Chapter Text
When Bee fell asleep, Sam had been driving while Dean was going through the paperwork Frank had given him. When she woke up, Dean was driving, and Sam looked half-asleep, his head against the window, mouth and face slack. The sun was rising, painting the sky orange and the clouds pink.
Bee stretched, flexing her toes in her socks – she had kicked off her rain boots that night.
“Mornin, sunshine.” Dean said with a forced casualness in his tone, glancing up at her in the rear-view. “Sleep alright?”
She nodded faintly, rubbing her eyes. “… S’early.”
“Yeah. It is.” He glanced down at the dash. Just a little after five in the morning. “You doing okay?”
“I’m okay.” Bee peered at him, her brows furrowing. “Are you?”
Dean blinked, surprise briefly coloring his face before he masked it. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
“… If you say so.” Her gaze turned aside to where her notebook and pen rested.
Reaching out, Bee pulled her notebook into her lap. The car’s engine thrummed, making her think of a giant cat. It was soothing, threatening to pull her mind back beneath the veil of sleep. But, she was awake now and she decided she would stay awake. For now, at least.
“… He’s drooling.” Bee said without looking up as she scribbled in her notebook.
“Huh?” Dean glanced over at Sam, tensing a bit. He reached over, lightly clapping Sam’s shoulder. “Hey. Not on the upholstery.”
“I’m awake!” Sam slurred, lifting his head. “I’m up.” He paused, touching his face before realizing his predicament and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
He sighed through his nose before speaking again, breaking the quaint silence. “Alright. We need to find a spot to stretch our legs and get some breakfast.”
Neither of them answered.
Dean glanced up in the rear-view again. “Bethany? … Bethany.”
She wrinkled her nose a little, her gaze rising to look at him. “No one calls me that except Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”
“Yeah?”
“Mom always called me Bee. John called me Bee, too. And Bubs, and kiddo, and runt. No one calls me Bethany.”
“Alright… You care if we call you Bee?”
She shook her head.
“Bee it is.” He took in their surroundings – a small, rural town that looked like most small, rural towns. “Doesn’t look like we have many options for breakfast. But it looks like there’s a truck stop. That okay with you?”
“Do they have pancakes?”
“Probably.”
Bee nodded. “I like pancakes.”
“Sounds good.” Sam agreed, taking a deep breath, rubbing the sleep out of his eye. “Can we just stop someplace next time? My neck’s killing me.”
“We didn’t exactly have a whole lot of options.” Dean drawled, glancing at him. “But sure. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Bee pursed her lips around a smile, giggling softly.
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After a few minutes, the car pulled into the parking lot of a low, wide building. It had faded red siding and a roof that used to be white but was now a soft gray from years of sun and rain. The big neon sign flickered where it outlined the peeling paint that said “HANK’S TRUCK STOP & DINER” in white.
A row of semis parked along the far edge, engines idling softly in the cold morning air. One looked like Optimus Prime – same colors, no trailer. There were a couple of pickup trucks near the front, one with a rusted bumper.
Even from inside the car, Bee could smell gas, wet pavement, and bacon fat.
The newspaper vending machine out front was empty, and probably hadn’t been stocked in years. Next to it was a rack of firewood bundles, and windshield washer fluid.
“… Can I bring my notebook in with me?” Bee asked as the car pulled into a vacant spot.
“Sure.” Sam said through a yawn as Dean threw the car in park and shut it off.
Reaching aside, she undid her seatbelt, and reached for her rain boots with a grunt.
He turned in his seat to look at her. “Do you have any shoes in your bag? Those can’t be comfortable.”
“No. And they’re okay. … It rained a lot back home, so I always wore them anyways.”
“Yeah?” Sam arched a brow. “… Where’s home?”
“Arkham, Massachusetts.” Bee said, only to pause, then frown. “It used to be, anyways.”
He fell silent, sharing a quiet look with Dean. Dean’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Arkham was a long ways off. Especially considering they were only another day’s drive from the Bunker. From the look on Dean’s face, he shared Sam’s concern. After all… Why did their father drag Bee all the way to a Hunter foster house in Kansas?
It was a conversation for another time. The near future, certainly, but another time, regardless.
Bee didn’t seem to notice, sliding her boots on with practiced ease. She thanked Sam quietly when he got the door for her, and stuck close as the three of them strode into the diner.
The place smelt like grease. A food kind of grease, not the stuff John used on his boots or guns. The kind of grease that came from burgers, and ham, and bacon. The hostess was an older woman. Wearing dress flats and a worn, black apron. Portly, grey-haired. She carried herself like someone who had been doing this a long time.
“How many, hon?” Her smile was warm. Genuine. Odd, considering her line of work – most service workers weren’t the happiest of people.
“Three.” Dean answered, glancing aside at his siblings.
“Sure thing.” She grabbed a couple menus and a kids menu before peering at Bee. “Would you like a coloring page, hon?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bee answered softly.
Nodding, she picked out a three-pack of crayons and a coloring page, before leading them down the long aisle between old counter stools and worn leather booths, their orange color faded with both time and age. A couple bore patches of silvery duct tape. The yellowish overhead lights hummed, light glinting off the three-tiered glass case stocked with pies.
It looked like something out of those black-and-white shows her mom had always liked. Cozy, old, like time was hesitant to show up and put in a one-billionth Starbucks.
The hostess seated them. Bee sat by the window and Dean sat beside her, Sam sitting across from them.
“What can I get y’all to drink?” The hostess asked.
“Coffee.” Dean said with a faint but polite nod.
“Same.” Sam agreed.
“Sweet tea, please.” Bee swung her legs beneath the table.
The hostess’s brows rose a little. “D’you want lemon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Alrighty.” She nodded, writing down their drink orders. “I’ll give y’all a few minutes.” And with that, walked away, stopping some booths down to check in on some other diners.
Bee looked down at the coloring page. It was a color-by-numbers deal with thick black lines. The kind of coloring page made for babies. She frowned, turning the page over to the blank side and setting it aside for a minute so she could look at the menu. It only took her a few seconds before she decided what she wanted. With that decision made, she pulled the coloring page over and began drawing with her pen.
Sam and Dean shared another quiet look before Dean cleared his throat softly. “So… Bee… How long’ve you been with the Winslows?”
“… A few months, I guess. Since mom died and John dropped me off. Then he never came back.” Bee said quietly, a little sad and a little resigned, as if she was just stating a fact. She paused for a long moment, her pen stilling on the paper. “He’s dead, too. Isn’t he.”
Dean’s stomach sank, his throat tightening fractionally. “… Yeah, kid. He is.” After a moment, he added, “But you’re not alone anymore. Alright? You’ve got us. Me and Sam.”
Sam looked over at Bee, his expression softening as she took a deep breath, nodded, and continued drawing. “He cared about you. He was trying to keep you safe. And we will, too.”
She went still. Not stiff, not shocked. Just still. Her pen paused mid-stroke, staying on the page, as their words sink in. After a second, she nodded. “Okay.”
There was a long moment of quiet, before Bee paused. The bell above the diner’s doors jingled. Her gaze rose, and she spotted a man – or, a man-shaped being – in a black suit with a slate silk paisley tie. Polished shoes. From how the suit fit, it was tailored. He was shorter than Sam and Dean. Broader. And something about him felt… smoother, older, heavier. Bruised with a few faint cracks like glaze gone wrong in a kiln.
His pale blue eyes landed on her and he froze for maybe half a second before surprise was replaced with curiosity.
Dean looked up and tensed beside her. “Jeezus H, not right now…” He muttered.
Sam turned in his seat and went still. Not as still as Dean. Not as tense, either. But wary, all the same, as the man approached their booth and slid in beside Sam like he belonged there, Sam scooting over with a quiet, “Hey!”
“Well, now… This is rather unexpected.” The man said.
“Crowley.” Dean muttered as a stiff greeting.
“Squirrel.” Crowley said, sparing him a glance before again peering at the girl. “Color me curious, but how exactly did you two end up in possession of a child?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Bee stared at him. “You’re a demon.”
Crowley froze, full stop. When Sam looked at him, he swore the demon’s brain was probably doing the Windows dial-up connection error noise. Dean’s brows shot up as he turned to peer down at the girl, then looked at Crowley, trying to figure out how a child, a CHILD, could have deduced that in mere seconds.
“… I—Well, yes, but… Excuse me?” Crowley tilted his head, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing.
The girl stared at him. Though him. As if she could see to the bleeding core of who and what he was, like looking through a freshly-cleaned window.
“Most people don’t open with that, you know.”
Bee shrugged, her attention returning to her doodling. “Most people don’t notice.”
Whatever he was about to retort with was cut off by the waitress returning, though she hesitated at the edge of the table. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were expecting another… Can I get you anything, hon?”
Crowley flashed her a polite-yet-sharp smile. “Hot tea. Black. And if you bring me one of those sad little lemon wedges, I’ll know you weren’t listening.”
His words rolled off her like water off a duck. She merely nodded, giving Sam and Dean their coffee, and setting a glass of iced sweet tea in front of Bee. While Crowley’s expression didn’t change, the glint in his eye softened faintly, just a hair. After, the waitress stepped away, and he spoke again.
“Sweet tea? Brave choice, poppet.” Crowley opined. “Most children go for chocolate milk.”
“… I like tea.” Bee shrugged.
Dean raised his coffee toward his mouth.
“It’s hot.”
And paused a moment before setting it back down. He clasped his hands, glancing between her and Crowley, still trying to wrap his mind around this. The fact Bee knew what a demon was, could identify one so easily... The fact a child was already knee-deep in their world before they could even attempt shielding her from it.
Sam broke the tense silence about as carefully as he could. “Crowley… what are you doing here.”
“Besides to check on my two favorite menaces?” Crowley glanced at him. “And apparently your little hitchhiker.” His eyes flicked to Bee again, sharper this time.
“Crowley, don’t start.” Dean warned, hand tightening on the grip of the coffee mug.
“Oh, relax, Squirrel. If I wanted her dead, she’d be a smear on the wallpaper already.”
Sam tensed. Dean’s jaw clenched. But Bee didn’t react. She’s shading a part of her drawing.
He leaned slightly toward her, voice dropping into something smooth and curious. “Tell me, poppet… how did you know what I am?”
His tone wasn’t mocking, or predatory. A hint of genuine intrigue crept into his voice, genuine curiosity. Like he really wanted to know.
For her part, Bee didn’t look up, her gaze focused on her drawing. “Because you look wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Like a person, but not. Like when a circle fits in the square hole. It’s still not a square.”
“Well… Aren’t you perceptive.”
Sam shifted in his seat, giving the demon a pointed look. “We’re not doing this here.” His voice was polite, but firm. Or, about as firm as he could manage.
Crowley gave him a look that said ‘you can’t stop me,’ but he lets the moment hang.
“You’re loud.” Bee said. “I could hear you before you came in.”
Silence fell between them, filled by the quiet scratching of her pen on paper. Crowley’s expression doesn’t change at first — but something behind his eyes does. A flicker. Not fear. Not anger. Something closer to recognition. He studied her for a moment, really studied her, before speaking again.
“… Could you, now.” He mused, his voice turning thoughtful. “And what, pray tell, does ‘loud’ mean to you?”
“You hum.” Bee didn’t bother looking up from her.
Crowley blinked at her.
Dean looked like he was about to have a stroke, his hands tightening on the mug again even though it’s uncomfortably warm to touch.
Sam’s eyebrows climbed.
“I… hum.” Crowley finally repeated.
“Like a refrigerator. Or a power line. Or when the TV’s on but the screen’s black.”
Crowley went completely still. Not amused, but not offended or threatened either. “… Fascinating.”
“Crowley.” Dean muttered.
“Relax, squirrel. I left my dissection tools at home.” He deadpanned.
Sam took in a sharp breath, the sound hissing faintly through his teeth. Dean’s jaw tightened as he ground his teeth.
“I’m drawing.” Bee said.
Crowley’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, not really a smirk. Something softer, fainter, and harder to name rather. “By all means, poppet. Don’t let me interrupt.” He leaned just slightly. Not enough to crowd her, but enough to get a better view of the paper. “And what’s captured your attention so effectively, hm?”
She didn’t answer right away. In silence, Bee finished a couple lines before setting her pen aside and pushing the drawing to the center of the table.
The drawing was fairly simple. A set of stairs with a doorway at the foot of them. Only, the doorway was completely dark… save for two white dots staring out. Dean felt the back of his neck prickle as he stared down at it. Sam reached for the picture, turning it a fraction to get a better look. He and Dean shared a look. A kind of look that said, ‘Oh shit, what have we gotten into this time?’
And Crowley? He went stock-still, something in him locking up to the point his physical form briefly forgot to fake breathing. Even though it was a child’s drawing, something in him could feel it. That he was looking at something very old… and very dangerous.
“… Where did you see that?” He asked quietly.
“At home. … Before John shot it.” Bee swung her legs under the table and reached for her tea, taking a drink.
Dean felt his stomach sink. Sam straightened in his seat, his pulse jumping a little.
“That’s not a monster under the bed, poppet.” Crowley’s gaze lingered on the drawing’s white orbs.
Be nodded. “I know.”
Dean’s gaze turned to Crowley, and it made him hesitate. The demon’s mask had slipped. Just a hair – anyone who didn’t know him as well as they did would’ve missed it. But Dean saw it. The way his eyes sharpened and his posture stiffened. The air around him seemed to tighten, like the room had dropped a degree.
“Do you know what it is?” Dean leaned forward a little.
“No.” Crowley admitted, peering at him. “… And that should worry you.”
He opened his mouth to retort, to question, something. But any words that he had planned go out the window as the waitress approaches and sets a hot tea in front of Crowley. “Here you are, hon.”
“Delightful.” He said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“Are y’all ready to order?”
“Uh… yeah.” Dean cleared his throat faintly and closed his menu, handing it to her. “Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Whatever’s fastest.”
“Same, please.” Sam nodded, handing her his.
“Just the tea is fine.” Crowley intoned, having zero interest in food, his gaze falling to the girl’s drawing.
“Pancakes, please. With bacon.” Bee handed the waitress her own menu. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing, hon.” The waitress smiled at the girl, spared the three men a glance, and headed back toward the kitchen.
Only when she was gone, out of earshot, did Dean speak up, unable to hold back the question that had risen up in his mind. “Bee… What did it do?”
Bee’s gaze fell – hell, her whole face fell. She fidgeted with her pen, spinning it in a circle on the table. “… It got mom. Then it watched me. And tried to make me go toward it. But I didn’t.”
Dean’s mind derailed in a hail of fire and grim realizations. Whatever this creature was… It had killed her mother. Had tried to lure it toward her, probably to kill her. John had stopped it. Had SHOT it. And took her damn near halfway across the country to get away from it. And the worst part of it? Bee said it like a weatherman delivering a forecast. Matter-of-fact, and dispassionate.
Predatory behavior. A luring mechanism or behavior. A pattern. Sam was already trying to piece together a timeline, trying to parse what the creature was or might’ve been. Beside him, Crowley had fallen quiet, watching the girl with an unreadable expression as she opened her notebook and started to draw. This time, thankfully, she seemed to be drawing a frog.
“Bee… It tried to… pull you toward it?” Dean asked softly despite how tense he’d gone.
“It tried sounding like mom. But it wasn’t her.” Bee answered simply.
“Did it talk?” Sam’s voice was gentle, careful. “Did it speak to you?”
“… It kept repeating the last thing mom said.”
Dean released his coffee mug, resting his elbows on the table as he clasped his hands in front of his mouth, taking a deep breath to steady himself. After a moment, he again turned toward her. “Bee, when it—”
Sam cut him off gently but firmly, tapping his foot against Dean’s shin beneath the table. Not hard, but enough. Dean shot him a look. Sam mouthed silently, “Later.” Dean’s jaw worked. Part of him wanted to protest. The bigger part of him, however, knew Sam was right. He sighed heavily through his nose and nodded, reaching for his now cooled coffee and taking a long drink.
Sam watched him carefully, making sure the message had sunk in. Crowley’s gaze flicked between the brothers, amused and curious — he knows exactly what that exchange meant.
For her part, Bee kept drawing her frog, swinging her legs under the table, unaware of the emotional minefield she just created and partly walked them into.
The silence stretched for a few seconds.
Crowley breaks it first, voice low and almost conversational, “Well. Isn’t this cozy.”
Dean shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
Sam cleared his throat, trying to keep the peace. “We’ll… talk more about this later, Bee. Somewhere quieter.”
“Okay.” Bee said, not looking up.
As if on cue, the waitress returned, balancing a tray as she sets plates of hot food in front of them. Each brother, she had gotten them the special – two eggs, has browns, bacon, toast. Then, set a little plate of pancakes and a side of bacon in front of Bee, who thanked her softly and reached for the syrup where it sat in the middle of the table, just out of her reach.
Dean watched her struggle for a moment before reaching out and setting the syrup in her reach. His face did something complicated – not quite a wince, or at least not a wince of pain. A wince of realization that they were now responsible for a tiny person. A person too short to reach things on her own, too small to outrun a serious threat, too delicate to take any form of hit, and too young to have a full context for their world and the monsters in it… even the one she had seen.
He swallowed thickly, stomach turning, his appetite suddenly falling off despite how good the food looked. Sam glanced between him and Bee, and watched in silence as Bee poured syrup over her pancakes before dipping her bacon in the maple syrup. The sight made something in his chest clench. Dipping bacon in syrup… just like dad always did. It struck something in both brothers, something neither of them were ready to discuss, or prepared to have randomly poked by a child unaware she had poked anything.
“… Christ.” Dean muttered before grabbing his fork, forcing down a few bites of scrambled eggs.
Sam offered him a sympathetic look, poking at his own plate.
Crowley gave a faint chuckle, sipping at his tea as he turned over all this new information in his mind.