Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, the Winchesters or Bobby. Just Alice and Tricia. They're mine.

Hi guys. Just a quick note before I start. This is one of my first fics with an OC, so please be kind to us. I really love reviews, especially if you feel that there's something I should be writing differently. If you dislike Mary Sue's, you're in luck because I do too and have absolutely no intention of making Alice one. Sorry for the somewhat cliche title, but I couldn't think of anything else.

Alice tossed her backpack over her shoulder and turned to her sister. She and Tricia had grown up together in foster care and then later on the streets. Here they were, possibly the last time they'd see each other for awhile. Tricia brushed away her tears and zipped up Alice's hoodie. This was important to Alice, even if it was hard for them both.

"Remember, if it doesn't work out, you always have a home here," she whispered, pulling Alice in for an teary hug. By now, both girls were crying openly and people were starting to stare, "Call me when you meet him, okay?"

Alice nodded and wiped at her eyes, "You'll call if you ever need me, right? Even if it goes well, you're still my sister and I love you," she saw Tricia stiffen a little, "You come first, even before him."

The bus driver gave the boarding call and Alice picked up her instrument case and got on. Looking out the window, she saw her sister collapse onto a bench in tears. She looked away, knowing that Tricia would pound her face in if she backed out now. They'd worked for months to track down her father, and they'd at least found a place in South Dakota where he had friends.

Alice's POV

I rode on the bus for almost five hours before it finally slowed to a stop in Sioux Falls. According the map I had stuffed in my pocket, Robert Singer lived at a junkyard a few miles outside of town. I didn't enough money for a cab fare, and I was too paranoid to hitch. Normally the walk wouldn't have bothered me, but I was exhausted and hungry. Oh well, no point in complaining.

When I finally made it to the junkyard that supposedly belonged to Robert Singer, the moon was already high in the sky. A gruff man of about fifty appeared behind me with a shotgun. Reassuring, I thought, my dad's buddies with this paranoid freak.

"Put the bags on the ground and tell me who you are," he demanded. I did what he asked without hesitation and stuck my hands in the air by my face.

"Are you Robert Singer?"

"Depends who's asking," he retorted.

Sighing, I launched into an explanation, "My name is Alice Rosalynne Holmes. Apparently, you know my father and I'm trying to track him down. Can you help me?" he looked shocked, but he lowered his gun.

"How did you get here?" he asked. After he was satisfied with the Q&A, he took my backpack and tried to grab my instrument case, but I took it back, "I'd like to carry that myself," he raised an eyebrow, but didn't object.

Once we were inside, he set set a steaming bowl of chili and a glass of milk on the table and practically ordered me to eat. Apparently, I looked skinny, which made sense considering my habit of handing over my meals to the pregnant girl who slept across from me. When I finished, he showed me the bathroom and told me to take as long as I liked in the shower.

If you've ever gone a long time without washing your hair, you know how fantastic it feels to finally get it clean. After going two months without having a hot meal and an actual hot shower, I felt like I was in Heaven. Robert Singer seemed like a good guy. He seemed a little paranoid, and like he was hiding something from me, but I wasn't getting the feeling that he was interested in doing anything bad to me. That was something.

When I got out of the shower and changed into a relatively clean purple shirt and jeans, I was surprised at my reflection. The girl standing in the mirror was a lot prettier than she'd been before. Her skin, though pale, was clear, aside from a few scars and bruises here and there. Her hair, my hair, was the same as it's always been, dark and long, but now that I was wearing it down and it was actually clean, the colour was vibrant and beautiful. Damn, I thought, I clean up good.

I pulled on my boots and headed down the hallway. Robert Singer was facing away from me, staring out the window. Hesitantly, I half whispered, "Mr. Singer?"

He chuckled and turned to face me with a warm smile, "Just Bobby if you don't mind, Alice," he handed me a glass of water, "If you're that skinny, you're probably dehydrated too. Although, if you don't mind me saying, you're a very pretty young lady."

I took the glass and smiled, "Thank you. You're probably the nicest man I've met in a long time, if you don't mind me saying," I added in afterthought. He chuckled again and muttered something about being seriously afraid of the other men I'd met.

After a few minutes of small talk, we started on the heavier topic of my father. I told him that I'd grown up in foster homes and finally gotten my birth certificate when I'd run away from my last home and stolen everything with my name on it. Then I'd worked on tracking my father down for about six months before finding out that he was connected to Bobby. This morning I'd gotten on a bus bound for Sioux Falls.

"So you wanna tell me your daddy's name? If I do know him, maybe I can help you find him," I fished my birth certificate out of my bag and slid it over to him. He visibly paled when he read the name attached.

"I saw news reports of him," I said, voice low, "They were all saying he was dead or worse, but since there were three saying he had died, I thought it smelled like rat."

Bobby shook his head and grinned, "You were right. He's still alive and kicking," he didn't mention him being innocent of the crimes he'd been accused and that worried me. Glancing over, he reassured me, "Don't worry, kiddo. He didn't do what they said he did either."

That was a weight off my chest. It didn't seem to me like Bobby was telling me the whole truth, though. He was hiding something. I had already figured out that he was at least a little obsessed with mythology from all the books he had lying around, but it felt like there was something more to it.

"You'll find out everything you need to know in time, Squirt," he assured me. Squirt? That was a new nickname. Weird, but not necessarily bad. Reading my face again, he chuckled and told me I looked like I needed a good bit of rest that we'd talk in the morning.

The spare room was like the rest of the house: dusty and cluttered with books and trinkets. But it had an actual bed which was, however dusty, at least somewhat clean. I wasn't going to be picky, though. I'd slept in places far worse than Bobby Singer's spare room in my short little lifetime. Kicking off my shoes, I settled on the bed, staring at the patterns on the ceiling. They were strange, with pentagons and scripts that looked older than time, but for some reason they made me feel safe.

Bobby Singer, I thought as I fell asleep, What a character.

A/N: Me again. Sorry if Bobby's a little OOC in this, but I really wanted him to get protective of Alice for later. Thanks for reading!