Helping someone get clean wasn't ever in Russell's sphere of 'maybe's. His friends, and Heather's, were always upstanding citizens, and never hunted monsters.

Over the past week, he's noticed his newest friend eyeballing that bright orange bottle of pills that are running rather low. She's been reducing how much she's taking to avoid the cold turkey withdrawal effects, but that doesn't mean they're nonexistent.

Katherine is always sweating. Cold sweat, hot sweat. She's grouchy, but that's not really anything new.

Russell suggested going to a clinic to help her transition a little smoother. All he got in response was a cool blue glare, and something like a, "don't need fucking help."

She's been doing well, though. He hasn't seen any liquor bottles in the recycling bin or trash can, and restricts herself to two glasses of wine a day. Granted, this is only day eight. There's a lot of hill left.

She had a nightmare last night, and Russell had a front row show, just like he has since she silently committed herself to getting clean.

When the sun rose, Russell couldn't get the image of Charlie's bloody body out of his mind. As Katherine wailed and he tried to hold her, soothe her, her husband is the only thing he saw. Laying on his left side, his top arm, his right arm, was stretched out across the floor towards her. His eyes were open, bloodshot.

There was blood everywhere. Russell had never seen anything like it. It rooted in his chest, forced tears to the back of his eyes.

He didn't know Charlie, but he knows he didn't deserve that.

With crossed arms, she stares at her water with something that looks like hatred, disgust. Russell poured her some orange juice, but she handed it back to him, and said it's a potentiator.

Whatever the fuck that meant. He just took it back.

Her eyes are bloodshot, and bluish-red underneath. She didn't sleep well.

"How do you feel this morning?" Russell asks. He couldn't help himself. He was probably going to get a biting remark in return, but it was fine. At least she's talking.

"I know you saw it," she murmurs. "I saw you in the kitchen." Bloodshot eyes flit up to his, and electricity shoots down his spine.

Russell doesn't know how he's able to see her dreams. It probably has something to do with the witch-familiar bond, but there's such limited lore on the internet, and he doesn't want to go around asking the wrong people.

He sees her dreams like a conscious third party. Last night, it was as if he was at the scene as the events were unfolding. He saw a man swing a bat at Katherine's ribs. His face was distorted, features bland and indistinguishable.

Idly, Russell wonders if Katherine doesn't remember his face all that well.

Staring at her sallow face, he hears her screams echoing in his ears, sees the light turn off in her eyes as Charlie dies not seven feet in front of her. He didn't know if her face went blank in shock or if it froze in cold fury.

There are storms in her eyes as they rake over his face. Dark brown roots fade to dirty blonde, some brassy strands, pulled up into the messiest of knots that's fallen onto the back of her head from a night of restless sleep.

He doesn't think her anger is directed at him. He just happens to be there. It bothers him only a little.

"Look, no offense, but I'd much rather not see 'em," Russell says, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "But the reality is, I can see into your head. I'm sorry. It must feel like an invasion of privacy."

Her eyes turn from him, and he gets the feeling of admonishment. It's one of those feelings that he doesn't know where it came from.

Katherine's jaw tightens as she looks at the floor, and Russell can see the gears in her mind turning. It's fine, he thinks. Don't say much anyway.

But it's another one of those "not mine" feelings. There's a different tone to it.

He has a theory, as crazy as it sounds, that there's some telepathic link between the two of them. It would perfectly explain his ability to dive into her head, to get these "not mine" feelings and thoughts, as he referred to them.

If only there were someone to help.

"We should keep looking," Katherine says, and pushes herself up from the table.

Russell softly exhales through his nose, lips pressed together, as his eyes follow her around the kitchen. She has her pill bottle, a water bottle...what else is she looking for?

"Katherine?" He asks. She lifts her blue eyes to him, calm now. Innocent, inquiring. "You should be proud of yourself."

She's staring at him in a way he can't decipher. Her face is soft, eyes almost swimming around his face.

"Why are you so fucking nice?" She asks.

Russell doesn't have an answer for her.

They sit outside by the pool with their computers and notepads. It would be a shame to let the clear blue sky go to waste by sitting on the sofa.

Katherine falls asleep around noon, shortly after taking her first pill of the day. She'd already committed to taking a 15 minute break on account of a developing headache, taken her shirt off, and flipped onto her belly.

Russell, body angled as he writes down something of intrigue from the deep dark witchy web, lifts his eyes from the paper. He heard something.

She laughed. Quiet, like she was farther away than only five feet. The sound of it was different. An echo, almost.

She's dreaming.

The smell of pizza wafts around him, inviting him to wherever she is. Muted conversation. He feels like the space is small, wherever she is, but he can't see anything yet.

Slipping into her dreams while they're both asleep is one thing. Allowing himself to see them while he's awake is another, an actual invasion of privacy and violation of autonomy.

"—rake and shovel conversation," an unfamiliar voice says. "No hoes allowed."

Russell hasn't heard Katherine's laugh so closely, just across the yard at his birthday, but the one he hears is unmistakably hers. It's loud and full, from the belly and so full of joy.

He's in a motel room. Two beds in nondescript brown comforters are to his left, and to his right is a dresser with a small television. There's a wall behind it, stucco and painted a hideous mint green. The background noise he's hearing is coming from the radio alarm clock on the endtable between the beds. Russell recognizes the music as Bob Seger's. The clock reads 2/14/06 11:45PM.

"Happy Valentine's Day to me, I guess," another man grumbles. "Fuck."

"Aw, Dean!" Katherine coos. Her voice is so...sweet.

Dean. Russell takes a few steps forward and peers around the wall.

Three people sit at a small round table with three boxes of pizza between them. One of them is Katherine, and the other two are both men, both brunette. He doesn't know which one is Dean.

She looks younger. Her wavy hair is a lighter blonde, her bangs are shorter and swept to the sides from the middle. She's wearing a red spaghetti strap tank top. The man beside her, the lighter-haired of the two, is in flannel, checkered with light blue and gray and white, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a gray t-shirt underneath. He's broad-shouldered and slim, but the way his knee tucks under the table, Russell can guess they're of similar height.

The man with his back to Russell has a shaggy cut of straight dark hair that curls at the end. He's broad, too, but the way he's hunched over the table tells him he's got several inches on the other one.

"Thanks for the wings," Katherine says, reaching for the paper bag at the edge of the table.

"Pizza and wings," the one beside her sighs, watching her hands move. "And beer." His light eyes lift to the other guy across the table, smiling loosely. "Never a bad idea."

Katherine licks barbecue sauce from her thumb, big blue eyes trained on him in a funny way. They're soft, bright and alive. "Dean, I don't drink beer."

He sighs, his smile turning into a tight line as he swings his gaze to her This is Dean, then. Objectively a good-looking dude. Sandy brown hair styled just enough to make it seem like it isn't, but he probably spent ten minutes perfecting it. High cheekbones, angular jaw, bright white teeth.

"Cider for the princess, of course." He reaches to the floor and lifts a brown bottle with a blue label from the black plastic bag. Katherine grins.

"So spoiled," the other man coos, and together, the men taunt in a chant, "Princess, princess!"

"Shut up," she laughs. "I bet she made you pay full price, huh?"

Dean groans and rolls his head back. "Man, I couldn't get nothin outta her."

"How unusual for you," the other one hums. "How's your ego?"

Dean shrugs. "One woman's trash is another woman's treasure."

Katherine chokes on her drink, holding back a snort. "Did she even let you ask for her number?" She polishes off the chicken wing and tosses it onto the empty side of the pizza box.

"She did," Dean confirms. "Well, actually, I tried to give her my number."

Katherine and the other man offer dramatized oohs and conspiratorial glances. "Dean never gives his number away," she hums, going for a slice of pizza.

"Yeah," Dean scoffs, turning his gaze to her. Russell watches the ease of their interaction, his arm draped over her chair, fingertips brushing her shoulder. "You know what she said to me?"

Katherine chews, big blue eyes locked on his face. With a straight face, she says, "'We got tonight, who needs tomorrow'?"

Dean's face falls flat, and the other man at the table is unable to completely stifle his laugh. Dean blinks at her. "Is everything a Bob Seger song to you?"

"Yes." She takes a bite of her pizza. Russell watches the way Dean's eyes trail down her face and stop at her mouth. Her tongue swipes out to lick her lips, and she looks at Sam with a smiling face.

There's electricity in the room. He can feel it in this dream, or a memory, maybe. It's in the way they look at each other, Dean and Katherine.

"Well Sam and I traded Valentines," she says, gesturing to the paper pink heart clipped around her tank top strap. "You really missed out on the fun."

Dean looks to the other man's chest. Sam. "Little pink heart for you, too, huh Sammy?"

"And we watched romcoms and talked about our feelings," Sam teases, reaching for his beer.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up, head slowly bobbing. "How riveting."

"It's very therapeutic," Katherine hums. "You should give it a go."

"I politely decline," Dean sighs, looking at the table.

Russell ventures out from behind the wall, from the shadows of the bedroom, and takes in the space on the other side of the wall he hadn't seen before. When he turns his head, his heart stops in his chest.

Katherine's sharp blue eyes are trained on him, but the two men are engaged in their own conversation. Like Russell isn't even here.

Russell swallows his alarm, looking at the face of a Katherine who didn't know the atrocities she'd witness in just two years. How it's changed her so.

The motel melts away, and it's just the two of them in darkness.

"Sometimes it's not so bad, being asleep," Katherine murmurs.

"I see her there, too," Russell says. "Makes you wonder why you wake up, right?" She nods. "And it's only the chance of seeing them the next time that gets you through the day."

She purses her lips, shoulders sagging a little. "How come I can't see your dreams?" Katherine quietly asks.

"I don't know," Russell admits. "I don't know how I can see yours, really. Some kind of upside to being witch and familiar."

"I mean, that's all but confirmed."

He shrugs. "Who's going to confirm it, the dark web?"

"Then why do you keep looking there?"

"Because where else would I look?"

"I don't know," she admits, looking away from him. Her voice doesn't have a bite to it like it does now. "You must think I'm some wretched bitch, but I wasn't always that way," she quietly murmurs.

"I don't think that."

"I used to know how to laugh."

"You laugh with Jackson," he gently reminds her.

Katherine nods. "Yeah. He's a good guy." She looks at the table for a brief moment. There's some noise, huge and unidentifiable, looming almost overhead. "He said you were in the pros."

Russell closes his eyes at the piercing noise. "The fuck is that?"

She looks up and tilts her head. "I think it's my phone—"

Russell sits up in his chair by the pool. Katherine is pushing herself up from the ground and fumbling for her cell, grumbling curses.

She stares at the front. "Holy shit." Katherine opens her phone and holds it to her ear. "Rufus?"