One Week. Or seven days. 168 hours. That's how long it's been since you fled the hotel, leaving behind Sam, Dean, and your heart. Every tick on the clock a reminder of what could have been, what should have been. 

At first, you had been angry. With Dean for forcing you away, then at yourself for giving in, and running away. Once the tears had dried up, you knew that Dean was just trying to keep you safe. But that didn't make your heart hurt any less

Each night you lay awake, green eyes haunting your sleep, or visions of Andrew, and the near death experience he had provided. Each morning you woke, staring at the stranger that looked back at you in the mirror. One with dull unkempt hair, and black circles under her eyes from lack of a good night's sleep.

You kept telling yourself it was pathetic, getting so caught up in Dean. But it wasn't just him you were missing. It was the thrill of the adventure, the pride in finding out facts, and knowing you could help those in need. It had made you feel complete, and now that it had been so rudely taken from you, you were at a loss.

Your friends had called, curious and concerned. You had pushed them away, giving them excuses of a cold caught during travelling, and they had taken it surprisingly well. Leaving you alone, not a single one had come by to see if they could help. Your mom was travelling, always travelling. She sent you a text, saying she was in Portugal, and she hoped your excursion worked out, and you were back, and ready to settle down, find a husband. 

Even your old business had called, asking you to come back. Keeping your avenues open, you had asked for time to consider, which they had granted. But that was days ago, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you had to make a choice.

Yet, here you were, sitting on your couch, in the same clothes you had worn to bed. Your hair was thrown up in a bun, a bottle of whiskey sitting empty on the coffee table in front of you. Your phone was in your hand, and you kept staring down at the numbers, needing to push the call button, but knowing all you would get would be more heartbreak. 

Groaning at how pathetic you had come, you tossed your phone across the room, watching as it landed on the chair opposite you. It was frustrating. You wanted to know if he was hurting as bad as you were, or if he was already smooth talking another girl. You had thought Sam might at least text you, just to see if you were okay. But their lines had stayed silent, adding to your mixture of frustration, anger, and despair. It was not a good mix, especially served with a side of alcohol.

A knock on your door shook you out of your tired thoughts. You listened to it, your head cocked to the side, contemplating if you should answer it or not. You weren't sure you really wanted to. If you did you would have to come face to face with people again, and you weren't ready.

The knock sounded again, this time louder and more assured, and for a second your spirit rose, wondering, hoping, that maybe Dean had found out where you lived, and he had shown up, begging for your forgiveness.

The thought crashing through your mind, you raced over to the door, pulling it open, your chest heaving as you looked at the man standing on the other side of the door. But it wasn't the lean, tall body with bow legs and strong shoulders that you had been expecting. This man was short, around 5'7", with a receding hair line and a beer belly in beginning stages. He had a slimy smile on his face as he took in your short pajama shorts and cami top that you had slept in.

"Well if I had known you would have been this excited to see me, I would have come by a long time ago." Bill, your former boss said. You could only stare at him, your sleep deprived brain fuzzy, having a hard time accepting the fact that your pushy boss was standing on your threshold. "Aren't you going to let me in?" He asked you, pushing you polished shoe in past the door jam.

"Bill, today's not a good day." You say, wanting nothing more than to slam the door in his face. You remembered vividly the last time you had seen him, when he had you cornered in his office, his hands grabbing your butt as you tried to move past him. "I'm still not feeling very well."

He smile faded away, a scowl taking it's place. "You were waiting for someone else weren't you? That's why you opened the  door so fast, and you're wearing that slutty little outfit."

"You should go." You repeated, trying to push the door shut, but his hand shot out, shoving it back open, knocking you back into the room in the process.

"I don't think so. Instead, I think we should finish what we started a couple of weeks ago. Then, you can get that promotion you wanted, and we will both be happy." He said, stalking you as you tried to back up and away from him.

"Leave now Bill, or I will call the cops." You threatened, and he just laughed.

"Who are they going to believe? You? Just look at you! You look like your asking for it, your breasts almost falling out of the tank top, your legs bare.  Or me, a prominent manager of a publishing firm." He chuckled, reaching out and grabbing your arm, painfully. You thrashed about, trying to break free, but his grasp was surprisingly strong, and he pulled you to him. You hit his chest with your free hand, trying to stop him, but he just laughed, grabbing it before pressing his lips to yours, tight enough that they dug into your teeth.

Closing your eyes, you were panicked. You had no idea what to do. Your phone was ten feet away, and nobody in the other apartments were home at this hour to hear you scream. But as your panicked thoughts overtook your mind, a pair of green eyes flashed in the darkness, reminding you to fight. That you were strong, you had taken down a ghost, and you could certainly take down a normal man.

Opening your mouth, Bill thought it was an invitation, but you used it to bite down on his lips, hard. He reared his head back, his lip bleeding. "You bitch!" He yelled, letting go of your hand to slap you hard across the face.

Your head snapping back with the force of his slap, you turned it back, staring at him as you lifted your knee up high, hitting him straight in the groin. 

He let go of you then, leaning over, trying to catch his breath. You darted past him, trying to reach your phone, then the door, but he reached out, grasping your ankle, and you fell, hard, your head hitting the corner of the coffee table. You tried to keep moving, blood trickling down from your temple, but he pulled you back, before turning you over so you were laying on your back.

"I think this just changed my game plan." He muttered, his eyes full of evil. He raised a hand, smiling as he brought it down, smashing it into your jaw. It knocked you senseless, and for a moment you could only lay there, as his fists pounded your body. Your vision was fuzzy, and you knew you might have a concussion, but that was the least of your problems. If you didn't fight back, and soon, you wouldn't have a chance to.

He laced one more punch to your face, right at your cheek, and your head snapped back. Moaning, you lay there as he got up, wandering into the kitchen. Struggling to your hands and knees, you crawled towards the chair, your phone shining like a beacon of hope. But before you could reach it, Bill was back, and in his hands was one of your knives. "I'm really sorry to do this. But you leave me no choice. If you hadn't  fought back, we could have had lots of fun. It would have been worth it for you. But I don't like your attitude, and I just don't think you're going to work out in our firm. In fact, I think you're position is going to be terminated."

It was then you knew that not only was he a perverted old man, but also a crazy one at that, one that was ready to kill you. Killing people probably gave him as much satisfaction as raping them, you thought to yourself, with one final push to grab your phone. It slipped out of your fingers, falling farther into the couch, as he grabbed your hair, pulling you back. "Now, how should we do this?" He asked, before taking the knife and slicing the straps of your shirt. Looking down greedily at your uncovered breasts, he took the knife, carving little cuts into the top of each one, and you winced, trying to move away. 

He just laughed, holding the knife up loosely, talking about who knows what. Seeing your only chance, you reached out, knocking the knife out of his hands. He looked down, surprised, letting go of your hair, and you pounced down, all of your bruises and cuts forgotten, getting the knife the only thing playing through your head. He tried to push you out of the way, but your hand was smaller, and you pulled the knife up, smiling as you won at least one little battle.

"Steve, I suggest you run, and go far far away, before I use this knife on you." You threatened. "And then I will call the police. Or better yet, my friends who have unique and effective ways for getting rid of scumbags like you."

Steve might have been acting brave the entire time, but seeing the knife in your hand, and the threat in your voice, he did the only thing he could think of. He ran, opening your door, before turning to look at you. "This isn't over." He promised, before vanishing out of sight.

As soon as he was gone, all your strength and energy fled your body, and you crumbled to the ground. Your multiple cuts were bleeding, and you were sure you might have a concussion. Groaning, you slowly moved, the five feet to your chair seeming like miles and miles. It was with a heavy hand that you grabbed your phone, almost ready to pass out from the exhaustion and pain.

You knew immediately who you would dial. There were no ifs ands or buts. Pressing the button, you waited as it rang, hoping he wouldn't just ignore your call. Your eyes closed, your head resting against your chair, you waited. After five rings you had given up hope, but then he answered. "Y/N?" He asked, his voice quiet.

"Dean." You said, his name full of all of the pain you were currently feeling. He registered it immediately, his tone changing from careful to concerned.

"Y/N, what's wrong?" He asked, and you could hear Sam's voice muffled on the other end.

"Can you come here, please?" You begged, tears clogging your throat.

"Yeah, of course. We're on our way. But what happened?" He asked, and you could hear the engine of a car as it was pushed to it's limits.

As a cough came over you, you moaned at the pain it caused. "My boss. He came for me. I scared him off, but he might come back." You explained.

"Damn it. We're on our way. Hold on." He ordered, but you were so tired, the sleepless nights and the fight having drained you too much.

"Can't Dean. So sleepy." You told him, the phone slipping from your hand.