1 New Voicemail

Dean stared silently at the notification on his phone, his fingers lingering over the screen. The lights in the strip club flickered in time with the thumping bass of the music, a cacophony of noise and flashing neon. Half-naked girls danced on the stage, laughing and flirting with patrons, but none of it registered. His mind was elsewhere.

Nadia.

Her name weighed on him like a stone, heavy in his chest. He wanted to call her back, but he couldn't. Sam was already keeping things from him, and the idea of Nadia hiding something too, even if it was for his own good, twisted in his gut.

Between the mess with the apocalypse, dealing with the angels, and still recovering from everything that happened in Hell, Dean was barely holding it together. And now it felt like he couldn't even trust the people closest to him. Not Nadia. Not Sam.

Not anyone.

Dean glanced around the club, his eyes flicking from the dancers to the neon signs, but none of it mattered. It all felt empty, hollow, a distraction from the gnawing sense of betrayal. He couldn't be vulnerable. Not again. He'd been burned too many times before.

Dean felt his phone buzz again but didn't check it. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and rubbed his face with one hand, trying to shake off the feeling of suffocating loneliness.

"Hey, you good, dude?" Nick's voice cut through his thoughts.

Dean blinked, momentarily lost in the noise of the club before turning his attention to Nick, who was sitting across from him, sliding a shot glass toward him with a grin.

"Yeah, sorry," Dean muttered, putting the phone away, his mind briefly refocusing on the game they were playing—name the music artist.

They take shots together.

"You Shook Me."

"Oh," Dean shrugged, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sixty-nine, debut album, written by Willie Dixon."

Nick, leaning back in his seat, gave a slow nod, clearly impressed. "And . . . ?"

Dean looked at him, a bit confused. "And what?"

"Written by Willie Dixon and J.B. Lenoir."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. He glanced around the club, his hand loosely gripping his beer. "Man, you're full of surprises." He let out a small laugh, then looked at Nick with a genuine smile. It was easy, effortless. 

They were clicking, getting along like old friends, and it felt good to have someone who wasn't wrapped up in the drama going on. It had been a rough couple of weeks, especially with the tension between him and Sam. Nick was a breath of fresh air—no baggage, just a guy who appreciated good music and bad jokes.

"Dude. Dude! You know, for a fed, you're not a total dick."

Nick raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Aren't we both feds?"

Dean froze, a little caught off guard by the reminder. He had been so wrapped up in their conversation, he forgot he was technically supposed to be working. But it was easy to forget when you found someone so in tune with you. 

He shrugged awkwardly, trying to recover. "Yeah, I know. I just... you know, not a lot of feds are as cool as us, huh?"

Nick laughed, his eyes scanning the club. "True. But hey, I'm just here for the party."

Dean grinned, shaking his head. "Fair enough."

Nick's gaze lingered on a blonde stripper in a tight leather corset, her movements fluid as she made her way across the stage. "So what the hell with this case, man? How does a girl talk four different johns into murder?"

Dean followed Nick's gaze briefly before turning his attention back to the club, his smile fading. "It's a crazy world, man. Anything can happen."

Nick took a long pull from his drink, eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "I guess... Hey, can I level with you?"

Dean turned his full attention to him, curious. "Mmm?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I found something kinda weird."

"Oh?" Dean leaned in, intrigued. "You've brought your weird to the right spot. Lay it on me."

Nick paused for a moment, clearly weighing how much to reveal. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small ziplock bag, sliding it across the table toward Dean. Inside the bag were delicate purple petals, their soft curves almost glowing under the dim club lights.

"So I went to the crime scene this morning," Nick continued, his voice quiet but serious. "Saw them bagging this up." He gestured to the petals. "Turns out a flower just like that was found at every crime scene."

Dean picked up the bag carefully, studying the petals. They looked familiar—too familiar. He cocked his head, inspecting them more closely, his mind racing. "Like it was left on purpose?"

Nick shrugged, his fingers tapping nervously on his glass. "Could be. Sometimes a serial killer will leave something behind, like a calling card. But with this case? I tell you the truth, I got no idea what's going on."

Dean paused, a thought slowly dawning on him. His fingers tightened around the bag as he took in the petals, recognition flickering in his eyes. He fell silent for a moment, his mind connecting dots. The petals—he knew exactly where he'd seen them before. He slowly looked up, meeting Nick's gaze.

"I think I might." Dean's voice was low, almost to himself, as he spoke. His eyes narrowed slightly, focusing on the petals again. "I've seen a flower like this before."

It was getting late. The office, which had been bustling earlier in the day, was now eerily quiet. The only sounds came from the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional click of the mouse as Sam and Cara sifted through hours of security footage. 

They'd been at it for hours, trying to figure out who'd stolen the blood samples. The process was slow, grueling, and frustrating, each new frame of video bringing no closer to an answer.

The room, once sterile and professional, now had the air of long hours and mounting exhaustion. Sam had loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

Cara, usually immaculate in her lab coat and blouse, had shed her coat and unbuttoned her blouse just enough to give some relief from the uncomfortable heat of the small office. She sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes before pausing the footage once again.

"We've watched them twice," she muttered, clicking the mouse with a sigh. "Whoever took the blood..."

"Must have tampered with the tapes." Sam's voice was calm, but his brow furrowed in concentration as he stood behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. He leaned slightly toward the screen, studying it like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. After a moment, he exhaled sharply. "Who has access to your office?"

Cara glanced over her shoulder at him, then back at the screen, pushing a few strands of hair behind her ear absentmindedly. "Everybody. I don't lock it."

Sam froze, clearly shocked. "You what?"

Cara laughed softly, the sound light but with an edge of resignation. "I've never had this problem before. What is so important about the blood anyway?" she asked, genuinely curious now.

"I think someone drugged the men, made them commit murder." Sam's voice held a quiet intensity as he finally revealed the heart of the case, his eyes not leaving the screen but his mind elsewhere. There was something off about the whole situation, and he couldn't shake the feeling they were missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

Cara blinked, her eyebrows raising in disbelief. "What?" Her voice had a touch of incredulity. "What kind of drug?"

Sam hesitated, his gaze flicking over to Cara. "Ahh..." he faltered slightly, trying to come up with something less revealing than the whole truth. "I'm not sure yet."

Cara leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, and exhaled deeply as if considering his words carefully. "I don't know," she muttered, shaking her head. "I mean, I interviewed those guys and they had their reasons."

Sam looked at her, the frown deepening on his face. "Yeah, but they all loved their victims."

She gave a soft, almost dismissive shrug. "I'm sure they did."

Her tone caught Sam off guard, and he frowned, confused by the way she was brushing aside the deeper implications of the case.

Cara stood up suddenly. "Come on," she said lightly, laughing. "Haven't you ever been in a relationship where you really love somebody, but you still kinda wanted to bash their head in?"

Sam chuckled, but his expression was one of bemusement. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

She bit her lip, briefly thinking about her past. Turning away, she goes over to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. 

Cara nodded, her fingers wrapping around a glass before holding it out to Sam. "It's medicine," she said with a teasing smile, the glint in her eyes making it clear that she wasn't just talking about the drink.

Sam hesitated for a moment, his arms still crossed over his chest, a faint wariness in his posture. There was an undeniable pull between them, a magnetic tension that neither of them could ignore, but Sam wasn't sure if it was the right time for anything beyond work. His thoughts were a little clouded, but the drink in her hand was an invitation he couldn't exactly refuse.

"I'm a doctor," she added, her voice smooth and coaxing, as if reassuring him that there was no harm in indulging. Her smile was a little too knowing, but Sam wasn't sure whether it was for his benefit or her own.

With a dry smirk, Sam uncrossed his arms and reached for the glass, eyeing it warily before bringing it to his lips. He sniffed the whiskey, the rich aroma hitting his senses, but his gaze never left her as he took a small sip. The warmth spread through him, but his focus remained on her—on the quiet invitation in her eyes.

He set the glass down on the desk, leaning back slightly. Cara poured herself a drink, her movements smooth, practiced—like this was second nature to her. Sam couldn't help but notice the way her fingers lingered over the bottle. She was relaxed, but something in her demeanor told him there was more beneath the surface.

"His name was Karl," Cara said, her voice quiet but steady, a shift in her tone that caught Sam's attention. "We were married."

There was a strange bitterness behind her words, but also an odd sort of detachment. Cara sat down, her laughter spilling out, light and without force. Sam raised an eyebrow. It seemed almost out of place—laughing about an unsuccessful marriage—but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a defense mechanism. Maybe this was how she coped with the heartache. Maybe it was easier to laugh than to confront whatever had truly hurt her.

Sam clinked his glass against hers.

"So what happened?" Sam asked, the words feeling almost like an invitation for something deeper.

Cara took a slow sip from her glass before setting it down, her fingers briefly resting on the edge. She exhaled heavily, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. "Life happened," she said, shrugging, though the weight in her tone suggested there was more to the story. "I don't know. I mean, I loved him. Still do, I guess. But... I don't know. It's like one day I looked up and I was living with a stranger and..." She shook her head, the frustration and confusion still fresh in her voice. "You know what I mean, right?"

Sam leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze flicking to her face, trying to catch a glimpse of what was left unsaid. "I guess," he said with a slight shrug. "Or... I don't know, maybe." A chuckle escaped him, self-deprecating, as he took another swig of his whiskey. It was the sort of situation he'd avoided for a long time. Relationships were complicated, messy... he wasn't sure he was cut out for them.

It had been years since he'd been in a real relationship, and even then, he never made it down the aisle.

Cara took the silence in stride. "People change," she continued, her voice softer now, like she was talking to herself as much as she was to him. "I know I did. But it's nothing to feel guilty about. It happens." She poured herself another glass of whiskey, the liquid swirling in the glass before she raised it to her lips.

Sam watched her for a moment, the way she moved—confident, almost detached in some ways, yet there was a vulnerability that kept poking through the cracks. "So you two split up?" Sam asked, curiosity edging his tone.

"I suppose that's a word for it," she replied, her lips curling into a bittersweet smile, as if the word 'split' couldn't fully capture what had transpired between them.

Just as Sam was about to respond, his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Dean's name.

Cara noticed immediately. "Do you need to get that?" she asked, her voice quiet, but Sam could hear the curiosity in it.

He thought for a moment, looking at her—looking into her brown eyes that were steady, not asking, but waiting for his answer. "Nope. Not right now," he said with a small smile, dismissing the call and setting his phone on the desk with a soft thud.

Cara raised an eyebrow, surprised, but didn't press the issue. Instead, she refilled his glass, her fingers brushing against his ever so slightly. "Whatever," she murmured. "We've all got our own sad stories, so..." She let out a little laugh and slammed the whiskey bottle back onto the desk. "Screw it."

She stood, and suddenly, they were face to face. The air between them shifted, thickening with something unspoken. "Have fun," she said, her voice low and inviting. "No regrets. Live life like there's no tomorrow."

Sam's pulse quickened. He raised his glass to hers with a grin, and they clinked them together before taking the drink down in one go.

Cara set her glass down and leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. Her voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of something more. "For instance," she said, her words slow and deliberate, "I've been thinking about you all night." She pulled back slightly, her gaze locking with his, darkening with desire. "Well, parts of you."

Sam's smirk deepened, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in closer, just a hair away from her lips. "Just parts?" he asked, the question teasing but with an undercurrent of something else.

"Mmm-hmm," Cara smiled, her eyes never leaving his lips as she took a small step closer, standing between his legs now. "Like your lips. They're very distracting," she murmured, her voice almost a purr. "It's a problem."

Sam's breath hitched. He wasn't sure when exactly the atmosphere had changed, but there was no denying it now. His pulse hammered in his chest. He lowered his gaze for a brief moment, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

She reached up, fingers deftly pulling at his tie, a playful spark in her eyes. "And I can't stop thinking about kissing them," she said, her lips just a breath away from his.

"That so?" Sam murmured, his voice rougher than he intended. His gaze flickered from her eyes to her lips, back to her eyes, unable to look away.

Cara nodded, her hands moving slowly to undo the knot of his tie, her fingers brushing against his neck. The room seemed to close in around them, the space between them shrinking with every passing second.

One kiss was all it took.

Sam felt the pull between them like gravity, strong and unrelenting. He kissed her first, a deep, slow burn that turned into something more urgent. The tension between them snapped, and they quickly lost themselves in each other, clothes falling away as they gave in to the heat building between them.

Sam felt great. Though nothing would come of him and Cara, it felt good to let loose. Something he wasn't known for doing. At least not as much as his brother.

It was late when he got back to the hotel and he was surprised that Dean wasn't there. He called him.

"Sam!" Dean's voice crackled through the phone, frantic and laced with fury. The sound of rain pelting against the windshield filled the background, a steady rhythm as he gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled force. "Where the hell have you been?"

"With Cara," Sam replied, his voice calm, though the tension in his chest was rising from Dean's tone.

"Oh, it's Cara now? And you're not picking up your phone?" Dean snapped, his frustration bleeding through.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He wasn't in the mood for Dean's accusations, but he understood where they were coming from. "We were trying to find the blood samples. Someone stole 'em."

Dean's response was immediate, sharp with disbelief. "Yeah, I bet!"

Sam frowned at the phone, his gaze focused on the floor. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean's voice came through, tight with suspicion. "Nick found flower petals at the crime scenes. Hyacinths."

"So?" Sam's confusion was clear in his tone.

"Hyacinths?" Dean repeated, his voice incredulous. "Mediterranean flowers. You know, from the island where the whole friggin' siren myth started in the first place."

Sam blinked, still not following. "Okay... and?"

"Sam, Cara had hyacinth flowers!" Dean's voice was sharper now, as if the connection should've been obvious.

Sam chuckled, holding the phone to his other ear as he leaned back against the bedpost. "You think Cara's the siren?"

Dean didn't hesitate. "Well, I did a little checking up on her. She's only been in town for two months."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Yeah. And?"

"And she has an ex-husband. A dead ex-husband. Carl Roberts. Dropped like a stone. No warning. Supposedly a heart attack."

Sam's stomach tightened at the mention of Carl. He hadn't known about the death—Cara hadn't told him, and the fact that it wasn't common knowledge made him uneasy. Still, he didn't see how it connected to her being a siren. "Well, maybe it was a heart attack," Sam said, trying to brush it off.

Dean let out a disbelieving laugh. "You're kidding me."

Sam stood up, walking over to the window and looking out at the rain-soaked street. He didn't want to admit that his mind wasn't entirely on the case—his thoughts kept drifting back to Cara. But he couldn't tell Dean that. "Look, I just don't think it's her."

Dean's voice grew tighter, the words biting. "And what makes you so sure?"

Sam hesitated, his hand resting on the windowsill as he searched for an answer that would satisfy his brother. He knew he had nothing solid to go on, but the gut feeling he had told him Cara wasn't the one they were looking for. "I dunno, a hunch."

"A hunch?" Dean practically spat the word, his voice rising with frustration. "I'm giving you cold, hard facts here, and you're giving me a hunch?"

Sam stayed quiet, his jaw clenching. He wasn't about to tell Dean that he and Cara had gotten closer—hell, closer than he'd planned. His brother was already tense enough without adding that little nugget of info into the mix. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Dean to put the pieces together.

"Middle of Basic Instinct and you bang Sharon Stone? Sam, you could be under her spell right now!"

 Sam rolls his eyes, trying to keep his frustration in check. "Dude, I'm not under her spell."

Dean shakes his head, his disappointment palpable in his voice. "Unbelievable, man. I just don't get it."

"What?" Sam snapped, irritation lacing his tone.

"Nothing." Dean's voice was low, like he was trying to suppress something he wasn't sure how to say.

"No. Say it." Sam's defense mechanisms kicked in, his agitation spiking. He wasn't going to let Dean hold back now.

Dean hesitated, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably between them. Finally, he let out a deep breath and muttered, "It's just... first it's Madison, and then Ruby, and now Cara. It's like... what is with you and banging monsters?"

Sam's eyes widened, the sting of his brother's words landing harder than he expected. For a moment, he just stared at the floor, his thoughts racing. "Dean, I'm telling you, it's not Cara. I feel fine."

Dean scoffed, his voice sharp. "I'll bet you do."

The bite in his brother's tone was unmistakable. Sam stood up abruptly, pacing the room, trying to regain his composure. "You don't trust me?"

"No!" Dean shot back without hesitation. "Because this could be the siren talking, Sam. How am I supposed to trust anything when you've been this... close to all these monsters?"

Sam's face darkened, his pulse quickening. "You think I don't know what I'm doing? I'm not a damn idiot, Dean."

Dean's voice dropped, his frustration simmering just below the surface. "I know you're not an idiot, but you're blinded by whatever this is with Cara. Look, I get it, but you gotta see what's in front of you."

Sam's patience was wearing thin, the weight of the situation pressing down on him harder than the rain outside. "Look, tell me where you are. I'll come meet you, and we'll figure things out."

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Dean spoke again, his voice cold, resolved. "No."

"Are you serious?" Sam asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

"I wish I weren't," Dean replied, the words heavy with frustration. "I gotta handle this, Sam. By myself."

Before Sam could respond, the line went dead. Dean hung up on him.

Sam stood there for a moment, his chest tight with a mix of anger and helplessness. The sudden silence felt like a punch to the gut. Licking his lips, his hands trembling with the adrenaline of the argument, Sam snapped. He hurled his phone across the room, the impact making a sharp crack against the wall.

In the Impala, the familiar hum of the engine was a quiet comfort to Dean as he gripped the steering wheel, his thoughts a swirl of frustration and worry. With the situation escalating, there was only one person he could rely on to help him navigate through this mess.

Bobby.

Dean punched in the number, hoping for a quick answer, but it went straight to voicemail. He cursed under his breath, but his voice remained steady as he left the message.

"Sam's in trouble, Bobby," Dean said, his tone low and urgent. "I think the siren's worked her mojo on him. Give me a call as soon as you get this."

He hung up the phone, his fingers lingering on the screen as he stared out the windshield. He was going to have to make some hard calls, but there was one person he wanted to hear from, and it wasn't Bobby.

Dean unlocked his phone again, the name on the screen burning at the back of his mind. Nadia. She was probably the only person who could make him feel a little less on edge right now. But then he remembered—he was angry at her. He couldn't just forget about the fight, the frustration from earlier.

So, with a sigh, he dialed a different number.

Nick answered on the first ring, his voice chipper despite the late hour. "Hey man, what's up?"

Dean leaned back in the seat, rubbing his eyes. "I need your help."

"Uh, sure," Nick replied, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "With what?"

"Canvassing." Dean's voice was clipped, his urgency rising. "We gotta find somebody."

December '08

Pros and Cons of Telling Dean About Michael

Cons:

Dean might do something reckless out of fear or anger that he got signed up to be a hero without consent.Dean dumps me for not telling him about Michael.Dean saves the world, BUT I lose him.Dean tells off the angels, and they retaliate.Dean refuses to fulfill his destiny, but I talk him into it. Maybe even force him for the greater good. In other words, I still lose him.

Pros:

Dean steps up and saves the world.

Nadia set down her pen with a sigh, staring at the pros and cons list she had just scribbled. Her fingers hovered over the paper as if she could somehow will the answers to emerge. The weight of the decision sat heavily in her chest.

Her gaze drifted to her phone, sitting idle beside her journal. No missed calls. No texts. Not from Dean. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, her thoughts racing.

It was late, later than it should've been, and she was still sitting alone at the dining room table while the girls slept soundly in their rooms. Nadia had hoped—no, needed—to hear from him, but it hadn't happened. Every minute that passed without a message from Dean felt like a small fracture in her resolve.

She couldn't sleep with things unresolved between them. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind replayed their argument, and each time, it felt like another crack forming between them. How was she supposed to explain Michael to him when he was already so angry? She hadn't even told him about the full scope of everything yet. How could she?

Her fingers tapped the edge of the table, her thoughts a jumbled mess. If this was his reaction to the situation with Ruby, what would he do when he found out about Michael? That thought was terrifying enough for her to keep delaying the inevitable.

So, she made the list. Pros and cons. But it wasn't helping. No matter how many times she looked at it, the outcome still felt the same.

Honesty is always the best policy, she reminded herself. But even if she was being honest with herself, she knew telling Dean now wasn't the right time. Not when he was this volatile. He was too vulnerable. Too quick to act without thinking. It was a Winchester trait that never seemed to go away. And Nadia couldn't help but wonder how much more she was willing to lose.

Just as she was about to pick up her pen again, her phone rang, breaking her concentration. She nearly jumped to grab it, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Dean?" she asked, breathlessly, heart pounding in her chest.

"It's Bobby." His voice, steady as always, filled her ears, and for a moment, Nadia let out a heavy breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Not Dean. She should've expected that.

Still, she forced a smile. Even though it wasn't Dean, hearing from Bobby always felt like a comfort.

"Hey, Uncle Bobby," she greeted, trying to sound upbeat, but the weariness in her voice was impossible to hide.

"You expectin' a call?" Bobby's tone was sharp, clearly hearing the disappointment in her voice.

"Yes and no." Nadia rubbed her eyes, standing up and pacing around the kitchen. "Dean and I aren't talking right now... well, he's ignoring me."

"You guys fightin'?" Bobby asked, his voice gentle but knowing.

"Something like that." Nadia sighed, her voice heavy with frustration. She ran a hand through her hair. "It's a long story. Everything all right? You don't usually call this late unless there's trouble."

"Yeah, well, I reckon you know the boys are hunting a siren."

"Yeah, I don't know the details but—"

"All you need to know is that the son of a bitch shows up as everything you want and then convinces you to kill the people you love. Neither of the boys is answerin'."

Nadia's stomach dropped. "You think they're under the siren's control?"

"I'd bet money on it." Bobby's voice was low and serious. "Some Nick Munroe claiming to be FBI showed up there. They had him call me to confirm they had grounds to be there."

"And?" Nadia leaned against the counter, trying to piece it together.

"My gut's tellin' me Nick Munroe isn't any more of an FBI agent than those two idgits."

The realization hit Nadia like a punch to the gut. It made perfect sense. Dean had just found out about Sam and Ruby. Even if he hadn't voiced it, he had to be furious. The boys were bound to clash over it, and right now? It was the perfect opportunity for the siren to strike.

She rubbed her forehead, thinking fast. "I'm almost to Iowa. Could use your help."

"I'll be there. See you soon," Nadia replied, already pulling her things together.