But you had the tomatoes to make it." The look on Bobby's face was enough to send Sam, Dean, and Ellen into a fit of laughter. Rachel pulled out the plates, knowing the laughter was mostly due to the relief they'd all survived to fight another day.

Dinner that night was eaten as the first rays of sun poked through the piles of twisted scrap metal, illuminating the wooden table that looked like it had seen as many battles as its owner. The conversation flowed around the table, everyone in a good mood, and Rachel just leaned back and let herself soak in the feeling of happiness that permeated the room. Good food, good conversation, and good people. Three things that hadn't come together for her since she was in elementary school. She didn't contribute to the conversation much, if at all, but that was all right. She was there and she wasn't being told to leave, and that was enough.

For the first time in a long while, Rachel was happy.