Chapter Text
Home alone. Those were often the best times to throw parties, drink alcohol, and dance the night away under flashing disco lights. Others enjoyed solitude by curling up in a blanket with a good book by a warm firelight. For Ben Braeden, it was studying in the war room of the Men of Letters Bunker underneath the buzz of the overhead light.
He leaned over the long table covered in maps, printouts, and his trusty laptop. The hum of old machinery comfortably filled the silence while he studied the energy readings that had been bugging him for days. His brow furrowed in concentration, his dark hair falling into his eyes as they flicked from the laptop to the legal pad he was jotting notes with practiced efficiency.
Eventually he had to stop and rub his tired eyes. “I need a break,” Ben mumbled to himself. There were probably many definitions of “a break” out there. But for him? It was picking up a 50lb barbell and bicep curling it like a toy. All while staring at the large monitor across the room. A radar display pinged faint energy spikes in red, all converging on one location: Riverfork, Texas.
His muscles bulged under his shirt with each steady curl of the weight. All the while focused on the radar. Ben didn’t understand what he was staring at and he’s spent years studying the radar. He knew its ins and outs to give Sam and Dean the best information available.
But the fact the radar couldn’t pinpoint or even identify what it was detecting was just odd.
Shifting the barbell to his other hand, Ben swiped the laptop’s trackpad, pulling up a local newspaper archive. The headline splashed across the screen was faded and grainy: “ The Demon Girl of Riverfork: Child Disappears After Town Inferno .” It seemed random, but cross-referencing the article to the radar’s old data linked the events together. It was just a stretch to make them correlate.
“Eight years ago, half the town burned down, no fatalities, and no one really knows why. Now these spikes show up again, right on cue,” Ben muttered between steady breaths with each curl. Glancing between the screenshot of the same radar image eight years ago and now, the strange electromagnetic signatures glowing on the monitor. “It’s gotta mean something.”
The sound of boots on the steel stairs made him glance up. Dean and Sam Winchester walked in, their expressions split between curiosity and mild irritation. Dean carried a half-eaten sandwich, and Sam had a stack of lore books under his arm.
“What’s all this?” Dean asked, gesturing at the cluttered table with his sandwich. “You redecorating?” Then he noticed the weight in Ben’s hand and he became more irritated than curious, “What’d I say about working out in this room. You drop that thing on the radar and…”
“It’ll be my ass,” Ben finished with a smirk, “Did my information come through or did it come through?” before tossing the weight at Dean, “Catch!”
Without dropping his sandwich, Dean caught the 50lb dumbbell with his free hand. “Look who finally graduated from baby weights,” he grunted, giving it an experimental curl with the same level of ease Ben was having.
“You’re going to get a stomachache if you eat and work out,” Sam pointed out, hefting the books onto his shoulder.
Dean laughed and set the weight down. It was just child’s play. Hardly a work out. “Me? Tummyache? Please, what am I? Twelve?” Just as he shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and licked his fingers. Not a good example of an adult, but to Ben, he was the best.
“Good call on the Thule Society. You did good,” Sam thanked and clapped Ben on his broad shoulder. Any time to crush Nazis was always a good day.
Ben beamed at him and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “It was nothing. I’m just surprised that we didn’t hunt Hitler down sooner,” then his eyes brightened and asked, “So did you get him when he got his body or pop him as a ghost?”
“With his body. That’s the pencilstache is not…” then Sam paused and realized Ben was almost standing eye to eye with him, “Did you get taller, Ben? I could have sworn you were shorter.”
Having helped raise him, Sam was so used to looking down at this little kid, but now? At just a few inches shy of six feet and still growing, puberty hit Ben like a truck. It felt like only yesterday Ben’s shirt fit him better.
“Well, not as short as Hitler now that he’s six feet under,” Ben joked, sounding as much like Deass he did looking like him.
Sam set the books onto the long table, making sure not to disturb the work, and picked up the paper. Reading the contents to get some idea before asking, “Alright Ben. Show us what you got.”
Surprised, Ben shrugged. Not expecting to show off his work right now, but if Sam insisted. “Okay then, stand back,” and he flexed. Smoothly shifting to different poses like he was on stage to Mr. Olympia. His muscles rippled underneath his shirt as he showed off his hard work.
“No, Ben. I mean your…” Sam groaned, covering his face to hide a smile for this kid’s ridiculousness.
“What? Not impressed, Uncle Sam?” Ben questioned with a grin of youthful energy, “Check it.” He flexed one arm in a classic bicep curl, then transitioned into the cobra pose . The pose of ultimate upper body power. Elbows bent, hands by his hips, chest puffed out, and biceps on full display.
Dean gave a low whistle and squeezed his boy’s biceps. “Look at that, Sammy. 20 inch guns! You’ve been hitting the gym like crazy.” But as if there’s anything else to do while Ben is in the Bunker alone. Which was read, work out, wait for a call from Dean and Sam, then work out some more. It was the only way to be ready.
Then the older Winchester ruffled Ben’s dark brown hair like he was a kid again, “Think you can tussle with me now?”
As always, Ben rose to the challenge and gave Dean a push. “Afraid that it’ll be my time to shine, old man?”
“Old man? You hearing this, Sammy? Little Benny thinks he can take me on,” Dean laughed, squaring up to the little man.
Without wasting time on words, Ben went for a tackle and grappled Dean. Locking arms and pushing against each other like two texan bulls. It wasn’t like when he was younger. Able to get tossed around like a rag doll in a storm that was Dean Winchester. Ben held his ground and laughed. “Is that the best you got?”
“Dean, you’re going to get a stomachache,” Sam sighed, leaving them to wrestle while he looked over what Ben had gathered. Silently impressed by the level of work he put into it. He even dug up old archive data to support this idea. Reading the article on the laptop, Sam asked, “What’s this?”
Shifting his weight to his back leg to keep himself from sliding back, Ben smirked, happy that his uncle asked, and tried to answer, “Research,” but that moment of distraction allowed Dean to swoop down and grab Ben’s ankle. The kid only had a few seconds to grumble a half a curse before Dean swept him off his feet and swiftly put into a rear naked choke. “You’re welcome,” Ben gagged as he tried to slip his fingers around Dean’s forearm to loosen the hold.
“Come on, Ben. The longer you sit the deeper this gets,” Dean chided, slowly tightening his hold.
Ben struggled valiantly but couldn’t help but choke out a laugh, “At. Least. Buy. Me. dinner. First!” Which instantly earned him a trip to unconsciousness as Dean pulled on his rear naked choke to shut him up.
Eventually he had to tap out to Dean’s whoop of joy. “HA! Just what I thought, junior.” But as happy as he felt, there was a twang of… pride? Or was it fear? He wasn’t exactly sure which. The only thing he was sure of was if Sam said nothing, Ben would have gotten the upper hand on pure strength alone.
Ignoring him, Sam put the books down and raised a brow, looking more not seeing the connection. Just a stretch. “On what, exactly?”
“Riverfork, Texas,” Ben answered, quickly scrambling to his feet to show what he’s discovered. He tapped the screen of his laptop to show the interactive map from eight years ago. “Weird energy spikes started showing up a few days ago. The same spikes that popped up eight years ago, right before half the town burned down. No casualties. And get this. The locals blame the fire on some kid they call the Demon Girl of Riverfork. Eight years old, disappears without a trace, and no one can explain it.”
Dean frowned and crossed his arms. “Sounds like a bad campfire story.” Never one for campfire stories since usually they were wildly different from what’s going on or worse. Usually it was always worse. Like it was nothing, and they just wasted time. Or there’s a hell hole beneath their feet. Rarely was it ever in the middle.
“Maybe,” Ben admitted, pulling up the bunker’s radar data on the monitor. “But look at this. These spikes? They’re not natural. They’re not demonic or angelic, either. But something’s causing them.”
As the resident genius and almost college grad, Sam knew research. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it's how to find answers to questions and questions not asked yet. Just like he taught Ben. So when he studied the screen, his expression grew serious as he saw where Ben was drawing the line. “That is… strange. It’s not like anything I’ve seen before.”
“There’s a lot of things we haven’t seen before,” Dean argued, “That could be anything. A coincidence or even a phenomenon. Like Haley’s comet.”
Ben huffed and squinted at him. “Is that an actual thing or the name of your one time fling?”
It was such a quick comeback. Dean looked like he wanted to get mad or even give a retort, but the smile tugging at the corner of the mouth defeated any attempt at it. “Alright. That’s a good one.”
“Thanks. I try sometimes, but I even considered that. What kind of energy can the bunker pick up that wasn’t angelic or demonic? If it was a phenomenon wouldn’t it have sorted it out?” Ben argued, knowing that the Men of Letters wouldn’t just let their most advanced warning system be duped by a thunderstorm.
“Alright, so it’s weird . But we’ve got bigger problems,” Dean reasoned, pulling up their laundry list of issues, “Abbadon still out there, Crowley’s playing his usual games.” Okay. It was those two, but they were two big problems that were at the top of the list Dean was building, “What are we supposed to do? Drop everything to chase some kid’s urban legend?”
“I’m not saying you guys have to go,” Ben suggested, his tone sharpening. “I’m saying I will.”
It was like a blanket fell around the room as Sam and Dean slowly turned to the audacity of this kid. Alone? By himself? “Excuse me?” Dean used a warning tone that would have made even adults question their next move.
But Ben wasn’t like most people and evenly met Dean’s stare head-on. “You heard me,” Ben told him firmly, “You’ve been training me for years. I’ve been on hunts with you, I’ve done the research, and I’ve handled myself like any proper hunter. I’m ready.”
“You’re seventeen,” Sam shot back, his voice calm but firm. “This isn’t just a training exercise. Going solo is a whole different ball game.” As if that wasn’t the point. Ben was seventeen and yet, seen things most seventeen-year-olds would have pissed themselves over. It felt hypocritical since they have been hunting since they were his age. Even younger.
“And when’s it gonna stop being a ‘training exercise’?” Ben argued, tired of being the one that needed protecting. “I’m not a little kid anymore. If I don’t go, no one will. And if this turns out to be something big? What then?” Someone needed to do something, even if it wasn't the end of the world like Abbadon or the Apocalypse.
Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Kid, you don’t know what’s out there. You think you’re ready, but you’re not. Without us, you lose your safety net and suddenly, we’re not there to bail you out. Is your life a price you’re willing to pay?”
The question hung in the air like the echo of a gunshot, sharp and demanding. Demanding Ben Braeden to answer if he’s willing to do the unthinkable and put his life on the line. To die. Not a question a seventeen-year-old could even fathom. It was easy to say yes when most teenagers see it in movies and shows, but not as a hunter. For a hunter, the line between life and death was a mere knife’s edge away and was so easily severed.
Most teenagers would have laughed it off and caved. Even joked about it, but not Ben Braeden. He didn’t flinch. He was as serious as a car crash as he ran his fingers through his dark brown hair with a sigh. Not because he was tired of being treated as a kid, but he was going to have to put in some work now.
Ben slowly rose from his chair in the war room and stood chest to chest with Dean Winchester, a legend in some circles and a nightmare in others. His green eyes locked with the man who practically raised him. Raised him as a hunter.
“I. Am . Willing,” Ben declared evenly, his voice carrying more conviction than most seventeen-year-olds could ever muster in their lifetime. Even more than most adults twice his age since he left no room for doubt.
A few years ago, Dean would look down on little Ben, but he wasn’t little anymore. Ben has grown. However, he’s grown too fast and Dean could see it in the boy’s eyes.
Sam crossed his arms in a gesture that screamed disapproval. His hazel eyes, sharp with experience and edged with worry, bore into Ben like they could crack him open.
“Ben, you’re acting like a child,” Sam argued, trying to browbeat him back. It worked when he was younger but he wasn’t a child anymore. That was a lifetime ago.
“And you’re treating me like one,” Ben shot back in Winchester fashion. He didn’t understand what this was like pulling teeth. “This is the family business we’re talking about here, uncle. Hunting things, saving people . I’ve been watching you two risk your lives for years, and you taught me to do the same. Let me do this. If it’s nothing, I’ll come back. But if it’s something? Someone needs to be there.”
Dean exchanged a long, troubled look with Sam. it felt like they were having an entire conversation in silence. Sam’s expression was tight with concern, his jaw clenched. Dean seemed to weigh something in his mind.
“You really think you’re ready for this?” Dean finally asked one more time as dropped into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. Just as Ben had done.
Ben turned to face him, his expression softening just slightly. “You taught me everything I know, Dad.”
Almost imperceptibly, Dean flinched at the word “Dad.” Ben rarely used it, and when he did, it always caught Dean off guard. But Ben pushed on.
“You and Sam raised me for this life. You taught me how to fight, how to think on my feet, how to survive ever since Mom died. If I can’t do this now, what was the point of all that?” That was the point, wasn’t it? To make sure that never happens again to anyone else and most importantly, to him.
“Alright,” Dean relented, leaning forward on the table. “But you do it by the book. No heroics, no playing cowboy. You stay low, stay quiet, and you call us every damn day. Got it?” Which was ironic coming from him of all people, but Ben wasn’t about to argue.
Trying not to let his excitement show, Ben nodded, “You got it. Quiet as the grave.”
He’s trained. Been trained since the day they picked him up all those years ago. But still Sam looked uneasy and rattled off, “Take everything you need. Weapons, salt, iron…”
“I know,” Ben interrupted, putting a hand on his uncle’s shoulder and his tone softening. “I’ve got this.” It wasn’t malicious or impatient. Just excited.
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, tossing them to Ben. “Take the truck. And if you so much as scratch the paint, I’ll kill you.”
Ben caught the keys in surprise. The truck. There were plenty of vehicles in the Bunker garage, but there was only one truck. John Winchester’s truck. Their dad’s truck. It had sat in Bobby’s work yard for years before they discovered the Bunker, but they had wasted no time in moving it once it became obvious they were there to stay. It was no impala, but it was something they never even drove. The weight behind it was… “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As he turned to leave, his heart pounded in his chest like a drum. This was more than just a hunt. It was Ben’s chance to prove, not just to Sam and Dean, but to himself, that he belonged in this life. That he deserved the name Winchester.
Ben’s boots echoed lightly against the concrete floors as he walked down the quiet hallway toward his room under the hum of fluorescent light. The Men of Letters bunker was as unyielding as ever. Stone walls and iron doors, heavy with history and the weight of countless wars waged against the Supernatural. But to Ben, it was his home for years.
He pushed open the door to his room, revealing a space that was more functional than personal. The walls were bare, the bed neatly made with military precision. Just as their dad taught them, Sam and Dean taught Ben. Clean and crisp hospital corners and clean room. A clean room was a clean mind, and that was necessary to any hunter.
There was a small desk in one corner stacked with books. Most of them on folklore, monster lore, and survival tactics. Books Ben read at his leisure without spending too much time in the library. A lone dumbbell sat on the floor next to the bed, evidence of his relentless drive to stay prepared. Its pair long forgotten in the war room in his excitement.
The only hint of teenage normalcy in the room was a dog-eared Naruto manga sitting on the corner of his nightstand. It was the only entertainment he allowed himself, a reminder of a world far removed from the life he led now.
Ben crossed the room to his bed, grabbing the marine issue duffle bag he always kept stowed beneath it. He began packing methodically: extra sets of clothes, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, books, and holy water. The basics for now. As he packed, his hand brushed against the edge of the nightstand drawer.
For a moment, he hesitated. He didn’t need to open it. He knew what was inside. Leave it. Out of sight, out of mind.
Still, his fingers moved on their own, sliding the drawer open. And there it was: the sealed envelope.
The flap was unbroken; the edges worn and yellowed from the number of times he’d held it, stared at it, and debated whether to open it. “ Parental DNA Test Results ” was printed across the front in bold letters.
His mother had ordered it years ago. A last-ditch effort to prove to Dean that Ben wasn’t his before she died. But she always told Dean that Ben wasn’t his son, as much as Ben wanted to be. Ben had found it among her things when Dean and Sam took him in. Unbroken. Sealed tight. How could she have known the results if she had never opened it? But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to open it himself.
His fingers traced the edge of the envelope as his thoughts drifted.
He remembered his mother, Lisa, tucking him into bed when he was little, always telling him he was her “greatest adventure.” Ben felt his head hurt and he touched the jagged scar over his eyebrow. stroking it as if trying to forget the moment he realized the world was far darker than he’d ever imagined.
No. That’s wrong. It was always darker. Brief flashes of that was before his memory was wiped. He had just forgotten it. He was only reminded and now he only had one path. One road.
Now here he was, standing at the precipice of his first solo hunt, wondering if knowing the truth would change anything.
His grip tightened on the envelope. “Maybe after this hunt”, he told himself. The words had become a mantra, an excuse to avoid the unknown. What if he opened it and it confirmed what he already believed? Or worse, what if it didn’t?
Ben let out a slow breath and slipped the envelope into his bag. Whatever the answer was, it could wait a little longer. He zipped the duffel shut, slinging it over his shoulder before leaving to pack the truck.
***
Several hours later…
The soft clink of metal echoed in the bunker’s garage as Ben field stripped the weapons he collected from the Bunker armory. From various shotguns and pistols to his .300 Win mag rifle, to the M79 grenade launcher with the words “End of the Line” scratched on the barrel. It was no M80 grenade launcher, but it still seemed overkill, but Dean insisted he take it all. “Better to have it and not need it than end up in shit’s creek without it,” he told him.
His fingers moved smoothly and expertly as he pulled the weapons apart. He knew each weapon inside and out. Staying in the bunker gave him plenty of time and ammunition to practice for hours on end. Repetition was the best teacher as Dean liked to say. Not a single hesitation in his movements as he slid each component into the hidden compartment in John Winchester’s old truck.
The compartment was a masterpiece of covert engineering, concealed beneath a false floor in the truck bed. Whatever his grandfather put into the impala, he perfected in his personal truck. At least that was the theory. Since he died, he took the truck’s secrets with him.
With a quiet click, Ben closed the compartment, sliding seamlessly and unnoticeably into the truck bed, and moved to grab his duffel and gear bag. The weight of the bags felt like nothing compared to the weight of the task ahead. Then he heard the familiar sound of boots approaching.
The Winchesters said nothing for a while, standing side by side. Two mountains of worry disguised as men. Quietly watching Ben pop the hood to double check the engine. Preparing the vehicle for the trip like he was taught. Going down the basic maintenance checklist in his head.
When Ben slammed the hood shut, Sam took out a cloth bundle that was tucked under his arm. Dean leaned up against the garage wall, arms crossed over his chest, his face set in an expression he probably thought looked tough. But Ben had been around long enough to recognize the cracks. Dean wasn’t just tough; he was worried.
Without saying a word, Sam handed Ben the cloth bundle, surprising the young teenager when the weight dropped into his hands. “Whoa. What is this? A sword?” Ben chuckled, unwrapping it to find a bowie knife. Not just any Bowie knife. Its familiar rosewood handle stared back at him and his enthusiasm bled out into a soft, “oh”. He unsheathed it slightly to see its familiar silvered edge gleaming, and he held it at arm’s length out of reflex.
“It’s no demon-killing knife like ours, but it is just as dangerous,” Sam told him, as if he would ever give Ben that knife, but Ben preferred that knife. Not this one. Sensing his apprehension, Sam clapped his shoulder. “It’s okay we had it tested for every curse known to man. It’s okay . Dean gave it the green light.”
Ben didn’t know what to make of it, but if Dean approved then what’s the harm? It just scared him for good reason. “Yeah, it’s just a knife,” he agreed, sheathing the knife and putting it into his bag, “That’s exactly what I’m going to tell my future therapist when she asks why I carry my trauma in a convenient stabby form.”
“Alright,” Sam chuckled as he gave Ben a meaningful shake, “Let’s run through everything again. Salt rounds?”
Ben sighed and leaned against the truck. “Check.”
“Holy water?”
“Check.”
“Iron chains? Backpack? First aid kit?”
Ben rolled his eyes with his ever present smirk. “Yes, Uncle Sam. I’ve got everything.”
But Sam wasn’t satisfied. He stepped closer, scanning the truck like a parent sending their kid off to school for the first time. Or in this case, a worried uncle sending his nephew out on his first solo hunt. “What about extra food? Medical supplies? A backup phone? You’ve got a satellite phone, right? And a flare gun? Sometimes normal people respond faster than hunters.” Normal people however would not respond well to whatever situation Ben was knee deep in.
“You guys had me pack half the bunker in the truck,” Ben joked, scratching the back of his head, “As long as Demon girl doesn’t turn out to be Godzilla then I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Normally the joke would have been well received, but Sam didn’t even flinch. “This isn’t a joke, Ben. Going solo is serious business. You’re going to be in a new town, surrounded by strangers with no support except over the phone. The ‘Demon Girl of Riverfork’ case might seem small-time, but things can go sideways fast.”
“Yeah,” Ben agreed, smirking as he slung his duffel and gear bag into the passenger seat and leaned against the truck. “Small-town cases have a weird way of ending with a gas station explosion or a diner covered in salt.”
Dean snorted, pushing off the wall. “You think you’re funny, huh?”
Out of reflex, Ben did the same and pushed off the truck to stand a little straighter, almost to attention, as Dean approached him. Still smirking as he answered, “I think I’m adorable.”
Dean stepped closer, pulling the all steel M1911A1 pistol from his waistband and holding it out to Ben. “Here. Don’t lose it. Don’t scratch it. And don’t use it unless you have to.”
Ben took the gun carefully, sliding it into his empty shoulder holster. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’ll treat it better than I treat myself.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Dean sighed. Ben grinned, but Dean’s serious tone tempered his humor. He glanced at Sam, who was flipping through his notes again, and lightened the mood.
“You know,” Ben started, his voice casual, “I was thinking. Maybe I should take the Impala instead. I mean, the Truckzilla is great and all, but the Impala? That’s style. Makes a statement.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the worry disappeared behind a mask of indignation. “You touch Baby, and I’ll have you pushing up daisies before the demons do.”
Ben laughed, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. She’s safe with you. Besides, I don’t think I could handle the heartbreak if I dinged her.”
Dean grumbled something under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“Well,” and Ben opened the driver side door, “Time to make like a Winchester and hit the road. Try not to miss me too much.”
But before Ben could close the door, Dean stopped it, “Hang on,” and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a worn leather journal. The sight of it made Ben pause. It was weathered, with frayed edges and pages thick from years of use. John Winchester’s journal. A legacy. A lifeline. Dean’s expression was unreadable as he held it out to him, “Here.”
Ben clenched his mouth shut to hide his shock. Was he really giving him something so… sacred? “You’re giving me that?”
“Don’t get all sentimental about it,” Dean grumbled, shoving it into Ben’s hesitant hands. “It’s saved our asses more times than I can count. Might save yours too.”
With no one staying in the bunker, there was no phone support like usual. No one to look up precious information that could save his life. Now he only had what contacts they made over the years and the journal. Ben turned the leather-bound book over in his hands. The weight of it felt heavier than it should. He glanced up at Dean. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Dean mumbled gruffly like he didn’t just hand him a blessing. “Just don’t lose it. And don’t come back telling me you used it to prop up a wobbly table or something.” As if Ben could ever fathom doing something as mundane as that. Probably use it to beat someone was the better option since it had some heft to it.
Putting the journal on the dashboard, Ben chuckled, “No promises.”
Eyes softening, Sam gave Ben a final once-over. “Be careful, alright? You’re not alone out there.”
“I know,” Ben assured, climbing into the truck. He started the engine, the rumble filling the bunker’s silence. Looking out at the two of them, he managed a small smile. “See you guys soon.” As the garage doors opened, the young teenager glanced back at them one last time. “And Dean? Take care of Baby. She’s got to last until I get back.”
Dean barked a laugh, waving him off. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
With a grin, Ben shifted into gear, the truck rolling out into the morning light. And as the road stretched out before him, he couldn’t help but glance at the duffel bag. The envelope buried inside, its presence a quiet burden. He promised himself again, “After this hunt.”
Sam and Dean stood in silence, watching until the taillights disappeared down the gravel road. Sam let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “He’s ready.” Saying it out loud as if to convince himself than anyone else.
Dean nodded, his eyes still on the empty road. “Yeah. But he’s still my kid. I’ll worry until he’s back.” The brothers turned back toward the bunker, carrying their worry with them as they always did, tucked deep beneath the surface.