(Disclaimer: Don't own anything Supernatural related. The character of 'Eden', belongs to me.)

SHADOWS.

Chapter One.

The cold metal of the gun was now warm in her hands. She held it almost lovingly, staring at it like an oracle that would give her the answers she needed. But it had only one answer for her; the only answer it ever offered – swift, merciful death…if she wanted it. And right now, she desperately wanted it. More than anything, Eden Rafferty wanted her life to be over.

She released a sigh as she disassembled the pistol quickly, cleaned it and reassembled it without looking. She'd done it a thousand times before. She knew the weapon intimately; but the last thing she needed was for her gun to jam. It'd be just her luck for it to misfire and turn her into a vegetable.

She thought about leaving a note but …to whom? She'd never had anyone she could rely on, anyone to turn to; she'd only just discovered she had a father. and she could not go to him, not with this. She wasn't bitter about that, about any of it; it was just the way things were. Sometimes, it was better that way. And it was better…safer, if Eden Rafferty was just a name on a headstone; an unremembered life. It was no less than she deserved.

She raised the pistol, the metal tang of the barrel as it slipped between her lips bringing memories of the times she'd done this before…only difference this time, was that a bullet was jacked into the chamber. Hollow point, just to be sure. She closed her eyes; the image of her father's smiling face floating before her as she applied gentle pressure to the trigger. Slow and steady, that was the way, no faltering.

Just a little more pressure….a little more….

The barrel slid from her lips; the front-sight clicking against her teeth as she lowered her hand. Her thumb automatically slipped the safety on before she let the weapon fall to the badly stained carpet at her feet. She rested her head in her hands, her shoulders slumping as her mind screamed at the denial of the sweet oblivion it craved.

She'd failed…again. What a surprise. But it was something she was getting used to. And, really, this was just another failed suicide attempt in a long line of failed attempts. She picked up her phone from the cigarette-scarred side-table and looked at the only three numbers it held. She scrolled down, her thumb hovering over the send button for a moment before she sighed and snapped the phone shut. What was she going to say? 'Hey Dean. Long time, no see. Almost blew my brains out a minute go. Wanna grab a beer? Yeah, that'd go over a treat.

She flopped back on the musty bed of the dingy motel; staring at the cracks that cob-webbed over the ceiling. The fractures in the paint matching the fractures that had been running through her mind the last couple of years; well to be fair, it had probably only been this last year. She let out a hollow laugh; well that made it so much better. It had only been a year in which she'd been losing her mind. Losing her mind and leaving a trail of bodies in her wake.

She sat up slowly and opened the drawer to the side-table; she scribbled a quick note and placed it under her phone. She picked up the pistol from the floor and flicked the safety off; this time, no hesitations.

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"DROP, SAM!"

Sam hit the deck; the sound of buckshot blasting over his head was almost deafening in the small confines of the room. The shriek of the spirit as it was hit by the rock-salt brought a smile to Sam's lips as he jumped to his feet.

"GO, SAMMY!"

Sam grabbed the shovel and slammed it against the floor boards again and again, the loud cracks of the wood splintering, sounding ominously around the room.

"C'mon, Sammy…" Dean muttered as his eyes moved relentlessly around the dusty old cabin. "Where are you, bitch…" he murmured.

Sam raised his foot and slammed his boot down on the floorboards until they fractured under the savage effort. He didn't feel the broken wood tear his jeans and scrape up his shin; nor did he feel the splinters that pierced his hands as he ripped the broken floorboards free.

"You sure she's under there?" asked Dean as he swept the shotgun around the room; the bitch wasn't finished with them, not yet.

Sam knelt and wrenched the last of the wood free, throwing them to far side of the room as Dean kicked the duffel bag towards him. "She's in here, alright," muttered Sam as the beams of the flashlight splashed over the empty eye-sockets of the skull.

"Goddamn," laughed Dean, "I thought you were shitting me about the 'Prom Queen' bit…"

Sam grabbed the salt from the bag and scattered it over the bones of Jennifer Nicholson; Prom Queen, cheerleader, straight 'A' student ….and former necromancer. He turned to the yell of his brother and watched as Dean was pitched across the room, slamming against the wall, the shotgun discharging on impact.

Sam rose and took a step towards his brother as a streak of white and pink flashed between him and Dean. He yelled as a burst of rock-salt hit him in his shoulder.

"SAMMY!" Dean yelled as he saw his brother go down, sprawling across the hole in the floor. He turned his eyes to the advancing spirit; "Bitch," he growled, raising the shotgun to her manic laugh.

"I'm looking for a new host!" she hissed; her pink dress billowing out behind her.

"Host or date?" asked Dean with a grin as his finger tensed on the trigger.

She laughed as he was thrown to the other side of the room; his head banging painfully against the wall. He shook off the darkness that started to creep into his vision and roared as he saw the skank's ghostly fingers tangle into Sam's hair, pulling his brother's head back as her fingers snake around Sam's throat.

"LEAVE HIM THE HELL ALONE!!"

He threw himself at the necromancer, ripping Sam from her grasp as she put the shotgun to her face. "BURN THE BITCH, SAM!"

Dean grinned as he heard the hiss of lighter fluid and the familiar flick of the Zippo. The grin soon died on his lips as the necromancer unhinged her jaw and slipped her lips over the barrel of the shotgun, her malevolent eyes fixed on his.

Her jaw opened wider as a howl erupted from her; the heat at his back from the burning of the bones, mirroring the flames that now licked at the spectre in front of him. But it barely registered as her last words drifted through the howl…

"They're free. But are you?"

The shotgun blast echoed loudly in his ears.

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Sam watched his brother throw back shot after shot of tequila; completely ignoring the lustful glances of the bartender as she refilled his glass. Sam ordered two more beers as he studied Dean; his brother was studiously ignoring him, his foot tapping away in time to Metallica's 'Don't Tread On Me' that was blasting to almost deafening, from the jukebox.

"So, you have any idea what she meant?" Sam asked loudly as he grabbed his beer.

Dean threw back the shot and signalled for another; "She was a spirit, dude. They talk shit, you know that."

"Uh huh," Sam muttered in reply to Dean's lie. He shook his head; "Dude, don't tell me you weren't freaked out when she put the barrel..." he shook his head again at the memory of it. A ghost eating a shotgun?

Dean shrugged as his eyes scanned the over-crowded bar; "So 'Carrie' wanted to swallow; that's what prom queens do, right?"

"Dean…"

Dean threw back the shot and headed over to the pool tables. Sam sighed inwardly as he watched his brother's retreating form. Dean knew exactly what the spirit had meant by those words; he'd seen the recognition of it on his brother's face. He sipped at his beer as he watched Dean go into the all-too-familiar behaviour of the hustle; the missed shots, the first lost game; the apologetic smile and the too loud laugh as he sunk the almost impossible shot on the black. Here we go, thought Sam as he saw Dean grin at the gargantuan his brother had just hustled out of a stack of cash.

A wink to Sam and the sly smile that spread across Dean's lips; was a sign Sam knew all too well.

He sighed as he finished the dregs of his beer and put the bottle on the bar; he pushed through the crowd as his brother threw the first punch.

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Dean sat on the musty bed of the latest crappy motel, his head hung, his hands clasped between his knees as he tried to steady his breathing, The flickering light from the street lamp created a staccato of shadows in the room; dancing over his well-muscled torso that was now slick with sweat. He ran a hand through his hair; his eyes flicking to the sleeping form of his brother.

He frowned at the bruise that was starting to form on Sam's jaw, and pushed down the anger that welled inside him at the sight of it. Sam had got it when trying to pull Dean off the yokel that had called him on the hustling. He pursed his lips, his breath blowing out in a rush as he relived the uncontrollable fury that had raged through him. He was pretty sure if Sam's hadn't managed to free the bastard, he'd have killed him.

He dropped his gaze to his grazed knuckles; hitting the man hadn't helped ease the disquiet that had been swirling through him since those words, had drifted around the barrel of the shotgun. How could that bitch have known? How could she have known those were his words; spoken quietly almost two years ago, to someone who hadn't heard them.

He lifted his phone from the side-table between his and Sam's bed and scrolled to the number he needed; a number he'd never dialled…well dialled, yeah…just never hit the send button. He knew his brother had, but he also knew the call had never been answered.

He snapped the phone shut and threw it angrily at his bag, cursing to himself as it bounced off the material and smacked against the wall. Great. He stood and padded quietly over to it, picking it up and checking to make sure the damn thing still worked. He turned and threw the phone into his bag, and spied the gun that was nestled on the top of his last Zeppelin t-shirt. He only had the one left now; he'd given his other one away.

His fingers brushed over the cold metal, his eyes focussed on the t-shirt underneath as his mind drifted to that last contact; to things left unsaid, to promises not made…to his refusal to acknowledge the debt owed. A debt he knew she didn't think he owed. But one he carried with him. For him and for Sam.

A small frown creased his brow as he heard the echo of that scream; the scream he'd heard but knew she was yet to utter. The scream that occasionally visited him in his dreams. The scream that had him waking in a cold sweat, her name on his lips as he fought the name back, trying desperately not to wake his brother. The scream that howled out in anguished pain.

His hand closed over the pistol as he rose; going to the bed and sitting on the end of it as he turned the weapon over in his hands; the echo of that scream now an unending aria that claimed his mind.

The cold metal of the gun was now warm in his hands. He held it almost lovingly, staring at it like an oracle that would give him the answers he needed. But it had only one answer for him; the only answer it ever offered – swift, merciful death…if he wanted it. And right now, he desperately wanted it. More than anything, Dean Winchester wanted his life to be over.

He ran a hand through his short, dark-blonde hair; releasing a sigh as he disassembled the pistol quickly, cleaned it and reassembled it without looking. He'd done it a thousand times before. He knew the weapon intimately; he knew all his weapons intimately. But the last thing he needed was for his gun to jam. It'd be just his luck for it to misfire, turning him into a vegetable and screwing up Sam's life more than he already had.

He thought about leaving a note, but there was nothing he could say to his brother that he hadn't already. It was better…safer, if Dean Winchester was just a name on a headstone; an unremembered life. It was no less than he deserved.

He raised the pistol, the metal tang of the barrel as it slipped between his lips bringing memories of the times he'd done this before…only difference this time, was that a bullet was jacked into the chamber. Hollow point, just to be sure. He closed his eyes, the image of Sam's grinning face floating before him as he applied gentle pressure to the trigger. Slow and steady, that was the way, no faltering.

Just a little more pressure….a little more….

His eyes snapped open as he felt a hand rest gently over his; a finger slipping into the trigger and blocking that last, final squeeze. His shoulders slumped as his mind screamed at the denial of the sweet oblivion it craved.

The gun was removed slowly, the front-sight clicking against his teeth as the pistol was lowered. His thumb automatically slipped the safety on, the weapon now dangling uselessly from his fingers as he looked into the troubled green eyes of his saviour.

"Help me…" the pain-filled whisper barely sliding from his lips.

"It is not you that needs help, Dean Winchester," she said as she placed a warm, tender hand to his face; the other taking the gun from him.

"Eden…" he murmured; knowing that was of whom she spoke.

She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on his; "She's in danger, child. More than we ever expected."

"Who's after her?" he asked, his voice growing stronger with each moment spent in her presence.

"The Shadows."

Dean frowned in confusion; "Shadows? I don't …"

"The shadows, child," she interrupted, her form starting to shimmer around the edges, to slowly fade as the darkness of the room took hold of her. "The shadows..."

He wanted more answers, answers to a million questions that were now firing rapidly through his mind. But he could see she didn't have the time to answer them all before she was recalled. So he asked the one he desperately needed an answer to; "Tell me where she is, Selah."

Her face filled with sadness, as she slowly vanished; her words a haunting whisper that drifted over him, "That is just it, Dean Winchester, we cannot find her."

To be continued…