SUMMARY: The Winchesters never leave a job unfinished. Tag to "Houses of the Holy", from the perspective of a girl Dean saved. Her thoughts when she sees his face on the 11 o'clock news--her thoughts when he shows up on her doorstep. NO romance, just a look at how Dean and Sam appear to the outside world.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously I don't own them. Or I wouldn't be here.


Hannah didn't really feel safe until the she shut the door behind her and stood with the cool wood against her back, expelling the horror of the day in one long breath. She couldn't stay still for long, her body was still tensed up and terrified, twitchy with trauma; she walked through the house quickly, turning on every light she owned, every buzzing fluorescent and table lamp. She didn't want to be in the dark tonight.

She changed into her oldest sweats and curled up in an armchair, tucked into the smallest ball possible, hidden under a thick winter blanket. She turned the TV on but she wasn't watching—she just needed the noise. Needed not to be alone. Her eyes were not on the flickering screen, and her thoughts were back in that car, the blood-pumping moment when she'd realized she was in very deep trouble.

Rape. She said it quietly in her mind, allowed herself to say the word for the first time, let it shudder down her spine and send tears brimming up in her eyes. David had tried to rape her—it was so unreal. These things happened to other people, distant people in distant black-and-white news stories. She remembered the instant she knew something was wrong, the look jumping up into his eyes like a lit flame, and he'd looked so crazy, so wild and angry-lost that it had made her catch her breath. The streetlight glinting off the blade in his hand.

He had seemed so normal.

She'd just gotten out of a relationship and her friends were oh so eager to set her up again, gleefully playing matchmaker to her lonely single state. She'd protested and blushed, yelled and pleaded, but she hadn't been able to stop the Inevitable Blind Date. They said it would be good for her. They said he was a nice guy. They said it would help her recover. A hysterical little giggle burst out of her at the thought—recovery, right. She wasn't going to step out of her house for a week.

Still, she'd been relieved when she'd seen him for the first time, standing on her doorstep with a shy smile and an armful of flowers. Reasonably good-looking, not horribly deformed or gibberingly crazy. Normal. She'd thought that perhaps this night wouldn't be so bad after all. Just a date, a trip to the movies with a nice guy. No big deal.

Then he'd taken a wrong turn; she'd thought he was lost, and she'd almost suggested directions, but then he'd stopped the car. And he'd kissed her. She was used to boys who came on too strong, and it wasn't like she was some kind of prude, but she didn't want him to get ideas, not on the first date, so she'd pushed him away, cushioning her rejection with a laugh. A gentle 'no'. Nothing to worry about. But then there was that look, the craziness and the hunger. He'd leaned over and hit her, backhanding her hard enough to snap her head back and she'd tasted blood, copper red in her mouth. It had spiraled out of control so fast.

She snuggled deeper into her blanket and let out a small sob, a pathetic little noise that she could only make now that no one could hear her. She was about to let herself go completely, release all the trapped terror into hysterical tears, let herself lose it like she'd wanted to all night—but something on the TV screen caught her eye.

She sat up straight, staring intently at the screen. A large picture of a man was plastered over her set, a stark mug shot with a word on his chest saying WANTED, saying this man is dangerous, armed, murderer, fugitive. He had short brown hair, hazel eyes, an attractive square jaw—and she knew him. He was the man who had saved her. He'd saved her life, and here he was on the eleven o'clock news.

At first, the car window breaking had just been another part of the horror, she hadn't realized there was someone there except David. She was too busy fighting for her life, too hysterical to notice, but then arms reached into the car and grabbed her attacker, smashing his head into the steering wheel, forcing him to let her go. Her head screamed for her to get out and she did, scrabbling frantically for the door handle while her mysterious savior punched David again and again, blood splattering from his nose onto the dashboard. She was screaming, crying, hysterical, and she couldn't seem to take ten steps from the car even though she knew what was in there, what had almost happened.

Her rescuer slid over the hood and grabbed her hand, other hand on the side of her face, searching her eyes to see if she was okay, strangely concerned considering she'd never seen this man before in her life. "Are you okay?" he was saying, rough voice barely penetrating her hysteria. She knew she should answer, tell him she was fine, she was okay now, now that he'd saved her, that she should thank him and hug him and swear her life to him, but all she could manage was, "Thank God! Oh, thank God!"

He didn't even hear her: the car had started again behind them, and there was an angry screech of tires as David sped away—got away. He didn't leave her, but he started swearing fervently, his eyes on the escaping attacker "Damn in! Are you sure you're okay? Do you have a cell phone?" She couldn't answer, choked with sobs, but she nodded and he understood. "Call 911!" he commanded, then he dropped her hands and sprinted to his car, fearless and terrifying, an avenging angel.

And now she was supposed to believe he was some kind of a criminal. Dean Winchester, her TV was telling her, bank robbery, grand larceny, first-degree murder. How was it possible? He'd saved her life, she was sure of it. Perhaps he'd been some kind of criminal confederate of David's, killing him for personal reasons—but no, that didn't make sense. Why would he have saved her, cared about her? Ninety-nine percent of people in the world would never have done what he had; he was some kind of incredible dark vigilante, saving her life and then disappearing into the night. But—murder? She didn't know what to think.

She didn't have much time to consider it—the doorbell rang, flat two-tone sound breaking into her musings and making her jump, irreversibly paranoid. She didn't move for a full minute, shivering deer in headlights, but she knew she had to get the door. It was probably her mother, worried sick and bearing a casserole. It was probably her friends, hysterically apologetic and wondering if she was okay. She had to get up and get the door.

She padded fearfully to her entryway and turned the doorknob, white-knuckle gripping her phone in her pocket, 911 already predialed just in case. Her mind played a thousand horrifying possibilities like a filmstrip behind her eyes, but she wasn't expecting the one she got:

Dean Winchester was standing on her doorstep.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: This will probably be just a simple little two-chapter fic. Nothing special, just something that I wanted to write. Reviews are like Christmas morning, so if you feel inclined...