Dean Winchester was standing on her doorstep.

The Wanted poster flashed through her mind and she reacted with the reflexes of a recent victim, screaming and slamming the door in his face. He was quicker than her panic—he got a boot in the door and stopped it closing, shoving it back open with the ease of natural muscle. He was into her house and moving toward her with a predatory sort of pounce, and she was flashing back to David, screaming hysterically as she tried to get away from him.

His hands were up and he looked worried, frustrated. "Hey, calm down!" he said in a quick rough baritone, moving a few steps backward. "Calm down, I'm not going to hurt you! I'm not going to hurt you!"

She was huddled away against the wall, pushing against it with her back as if she could slide straight through to get away from him. Her mind registered his 'calm down's but she could not calm down, could only think of hands on her neck and blades in the streetlight. Her hands were shaking but she was holding onto her cell phone with a death grip, life-or-death lifeline. "I'm calling the police!" she screamed at him, her heart beating out bank robbery grand larceny murder murdermurder

Suddenly he was right on her, grabbing her wrist, not painfully but tight enough that she had no chance of using her phone. "I would really rather you didn't," he said, exasperated, pleading. "Look—what's your name?"

"Hannah," she said automatically, barely breathing with him so close, so close she could smell him, leather and smoke and soap.

"Okay, Hannah, I need you to calm down. I'm not going to hurt you, do you understand? I'm going to let go of you now—can you just…try not to freak out? Please." He plucked the phone out of her hand and released her, retreating quickly away until he was standing by the door, eyeing her nervously as if he thought she might explode.

She tried to bring her heartbeat back to normal, telling herself stop freaking out! This is not David, this is the guy who saved you. He could have already snapped you in half if he wanted to, so calm down! She was not an illogical person—she was just scared. She could deal with this. She could deal with this.

With a last, shuddering breath, she forced herself to straighten up and look him in the eyes. "What do you want?" she said, pleased to find that her voice was level, strong.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, relieved that she'd stopped screaming. "I mean—I sort of ran off and left you, I wanted to see if you got home all right."

This threw her. "Why?" she said bluntly, trying desperately to see what was in this for him, why he'd come back, why he cared. It wasn't human. It didn't make any sense.

"I don't leave things unfinished," he said with a blinding smile, and suddenly he wasn't a frightening predator but a young man, attractive, charming. Suddenly she could imagine him out in real life, throwing darts in a bar, flirting with a waitress, living. It was a strange thought. "So—you're all right, aren't you? He didn't hurt you?"

"He didn't hurt me," thanks to you, added her brain, but she couldn't make herself thank him aloud, couldn't forget the eleven o'clock news.

"Glad to hear it. For future reference—no kissing on the first date. Gives 'em all sorts of bad ideas." The grin again, flashing white against the soft lampglow. Then, suddenly serious. "Did they tell you what happened to him?"

"I—I don't know—"

"He's dead," Dean said harshly, fiercely vengeful.

"Did you kill him?" She was surprised at her nerve, the reproach in her voice.

He gave her a strange look, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Someone's been watching the news," he said sardonically. "Don't believe everything you hear, sweetheart." A beat. "I didn't kill him. There was—an accident. Metal pole punched the son of a bitch straight through the chest.

She wasn't sure she believed him, but she was willing to let it go as long as he was in her house. She wasn't stupid. "Right," she said warily.

"Well, that's all I needed," he said briskly, setting her cell phone on the table. "I'll get out of your house now. Nice to meet you, Hannah, don't date any more rapists, okay?"

He had turned to go, his hand on the doorknob, but she couldn't stop the question bursting out of her. "Why'd you save me?"

He turned back, looking genuinely surprised. There was a long pause, and then, "You needed saving," he said blankly.

"Oh," she said lamely. "Well—thank you."

"Don't mention it," he said, shutting the door behind him.

---

"You do that on purpose, don't you?" Sam said as Dean got back into the car.

"Do what?" Dean demanded, sticking his keys into the ignition.

Sam gestured expressively at the house. "That. Show up at these girls' houses in the dead of night, ask them concerned questions, flirt with them, and then disappear off into the sunset never to be seen again. You just want them to be in love you with the rest of their lives, don't you?"

"I can just imagine the stories they tell their friends," Dean said with a self-satisfied grin. "Come on, Sammy, you're just jealous because I always get to save the hot girls."

Sam made a disgusted noise and shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

Dean started the car, swinging his head around to give Sam a look. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Shut up."

Black Sabbath burst out of the radio, pulsing through the whole car, through their bodies like a heartbeat, obliterating all thought. Dean pulled the car out of the driveway and tore off down the street, driving the speed that the music demanded. Only seconds, and they were gone.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That's it. Just a two-chapter little ficlet. Thank you so much for the great response! If I'd known what awesome reviewers Supernatural fans were, I'd have been writing for y'all way before this!

I'm working on a new John/Dean-centric fic, so look for me! Thanks again for the reviews!