Wayward Son

Chapter 2

"Did you see his face?" Ruthie asked, still panting, as they walked through the library.

"We're gonna pay for that," Sam said.

"Worth it." She swept her ponytail to the front and cupped a hand under it to minimize the dripping onto the floor. "I'm gonna go shower."

"I think I'll go help him finish up. Maybe that'll mellow his revenge."

Sam went back into the garage, and Ruthie took the stairs to the second floor. She stopped at her room to grab a change of clothes. She didn't mind the windowless space as much as she'd feared when they'd first brought her to the bunker. The room was small, with bare concrete walls, same as the boys' bedrooms. She'd added just a couple touches from home: the multicolored quilt, and a framed photo of her with her dad.

When she'd first arrived, Dean had told her she could do whatever she wanted with her room, but he'd better not find any "girly stuff" anywhere else in the bunker. She didn't know what "girly stuff" meant, but he'd come home from his next hunt to find the library filled with doilies, bowls of potpourri, and lace curtains over imaginary windows. Just like today, the look on his face was worth the trouble she'd gone to.

They'd settled into a comfortable routine since Reeds Spring. Sam was usually up first, making breakfast for them all after his morning jog. They'd sip coffee in the kitchen, skimming the news for any possible cases or signs of their bearded werewolf. They weren't surprised that he seemed to be flying well under the radar. Dean spent hours in the garage tuning up the Impala, probably whispering sweet nothings to her when Sam and Ruthie weren't around. Ruthie studied more of the big, leather bound books in the library, always eager to learn more lore. She'd ask the brothers if they'd ever encountered whichever supernatural being she was learning about. More often than not, the answer was yes.

But some things had been different since that day in the hospital with Dean. She'd forgiven him, and to her surprise, he seemed to accept it. None of them had spoken of that night since. She'd quietly changed his ring and text tones back to normal so the Chris-TEE-na song wouldn't serve as a reminder. And yet, Dean had been different toward her. Nothing drastic, nothing she could really even put her finger on, but she felt it. A distance. Not a wall exactly, but a fence he'd built between them. He never let his guard down around her. She wondered if this was his self-imposed punishment for nearly taking her life—as if getting his face beaten in and almost dying from an infection weren't enough. Dean wasn't one to half-ass anything, especially guilt.

But she suspected this change might also have something to do with a different incident in that same motel room, after he and Sam saved her from the witch's curse. He'd shown a rare moment of vulnerability, letting her see how nearly losing her had shaken him. He broke right through the brittle shell she'd been hiding in. When he held her there on the couch, she felt so safe, so content. Kissing him seemed like such a natural next step. She'd wanted to kiss him since the first day they met, but this was the first time it felt right—inevitable, even. She had seen his eyes, up close. She thought he'd felt the same.

But of course, Sam had arrived with disastrous timing, and the kiss never happened. He'd never tried again, either. Maybe she'd misread him. Maybe he just didn't know how to handle her crying, and wanted her to stop. Or maybe after that awful night, he thought she'd want him to keep his distance.

She'd started the water fight hoping to get him to relax, to be himself around her again. Not as a means to an end; she wasn't going to try to make anything happen between them. Staying here was too important to her to mess it up by making things weird with Dean. If he wanted to keep things platonic, then she'd keep things platonic. Whether she wanted more than that was irrelevant.

Ruthie pulled a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt from her chest of drawers, then headed for the bathroom. Sharing the bunker-style community bathroom with two men had been an interesting transition from the total privacy of her cabin. At least the row of shower stalls had curtains. She pulled a white towel from the shelves at the end of the row and took the third stall. They'd each picked one, and kept their shower stuff in it. Sam had put up a hook just outside hers, so she wouldn't have to leave her towel on the floor.

She stepped inside and undressed, piling her wet clothes on the floor outside the curtain. She tossed her ponytail holder on top and adjusted the water temperature. The hot spray felt good after her dunk in the lukewarm bucket. She smiled to herself, remembering their battle.

Quiet footsteps caught her ear. They came closer, along with a gentle rustling sound.

This must be Dean, coming to exact revenge already. What was he planning? She knew he wouldn't pull back the curtain; he'd never do that. He'd probably filled the bucket with ice water and was getting ready to dump it on her from over the curtain rod.

Ruthie stepped to the far side of the stall, reached up to the shower head with one hand, and pinched the edge of the curtain with the other. She'd wait until he was right outside, then cover herself with the curtain and point the shower nozzle at his face. She held her breath, watching a vague, tall shadow grow larger on the thin vinyl. It loomed closer and closer. The shower scene from Psycho barged into her head; her heart raced. She waited until he was just outside. All at once, she yanked the curtain in around her and shoved the shower head up. Her aim was perfect; hot water sprayed straight into his face—

The face of a man she'd never seen before.