The Bond

Summary:

Iris Watson is something of a rare breed when it comes to the human species. For all purpose, she is perfectly average. She enjoys the little things in life, has hobbies in photography and music. She comes from a middle class family, with familial issues all too normal. There is but one thing that sets her apart from other people.

Something even she isn't aware of until the form of a battered man in a tarnished trench coat passes out on her front porch.

Being pulled into a world filled with supernatural creatures had been the last thing Iris ever thought would happen.

Though, Fate itself is a fickle thing.

Author's Note:

Yet another beginning to another plot bunny running through my head that I just need to get out. Please, leave a review. This is a work in progress, and I'm not particularly sure how it will play out yet. Each chapter title is associated with a type of bond people share with each other, or a common factor that acts as a catalyst for the beginnings of some form of relationship (friendship, lovers, rivalry, family, etc). Something that connects them in a way. In this story, every character, no matter how minimal, shares a certain level of a bond. This will be a slow building Cas/OC fic, as I want to focus on the way many people grow comfortable and familiar with each other. Let me know what you all think.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, but Iris and any OC's you might see are of my own creation. I will most likely take requests in supernatural creatures that will be used in future chapters and confronted by team Free Will (Winchesters and Cas). Requests before the chapter is written will be foot-noted at the end of the prior chapter, so I encourage your ideas.

Thanks again!

Chapter One
Morale

"How can you even say Dream Theater beats Metallica? It's unheard of, much like Dream Theater."

Iris Watson giggles softly at the heated words coming from the older man standing behind the glass display case. Her mess of thick, tightly-spun, black curls were tucked under the purple, knitted hat. Dark green eyes gleam with adoration as pale-pink, slightly-chapped lips releases the green straw as she swallows the caffienated beverage.

"Hey, don't take that tone with me. I love Metallica, you and I both know that," Iris states in mild-humor, her nibbled-short fingernails gleaming with the remnants of dark purple varnish as she motions animatedly with her words, "We are arguing lyrical content. Don't get me wrong, Metallica's lyrics are some of my favorite works, but Dream Theater's words carry more depth and less anger toward the world."

Andrew Macintosh chuckles, shaking his head, "Why do I get into these arguments with you?"

Hearing a small chime at the door, Iris glances over her shoulder as a trio of teens enters the privately-owned record store, "As if I have an answer for that? Anyway, I have to get going. Those pictures aren't going to e-mail themselves."

"Take care, Watson," Andrew responds, nodding with a small smile on his face.

"Back at ya', Mac."

The petite woman of twenty-six gives a lazy wave over her shoulder as she slips through the doors, the bells chiming once again. Finishing off her coffee, Iris tosses the plastic cup into a nearby trash can before straddling her all-black Ducati, a present she divulged herself two years ago. Revving the engine, Iris weaves her way down the main road, heading to her house, about two miles down a long stretch of road just outside of town.

After twenty minutes of leisurely driving, Iris parks in the driveway of a quaint two-story house. Heading inside, she kicks the door shut behind her, shrugging off the light-weight leather jacket and unwinding the purple, knitted scarf from around her neck. Hanging up both items in the foyer's closet, she drops her keys and her wallet on the small table adjacent to the closet. With a soft sigh, she ventures deeper into the dimly lit house, hitting the voicemail machine as she enters the kitchen.

"You have three new messages."

"Hey, Iris, it's me," Iris groans, her fingers rubbing at the bridge of her nose, "Just letting you know we made it to Toronto. We all miss you and hope you are doing okay. You are doing okay, yes? If anything comes up, you know how to get a hold of us."

Shaking her head, Iris opens the fridge as the next message plays, "Iris, this is Marcy speaking. Just letting you know, some of your photos have been selected to enter a showcase to a charity benefit for the Children's Miracle Network. Call me in the morning and we'll talk more about it."

Anything to help sick children, Iris muses as she pulls out a beer, using the side of the counter to pop the cap off, just as a familiar, annoying voice starts on the next message, "Iris! It's been a month since we've heard from you. Don't tell me you're starting to act like that sister of your's and holing yourself up all alone in that house! Disgraceful, if you ask me. The trouble she put this family through. If she didn't go and-"

Iris growls, slapping her palm against the top of the machine, effectively cutting off the message. Rude old hag, Iris seeths inwardly. Nursing her beer, Iris makes her way out of the kitchen, inclined to getting those photos sent off. Three steps up the staircase, Iris freezes as a frantic knock sounds against the front door. Slowly moving down the stairs, her green eyes peers through the frosted glass window to see a hunched-over figure.

Iris had not been expecting the beaten and battered man to topple forward, landing half-way over the threshold. Blinking down at the groaning man, Iris barely hesitates as she kneels next to him as he struggles to push himself off of the ground. To be honest, the man looked like shit in her eyes. Blood coated half of his face, clumping in the hairs of his beard. Rips and tears were visible in his tattered clothing, the once light-tan tenchcoat covered in mud and most likely dried blood. His labored breathing plants a seed of worry as he manages to get onto his hands and knees, his unusually-blue eyes blinking up at her slowly, as if he is unable to piece together what happened.

"Good Lord, man. Are you okay?" she asks, mentally cursing her seconds afterward for asking such a stupid question, "Do you need me to call an ambulence?"

"N-No," he murmurs, gruff and raspy, as though he had been either using it too little, or using it too much, "D-Dean W-Win..."

Iris lets out a small yelp as the man collapses on the floor. Nibbling her bottom lip, a bad habit when a big decision pops into her lap, Iris shakes her head and decides to honor the man's request. For all she knew, he could be one of them religious types that don't believe in medicine. Twenty minutes later, Iris winces as she unceremoniously drops the dead weight on the bed, her breathing labored from forcing herself to carry the man up the stairs. Seriously! Stairs were her worst enemy. So violent.

Breaking out of her inward ranting, Iris manages to move him around, getting the dirty coat off of his body. Looking through the pockets for any type of indentification, she lets out a triumphant, soft cry as her hand pulls out an old, slightly abused cell phone. Flipping it open, she sees only a few contacts, one of them labeled Dean Winchester. Hitting the send button, she places it to her ear only to receive an automated voice telling her the phone is no longer in service.

Making her way back downstairs, Iris grabs her house phone, not wanting to use her personal cell phone. Getting the ten-digit number, she plugs it into her own phone before placing it to her ear.

"Hello?" a gruff voice, ladened with sleep, greets her.

Licking her lips, Iris inhales deeply, settling her nerves, "Um, hi. Is this Dean Winchester?"

Hearing the nervously soft feminine voice, Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he pulls his cell phone from his ear. Not recognizing the number, Dean forces himself to recall if he might have given his number to anyone in the last few months. Unable to come up with anything, Dean sits up, tense and ready for whatever this call might be.

Or at least he thought.

"Depends on who's asking," the oldest of the two Winchester brothers replies, glancing over as the form of his younger brother, Sam, begins to stir at the sound of his voice.

"Um, sorry. I know it's probably late, and I most likely woke you up, but I...I'm not sure what to do," the woman blurts out frantically.

"So you are calling me because why?"

"Yeah. My name is Iris Watson. I live in Boulder, Colorado. Um...a...a man kind of showed up on my front porch. He seemed pretty beaten up. I tried to get him to go to a hospital, but he seemed insistent that I get a hold of you."

Suspicious of the woman, Dean shares a look with Sam, his brother quirking an eyebrow in question, "Okay? Does this man have a name?"

"Not from anything I can find on him. I think maybe he was in a fight, probably mugged."

"Why don't you describe him for me?" Dean suggests, closing his eyes and wishing he had stayed asleep.

"Um...his hair is dark, from what I could tell. Facial hair. Probably about five-ten in height. Blue eyes. His clothes were pretty disgusting to be honest. I'm not even sure if that coat of his can be salvaged."

Blue eyes? Coat? Dean's eyes snap open, "Coat? Like a trench coat?"

"Um...yeah, actually."

Dean ignores Sam, launching himself to his feet and staggering to the dresser draws in the hotel room, "You said he seemed pretty beat up?"

"Pretty bad head shot from what it looks like. I'm not exactly a doctor, but I can try to clean whatever injuries he might have."

Dean tosses his clothes into his duffle bag, still ignoring the frantic gleam in his brother's eyes, and the demanding hisses of his name, "Alright. Listen. Tend to whatever wounds you can. Don't answer your door for anyone, not until we get there. If you have a doorbell, I'll ring it three times."

"Um...sure, I guess."

Walking over to the table, Dean urges the woman for her address and jotts it down in the small note pad. Hanging up, his moss-green eyes turn to his brother, who now stands by his bed, looking confused and distressed.

"Who was that?" Sam asks.

"A woman named Iris Watson. She said a man, pretty beaten up, appeared on her front porch," Seeing the confusion in his brother's eyes, Dean glares pointedly, "The man has dark hair, blue eyes and was wearing a tattered trench coat."

"You think it's Cas?" Sam gasps, gaping at the idea of the angel's return from Purgatory.

"She said he refused hospitalization and instead he mentioned my name," Dean points out as he moves to collect their things, "Let's go."

"Right."

Iris sighs as she twists the hand towel over the water basin, wincing as the water seems to grow more and more red with each wipe of the man's injuries. Thankfully finished with washing away the majority of the blood, she smiles at the peaceful features on his face. Without all the blood, he looked to be rather handsome. Reaching out, Iris carefully brushes the man's bangs bag from his face.

A yelp escapes her throat as an odd, burn travels up her arm as her fingers brush over the smooth skin of his forehead. Shaking it off, she stands with the water basin and dumps it down the drain. Washing her hands, she glances at her reflection. Knowing she wouldn't be getting any sleep, Iris decides to get those photos sent. Making her way to the basement, which she made into her personal portrait studio, with a black room and all, she sighs as she begins going through the negatives.

She is in for a long night.

A day and a half, of non-stop driving and very short breaks for gas and food, the Winchesters pull into the driveway of a quaint two-story house. Climbing out, Dean admires the sporty motorcycle parked in front of the house as the brothers approach the front door. Ringing the doorbell three times, Dean hides his amusement as crashes and a series of thuds sound from inside the house before the door swings open.

Panting heavily at the threshold stood a petite woman. Her thick black curls seemed untamed and her appearance looked to be frazzled at best. Dark green eyes stare back at them with relief. Dressed in a simple pair of black yoga pants and a long-sleeve grey-and-black striped shirt, the woman seemed uncomfortable despite her lounge wear.

"Iris Watson?" Sam greets, earning a curt nod in return, "I'm Sam Winchester, this is my brother, Dean."

"R-Right. Please, come on in," she replies, motioning for them to step inside.

"You have a lovely home here," Sam comments gently, trying to act normal, despite the urgency of the situation.

Iris blinks once as she stares at him blankly, her shoulders shrugging, "I suppose I do. It's been a long time since I considered it my home." The brother's share a look during her nervous pause, "Um, he is...upstairs if you want to check on him."

Following her up the stairs, they find themselves entering a blandly decorated room. Both of the brothers stare wide-eyed at the unconscious form sprawled on the bed, Dean being the first to act as he ushers himself toward the bed. Looking over his friend, a small grain of hope solidifies within his heart at the sight of their feathered friend.

He was really here.

"Did he wake up at all?" Sam asks, standing a few feet behind his brother.

Iris shifts in her stance, looking around the room, "Um...no. To be honest, he seemed really worn down when he showed up."

"Anything...out of the ordinary happen after you called us?" Sam questions, hoping to shed some light on the subject.

The young woman looks down briefly before nodding, "Actually. It was weird. I left to get some groceries yesterday afternoon. I managed to make it half a mile down the road before I began feeling sick to my stomach. The further I was from the house, the sick feeling grew more painful. I figured, maybe I came down with something."

"But...?"

Shifting once again, Iris rubs the back of her neck, "The moment I stepped into the house, the feeling went away. I grabbed a quick shower, figuring it to be nerves or something, when I noticed something...odd." Both brothers look up at her pause and watch as she pulls at the collar of her shirt, revealing an odd, blackened symbol etched into the pale skin along the center of her chest, "I know for a fact that I never had this before. I remember every tattoo I've ever gotten, and I never had this done."

"Hey, Dean, doesn't this look like one of those Enochian binding sigils?" Dean grunts in agreement to Sam's question, the youngest of the two reaching up.

Iris immediately releases the collar of her shirt and steps back, "Um...sorry, but I'm not very comfortable touching people I've just met."

Sam allows a small smile to cross his lips, "It's understandable. We can't thank you enough for helping our friend."

"No problem. Really. I mean, it was a pain in the ass hauling him up the stairs, but I couldn't just leave him like that," she muses, before clapping her hands together, "Are you guys hungry? I make a pretty decent burger."

Dean's eyes brighten at the suggestion, "Sounds great, thanks. Sammy here eats rabbit food though."

Iris giggles at the look on Sam's face, "It's alright. I think I have some veggie-burger patties."

Iris watches as both brothers polish off the last of their burgers and swallows the mouthful of beer. Not quite sure what to make of the situation, Iris stands to take the dishes, but Sam is quick to offer his services. Of course, by offer, she means he out right told her to sit down and he'd do them. Odd. Being commanded to do something in her own house. Seeing Dean standing in front of the wall display of portraits, Iris tilts her head before making her way over. Seeing him stare at the picture of her younger self with an arm thrown over the shoulders of a younger girl, Iris feels a sad smile tug at her lips.

"That was taken when I was seventeen," She flashes him a small grin as he jumps, "That girl there, that was Violet, my little sister. She was a tough one to get along with, but...a person knew when she cared about them. She lived by the idea that actions speak louder than words. She was talented beyond belief."

"What happened?" Dean asks softly.

"She died, two years ago. It's been hard for me. I always looked out for her and now she's...dead," Iris looks away from the saddened gleam in Dean's eyes, "I would have done anything. I would give up everything if it meant she'd walk back through that door, but..." she shakes her head at the thought, "The dead are supposed to stay dead, you know?"

"Y-Yeah," he grunts out.

Iris wipes at the tears in her eyes, "S-Sorry. I usually don't get overly emotional. I've always been the logical one between us two. Anyway, if you guys want, I have some spare rooms you are welcome to use," Iris sees a glint of confusion flicker in the older man's eyes, "I figured you two would want to be nearby in case something happens."

Dean snorts, causing Iris to cock a pierced eyebrow in response, "You know, bringing a battered man into your house and offering people a place to stay is like the beginning to a really, really bad horror flick."

Iris giggles lightly at him, "Maybe so, but...something about your friend seemed...honest and sincere. I didn't have the heart to turn him away."

Turning to her, Dean gives her a small smile, "Thanks for that, by the way. We...we thought we lost him."

Yawning, Iris stretches her arms over her head, "Well...I need to get some sleep. You guys can help yourselves to anything, just...stay out of the basement. It's kind of my workshop."

Earning a nod of acknowledgment, Iris makes her way upstairs. Slipping under the covers of her bed, Iris uses a remote to turn on her stereo. As Metallica's 'Master of Puppets' filters through the air softly, Iris drifts off to sleep, a pair of impossibly blue eyes flashing through her mind.

Alright, that's it for the first chapter and the beginning of this story. I kind of like how it is flowing so far, so please, review. I would like to know what you guys like, and what you think needs worked on. I do take time out to respond to each of my reviewers and I give shout outs to new followers (whom I call my minions). Thanks for reading.