Chapter 1

"The sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast.

And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest."
~ Lord Byron

March 16, 2012. Thompson Falls, Montana

Ellie got out the truck and looked up at the grotesque house, a smile tugging at her mouth at the absurdity of it.

Built partially into the steep side of the ravine, it resembled a cross between a small castle and a prison, the roofline crenulated as it came out of the rock, the exterior windows deeply recessed slits in the great stone blocks. A wide stone portico ran across the front. The stone porch overlooked the gravelled driveway, and the large, circular, concrete-edged garden bed, complete with a pitted and lichen-covered statue and some kind of fountain in the centre. The bed was filled with dead plants, giving the place an air of long-time desertion.

It was not attractive, she thought, as she scanned the building's façade critically.

It'd been partly curious whim, and partly a need she hadn't wanted to look at all that closely, that'd brought her here, after checking out more than a dozen places across the country. Sam's description of the house and grounds, of the contents and size of the place, had been intriguing. It wasn't the best location, she acknowledged as she turned to gaze over the surroundings, but with what was going on, that could be considered a point in its favour. She didn't need attractive. She needed impregnable, and so far, she thought, the place seemed to be delivering.

Beyond the house, the ravine dropped away steeply, leading through second growth woods to a barren stony crevice, through which a small river ran permanently. The walls of the ravine rose almost vertically, shutting out all but the midday sun. The place was silent, even the intermittent traffic on the highway below the ridge couldn't be heard here. Tilting her face up, Ellie closed her eyes, submerging herself in the welling peace.

The past four weeks were a blurred impression of roads and people and motel rooms. From Kansas to Omaha and then to Richmond to see Kath and Seb, she'd put more miles on her truck over that time than it'd had when she'd bought the damned thing. She'd gone to Boston after Richmond, searching through the boxes of Vivian's personal effects for more information about her life. There were letters. Between her father and his sister. And a series of diaries, written by her aunt.

She hadn't realised how much the past had been weighing her down until she'd read through them and through the truths she'd found in her aunt's dry tones and her father's irresponsible defensiveness, had allowed herself to slip free of it, unshackled from the pretences she hadn't even known she'd created.

The things that bind us are always of our own making, Ellie. Michael's voice was low, his body had been warm behind her. We take those bonds with us everywhere, even after death, if we refuse to look at them.

At the time, she hadn't really understood what he'd meant. A wave of dizziness hit her and she opened her eyes, sucking in a deep breath.

Patrick and Ray had Frank's notes, and Patrick'd been excited about a find in the vault documents, a mention of a prophet who'd been in possession of a tablet of some kind. She'd barely taken that in when she'd spoken to him, she realised, blinking as the noon sun peeked over the ravine's edge and filled the gravelled clearing with thin, cool sunshine. She'd have to get in touch once she'd finalised the contract, she thought, turning for the stone porch and the front door.

As Sam had said, the door was still unlocked. The realtor in town had been surprised to find the place on her books, even more surprised that no one had even attempted to sell it since the previous owner had died. Ellie made an offer that was immediately accepted, contents included. There was a key, a whole set of them, some small and modern, but the one for the front door was a big iron key, old-fashioned and on close inspection, etched all over with runes. Pulling it from her backpack, she slid it into the massive iron lock.

It worked. The key turned, and the tumblers clunked heavily. Pushing the door open tentatively, she could feel the weight of the door, balanced on recessed hinges so it moved easily. Someone had done a good job here. She wondered briefly if they were still alive, or if the witch who'd had the place built had killed them, along with all the others.

Stepping inside, she thought she should feel repelled by the place. The elemental had been born here, of a psychic's will and emotions. It'd taken two other families before hers, had almost killed her twice. The house didn't evoke any dread or anger. Closing her eyes again, she let her senses drift outward; searching for sensation or feeling to suggest Irena Falconer had left a part of herself in the rock and timber. There was nothing to be felt. The place felt neutral, Ellie thought, opening her eyes and taking another step forward.

The hall was wide and long, stretching deeply into the rock of the hillside. The ceiling was high, three stories above her. Craning her neck, she could just make out the carved vaulting in the dimness, recognising most of the protective wards and sigils that were visible. At one end, a massive open fireplace dominated, but unlike a great hall, the space held no furniture; just a couple of large, primitive wall hangings covered the walls.

She turned right through the arched doorway, and followed the hall beyond to a brightly lit kitchen. The room was large and square, with three doorways leading off it, the first to a large, windowless room filled with mostly empty shelving, that served as a pantry; the second to a mudroom with a door to the outside; the third to a set of stairs leading downward, possibly to a basement or root cellar, she decided, as the scent of cool, dry earth rose up when the door was opened. A big electric stove sat beside a cast-iron woodfired range. Freestanding cupboards and dressers stood around the walls, and the centre held a large scrubbed pine table, a marble pastry board at one end, a butcher's block of thick hardwood at the other.

It was a room that'd been chosen and outfitted by someone who enjoyed cooking, she thought, looking around. A lot of spellcraft involved food and drink. Perhaps Irena had wanted plenty of space and the right equipment to experiment.

Wandering through the house, Ellie looking through the rooms, opening the cupboards, browsing the still-full shelves in the living room and finding, from Sam's descriptions, the secret passages that led down to the occult library, the work and conjuration levels below the ground.

Dust lay everywhere, although not, she thought, seventeen years' worth. The air smelled fresh, even in the lowest levels, the house planned with good ventilation in mind. The upstairs level held four huge bedrooms, each with a separate bath, those taking up most of the floor. On the southern side, a large, open room spanned the width of the building; hardwood floors and a dancer's barre suggesting the witch had kept herself in physical shape.

Plenty of space, she thought with satisfaction. She needed it; her reference library alone took up two storage units now, and she had no doubt it would get bigger. With Bobby's death, his books, and those he'd kept of Jim Murphy's, the Harvelles' and Rufus Turner's, were overflowing the cabin at Whitefish and in anonymous storage units across the country. It would be a help to have those resources in one place. She might even have the time to start transferring all that knowledge to some kind of database.

Walking back down the curving staircase, Ellie wondered what Dean's reaction would be to her buying the place. In general, he was practical about things like this, but he had a streak of sensitivity that surfaced unpredictably. It would be like him to dislike the place on principle, if he couldn't see its immense value.

Turning for the kitchen when she reached the great hall, she ran through a mental list of the things she'd need to do to the place before she could hire a truck and go to Albany. Cleaning would be the biggest job. Stocking the pantries and kitchen, then the long and tedious process of criss-crossing the country again to retrieve what had been stored.

She crossed to the stove and picked up the kettle from the hob, taking it to the sink and filling it with water. The power was on, and she'd made the transfer of the landline account, setting everything up with new identification she'd picked up from Kasha. Keeping out of the leviathan's extensive surveillance needed good, deep cover, but she felt more confident about this place than anywhere else. A faint flush of warmth heated her cheeks as she took the kettle to the stove and set it on the hob. She wanted the place done, and ready, when the Winchesters came back through Montana, wanted Dean to feel at home here.

The few days they'd had at the cabin, between the elemental and driving to Kansas, had been a different kind of revelation for her. A look into the relationship between the brothers, when both were relaxed and nothing urgent was pending. She'd them like that before, in the years they'd met up before Dean had gone to Hell, before Sam had released the devil. Oddments of time when they'd been off the job or waiting for something. But with all that'd gone on in their lives over those years, she couldn't remember them being quite so at ease with themselves or with each other, at least to begin with. The pressure on Dean had eroded that ease, but she'd seen how they could be.

Turning on the hob, she walked back to the hall and out to the truck to retrieve of box of groceries she'd picked up in town. She carried it back it in, and unpacked it quickly, waiting for the water to boil, and wiping down the table and counters distractedly, her mind flicking between those few days together at the cabin, and the last conversation she'd had with Dean.

It'd been, for both of them, full of things unsaid. She'd heard his disappointment and a bone-deep tiredness over the line, heard his small lies about how he was doing, the pauses and gaps when he'd swallowed what he'd wanted to say.

He'd told her something of what'd happened in Canton, when he and Sam'd had gone back to Sioux Falls with Sheriff Mills. But even in that phone call, he'd left things out, she recalled, trying to hide his discomfort with half-hearted jokes about going back in time and the three-piece suit he'd brought back with him. She hadn't wanted to grill him about it over the airwaves, but it'd left an indelible impression that things had happened that'd disturbed him, that he couldn't get clear.

The kettle started to whistle and she took down a cup from the cupboard, wiping it over and dumping a spoon of instant coffee into it, filling it absently as she tried to work out if she was feeling more uneasy now, remembering those calls, because she missed him; or if that uneasiness was some kind of subconscious alarm she'd been ignoring. She glanced at her watch.

It was just past 1.00 pm, which made it after 3 in Seattle, she thought. She reached for her pack and pulled out her cell, hitting speed-dial and holding the phone to her ear. The call went straight to voicemail.

"Leave your name, number and nightmare after the tone."

Hanging up, she stared at the cell. They were working a case, she reminded herself. There could be a lot of reasons why he couldn't pick up straight away. She noticed the messages that'd been left while the phone had been off and played them. Two hang-ups and a third message that was nothing but a few seconds of silence.

She dialled Sam's number.

"Ellie? Hey, how you doing?"

Sam's voice filled her with relief. She never forgot there was always the possibility that one day she'd call and neither would answer. She tried not to think of the danger they faced, as much as she knew he tried not to think of what might happen to her, when they were apart, but those first few seconds between dialling and hearing his voice, or Sam's, tended to be filled with a tension she didn't like to acknowledge.

"Good, Sam. How about you?" She sat down on the couch and curled into the corner.

"'Bout the same as usual. We're in Seattle."

"Yeah, Dean said you had a case there?"

"Definitely something wrong here," Sam said, and she could see the way his brow would be furrowing up, in her mind's eye. "Haven't figured it out yet."

"What've you got?"

"Bodies, mostly. Hands and feet cut off, so they're bleeding out," Sam replied. "Whatever it is, is strong. We – uh – there's a symbol being left on the kills. Got a local professor looking into the possible mythology."

"Ritual?"

"Looks that way." She heard a deep sigh at his end of the line. "There are four vics, over the last four weeks. You, uh, spoken to Dean?"

"No, just got his voicemail. Is he there?" she asked.

"Uh, no. Lost him after we saw the coroner," Sam said, his voice filled with discomfort.

"Is he okay?"

"Not really. I don't know what it is, he won't talk to me. Ellie, I know you're, uh, trying to do a lot of stuff, and we said we'd swing by when we're done here, but –"

"I'm in Montana at the moment. It'll take me about eight hours to get there," she said, already calculating the route and the time. "Are you worried?"

There was a soft snort. "Yeah, but that's the default, isn't it?"

"Do you think it's still the after-effects of Osiris, Sam?"

"I don't know." The line hissed as he fell silent. "I don't think so. In, uh, Canton, I know he joked about it, but something happened back in '44 he's not talking about."

She thought that over. "Getting him back was a long shot, wasn't it?"

"The longest," Sam agreed, an edge to his voice. "Even knowing the day and the time, it was touch and go."

"Maybe he was thinking about that," she suggested.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said.

"I'll be leaving here in a few minutes," Ellie said. "Where are you staying?"

"Uh, the Panama, on South Main," Sam told her.

"Okay, I'll see you soon."

"Ellie? Thanks, I – I think it'll help."

The call ended and Ellie hung up, looking around the living room. Moving and unpacking would have to wait a bit longer. The truck was still loaded, she could get going straight away.

She rubbed the back of her neck, a disorienting wave of fatigue washing over her. She'd been feeling more tired than usual the last few days, although she couldn't think why. There'd been a lot to do, a lot to get through, but that kind of tension didn't usually hang around this long.

Pushing herself out of the deep sofa, she picked up her cup and walked back to the kitchen. Dean hadn't talked about the possibility of getting stuck in the past at all, she realised with a frown.

Seattle, Washington

Dean sat in the bar, nursing his third double, unsure of why he was here, or what he hoped to accomplish. Forgetfulness? Numbness? He wanted both but he'd settle for either.

The bar was filling up, the upwardly mobile and trend-setters filling the small, high tables with noise and movement, lining the neon-lit bar. Everyone there seemed to know what they were doing, know who they were, he thought, a little sourly. They dressed casually and he felt out of place in the cheap, dark suit, one hand reaching up to loosen his tie.

At the bar, his attention was caught by a couple of guys, maybe his age, or a year or two younger. They were trying to hit on two young women sitting at the closest table, their lines and embarrassed laughter failing to impress. Dean watched them switch tactics, a bitter amusement curling up through him. He was out of practice, but he'd've done a better job half-tanked, he thought, unsurprised as one of the young women rolled her eyes and made a face at her friend.

If he'd grown up like these guys, would this be what he was doing, he wondered? Playing the mating game in up-market bars and golfing on the weekends? A flickering memory of Zachariah's 'lesson' came back to him. A sales manager? Investment broker? In an office every day, eating salads and watching his cholesterol? Driving a no-guts hybrid and watching his shares and worrying about his bottom line?

Would it be any worse than what he was doing? Putting his life on the line for everyone else and getting no thanks for it. Losing what he wanted and not even fighting for it because he couldn't work out if the risk was worth it?

He looked back at the bar and saw the guys had given up, moving further away and ordering fresh beers. The women looked relieved, he thought, his mouth quirking up. You either had it or you didn't.

Looking around the club, the sense of not belonging here grew. What the fuck was he trying to do? He didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be in the room with Sam, watching his brother dig and search for information either. Didn't want to be in this goddamned constantly raining city, no matter what was offing the dudes, or how likely it was that this job was very much their kind of thing.

"Hi, mind if I join you?"

He looked up, blinking as his brain refused to process what he was seeing. For a moment, the long red-gold hair turned to copper and the face belonged to someone else.

The woman standing by the small table was attractive and well-dressed, but it wasn't the woman he wanted to see. She was taller, her hair a completely different shade of red, loose in a satiny curtain down over her shoulders and back. Her voice was clear and articulate but not the voice he wanted to hear. Well-dressed, in a fitted suit with a soft, feminine blouse beneath, her makeup subtle and professional, she was a knock-out, he noticed belatedly. She was smiling at him, one brow lifted.

The sort of woman he might have known if this had been his life, if he'd been someone different. The thought came out of the blue, giving him a strange buzz when he considered it. The sort of woman he'd've gone after, maybe had a casual relationship with; dinner once a week, skiing in the winter, sailing in the summer time. He blinked again, the false memories of the angel's head trip overlaying his own for a disorienting second. The fuck was he thinking?

He realised his silence had gone on too long and gestured awkwardly to the chair opposite. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

"I was watching you," she said, sitting down and crossing her legs, turning on the high stool to look at him from three-quarter profile. "You seemed to be finding the rituals amusing."

She waved an explanatory hand toward the bar and he turned to look, remembering the guys and their attempts.

"Oh. Yeah, well, seen it a million times," he said, turning back to her with a half-smile.

"You don't look like you have any problems in that arena?" she asked, turning the question into a compliment and smiling at him.

"Not so far," he agreed, his gaze dropping to his glass.

"I haven't seen you here before, have I?"

"I'm, uh, in town to tidy up a deal," he said, shrugging slightly, his brain cooking up his cover without the need for thought. Investment broker. High finance. Yuppie and upwardly mobile or whatever the current term was. Skiing in the winter. Tennis and sailing and golf in the summer. It fell into place smoothly. "This your regular joint?"

"Not really, it's just quieter than a lot of others." She smiled at him and he registered her interest bemusedly. Put on a suit and suddenly the ladies are all over you, he thought, ignoring his memories of all the times it hadn't worked out that way.

He tossed back the glass and raised his hand, catching the eye of one of the waiters. The whiskey was warming his stomach and blurring the edges, the woman sitting across from him was easy on the eye. A small, insistent warning buzzed in his mind, but he shut it out, not wanting to think, or feel right now.

"Lydia," she said, holding out her hand. He reached across the table, a flush of heat filling him as her fingers stroked over his when she took his hand.

"Uh, Dean."

I-90W, Washington

Ellie rubbed her eyes tiredly as she drove west, along the 90. The rumble of traffic alongside kept her focussed on the road, but she couldn't remember feeling so weary on a drive. Only another hundred miles, she thought to herself. A couple more hours and she'd be there.

She flicked through the radio stations until she found one playing music, listening absently as she drove.

Dean's phone was still going to voicemail. Sam hadn't heard from him, when she'd called from Idaho. One more instance of her not being around when he'd needed her, she thought, glancing down at the odometer. They needed more. She needed to give him more time. Maybe the house in Montana would help with that.

Seattle, Washington

"Oh, it was dinner and a movie," Lydia said, her smile disparaging. "Which sounded fine, except the movie turned out to be 'The Human Centipede'."

He laughed. "An' you didn't see that coming?"

She shook her head, saying, "Well, he seemed mature. It's not like he was still living with his parents."

"Yeah, there's a recommendation."

"The date from hell," she admitted, lifting her wine glass.

"Dating, right? Ugh."

"I'm not seeing too many options," Lydia said. "I don't see settling down any time soon."

"Well, that's not something you hear every day."

She gave him an appraising look. "Oh, what? You're ready for the big commit?"

For a moment, the bar and the woman and the world dropped away from him, and his life came back, with a spearing clarity that was almost shocking. What he wanted … what he needed … what was coming for them … the world, stripped of its shadows and the monsters out on the streets … then it was gone, and the pretence slid back into place seamlessly (investments, watching his shares in the market, the condo on the coast, winter on the ski fields, a twenty-five foot yacht scudding across a bay), his expression turning wry.

"Me? Uh, not exactly."

He glanced at her, shrugging with one shoulder. She was watching him, a small smile playing on her lips, her eyes frankly appreciative.

"Nice suit, by the way. Guys don't dress up much," she commented, her gaze flickering pointedly around the bar, then returning to him. "I like it."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, looking down at the empty glass in front of him. "It's, uh, it's a conservative line of work."

"What line is that?"

"Investment banking," he said, the term rolling off his tongue as familiarly as if he used it every day.

Sales are up, despite the market dropping six points this quarter. The voice was his and in his mind's eye, he saw the presentation screen again, the people sitting around the long, polished table, their expressions identically impressed. By him. The angel's version of him, anyway.

He looked up as the waitress stopped beside him, picking up his empty and setting another double in front of him.

"Oh, god," Lydia said. "I hear the hours are ridiculous."

"Thanks," Dean murmured to the waitress, swallowing a mouthful of the whiskey, relieved when it seemed to clear his thoughts. He nodded.

"Yeah."

"But there's money to be made," Lydia continued, raising a brow as she looked at him. "If you're good."

He ducked his head, a memory returning. His boss'd slid an envelope across the desk, grinning at him. There'd been a lot of zeroes on the cheque it'd contained. "I've had a fortunate year."

She laughed softly. "Well, may you have many more."

The image of the office disappeared, replaced by others. Bobby in the hospital room. A large house, and the avid glitter of too-bright eyes. The vetala's face, inches from his. For a moment, he wondered what he was doing here. The angel's life settled over him again - a comfortable, expensive living room, a closet full of suits, blinding sunlight on a bright-green tennis court.

She lifted her glass toward him, and he picked up his, the curved surfaces clinking together.

"Arigatou."

Lydia grinned at him. "You speak Japanese?"

"Ah, well, just enough to get by," he said, shaking his head, the image of the old hunter vanishing at her open admiration. "Kind of comes with the territory these days, you know?"

"I definitely do," she said. "You're just full of surprises."

You find a town you like the look of, get a job, be someone else.

The memory was cloudy, blunted and diffused by the whiskey circulating warmly through his bloodstream, by the numbness he'd come here to find, by the weight he'd been carrying. He vaguely remembered being shocked at the idea.

Be someone else.

He was someone else, wasn't he? He was Dean Nolastname, investment broker and cut-throat businessman. He worked out, bought his suits at a fancy store, had more ties hanging neatly from the specialty rail in his closet than he'd ever need and drove a Prius. No family left, but that was okay because he knew where he was going.

I-90 Expressway, Seattle

Ellie frowned at the map lying on the seat beside her. It'd been a while since she'd been here, but the skyline in front of her didn't match any of her memories and she wasn't sure which exit would be the quickest.

The pulsing anxiety that'd been an uncomfortable companion for most of the drive had increased in the last couple of hours. She wanted to get to the hotel.

The quickest way would be to stay on the 90 until it turned into 5th, she decided, her gaze back on the traffic flowing around her. South Main was a just few blocks up and she'd start with a right, then double-back if the hotel was the other way.

Seattle, Washington

"Well, look at you." Lydia smiled slowly at him.

Dean knew what that smile meant; a few years ago he would have been crowing; unable to hide the feelings of self-satisfaction with his score. He wasn't sure why that glow of accomplishment wasn't filling him now.

"Yeah, look at me," he said. For some reason, it wasn't right. Did he have an early meeting in the morning?

He looked down at the table, drawing in a deep breath. It'd been a long time since he'd had a pretty woman hit on him, he told himself. Down below the line that the whiskey had blurred so effectively, something was agitating at him. He didn't want to know what it was, didn't want to look closely at anything he was feeling. He didn't know why.

The woman sitting opposite him obviously didn't want anything more than a night, and he was tired and lonely and burned out. He wanted no past, no future, no feelings, no guilt or pain or responsibility or anything but physical sensation tonight. He could feel again in the morning.

"You want to move this conversation elsewhere?" She inclined her head, looking into his eyes.

He hesitated for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

Ellie drove slowly along the street, half-blinded by the neon restaurant and club lights, squinting into the glare of a sea of tail-lights ahead of her. 5th had proved impossible, one way in the wrong direction, and she'd had to take 4th instead. She couldn't see any numbers on the buildings and wasn't sure now if she was getting close to South Main or had passed it. The failure of her usual navigational skills was adding to the tension that'd already knotted up her neck and shoulders.

She saw the miraculously vacant slot at the kerb at the last moment, pulling over and turning off the engine. Reaching for the map on the passenger seat, she turned the radio off with an irritated snap as another round of too-cheerful announcers blasted out of the speakers.

Across the street, a blue neon sign reflected on the wet asphalt, tinting the road the same shade of blue. She glanced at it as she twisted herself over the console, the bright sign advising it was The Cobalt Room. Another club, as if Seattle needed any more, she thought dismissively, turning away as the door opened and two people walked out. Her gaze swung back when something about them caught at her.

It was a man and a woman, both in business suits, gazing at each other and smiling. The man's arm was slung, with a casual intimacy, around the woman's shoulders, and they walked quickly to the kerb, the woman lifting an arm to hail a taxi.

The suit almost fooled Ellie, but as they passed from the blue reflections of the club's sign to the clear white flood of a street light, she recognised him.

Dean.

Her heart seemed to slow down in her chest, the beats thudding hard against the base of her throat. Time slowed as well, the seconds drawing out, stretching out to impossible lengths.

Dean in a suit.

Dean staring down at the woman.

Dean.

He stumbled slightly, leaning against the roof of the taxi as he held the door for the woman to enter first. The redhead laughed, turning and lifting her face to him and he bent slightly, mouth brushing over hers. Ellie watched as the woman's arms slid under his suit coat, pulling him close before she half-slid backward into the taxi.

For a moment, he raised his face and from across the street, through the sparkling coloured lights, his eyes seemed to meet hers; she could see his face clearly under the streetlight's stark white glow. But his gaze drifted past without recognition and he ducked out of view, getting into the cab. She watched it pull away, her chest tight and aching, her head throbbing.

Breathe, for chrissakes, she ordered herself, tardily releasing the breath she'd been holding.

For several minutes, she sat, in the same twisted position, her mind and body numb and unresponsive. Then she straightened, settling behind the wheel again, and took a deep breath.

What had she seen?

No. She wasn't going to play that game. She couldn't. The fluttering pain in her stomach was enough to convince her of what she'd seen. She knew him. She knew what he looked like when he'd had too many. She knew what he looked like when he was attracted to someone.

She knew what she'd seen.

She turned and lifted her cell from the centre console, dialling Sam's number.

"Hey, Ellie. Where are you?"

"I'm in Seattle, Sam."

There was a silence at the end of the line. "Uh … Dean's still out, but he should be back later …"

"Yeah."

"Are you alright?"

She shook her head slowly. "Yeah, I'm fine, but listen, I just got a call from a friend and I'll have to go."

"Oh." She heard the uncertainty in his voice. "Uh … okay. Did you try Dean's cell?"

"Yeah. Still turned off."

"Uh –"

"I have to go, Sam." She felt the need to get away from here as fast as she could. "I'll try to … I'll give Dean a call tomorrow."

"Yeah." Through a faint crackle of static, Sam didn't sound like he knew what was going on, she thought. "Uh, okay, well, we'll see you in a few days'?"

"I guess."

"Uh, Ellie? Dean said he didn't have an address –"

"Sam? I've gotta go, I'll talk to you later."

She hung up the phone and sat, staring at her hands on the wheel. Sam was right. They didn't know where she was now. The thought seemed unrelated to anything. She felt empty and disconnected, and she had the feeling it might've been shock. That would get her of the city, she thought, and when it sank in, she wanted to be a long way from here. A long, long way.

March 17, 2012. Seattle, Washington. Six a.m.

"Hey."

Dean woke, looking around the dim room in confusion. The hell was he, he wondered? A hand tapped him on the shoulder and he rolled onto his back, eyes widening as he saw the woman lying next to him.

"I've got an early meeting," she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Time to get going."

He pushed himself into a sitting position as she rolled off the other side of the bed, watching her walk into the bathroom and close the door.

The hell …

Fragments of the previous evening returned, along with awareness his body was aching. The muscles felt as if he'd been sparring all night, and as a chunk of memory came back, he thought it was a fair description. Lydia'd been … an athletic partner, he decided, and a determined one. He felt sucked dry, empty and fragile.

On the floor near the bedroom doors, his clothing was lying in a crumpled heap. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, waiting for his balance to catch up with him before he walked across to retrieve them.

An early meeting, he thought, pulling on the suit pants and grabbing his shirt. It was probably just as well.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of scented steam and he turned to look at her.

"Any coffee?"

"No," she said shortly, turning from him to open her closet. "I'm out. Sorry."

And if that wasn't a here's-your-hat-what's-your-hurry shutdown, he didn't know what was, he thought, looking around the floor for the tie he was sure he'd been wearing the night before. Socks and the plain black business shoes were in the next room.

"Uh, well, it was –"

She turned around. "Yeah, it really was. I hate to cut it short, but gotta make a living, you know."

"Right." He walked through the glass-paned doors and retrieved his clothes, grabbing the coat from the edge of the dining table.

The brush-off felt strange, but as he shoved his feet into the socks and then the shoes, he realised he wanted to be out of there even more than she wanted him out.

Well, you do what you do and you pay for your sins, and there's no such thing as what might have been …

He didn't know where the song came from or who'd sung it or what the rest was, but he felt the trickle of icy dread it brought with it snake down his neck and back as he got to the front door and went out.

His cell rang when he stepped onto the path and he reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out, glancing distractedly at the caller as he looked down the street for a familiar car.

"Ellie?" His voice didn't sound like his own. It was too high, and too hoarse. He cleared his throat. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine." She sounded distant. "I wanted to hear your voice."

He stopped mid-stride, brows knitting up as memories of the previous night collided with older ones and the world started to tilt and spin around him. He couldn't find the car and he couldn't work out what he was doing here, Ellie was waiting for an answer on the end of the line … and he was suddenly conscious of the fact he had no answers.

"Uh … Ellie," he finally started to say. The line cut out.

Dean stared at the cell and hit the speed dial. It went straight to voicemail.

Off, he thought in confusion. She'd turned it off.

March 17, 2012. Sprague, Washington

Sitting on the end of the still-made bed, Ellie stared at the faux timber panelling of the wall opposite. She'd gotten this far before tiredness had threatened to overwhelm her, stopping at the open motel and grabbing a room. In the darkness, she'd laid on the bed, mind and body unhelpful and perverse, neither letting her close her eyes and sleep.

Dawn had seen her pacing up and down the narrow length of the room, until the sun had risen over the mountains and she'd made the call.

She didn't know what she'd expected. An explanation, maybe. An admission. Something. Not the closed-off silence filled with a wealth of things that would never be said, pulsing along the open line between them.

And it was all those things he hadn't said, that were convincing her more thoroughly than anything he had.

What now?

The answer was straightforward and immediate. She'd owned the ugly house in Montana for less than a week but it was already 'home'; a home no one knew about, a home that would give her privacy.

She stood up and grabbed her pack and gear bag, throwing the bags into the truck and leaving the room key dangling from the lock.

An hour later. Seattle, Washington

Sam saw his brother walking across the street and hurried to meet him, the latest victim's file clutched in one hand.

"You look like crap," he said as he got a closer look at Dean.

"Anyone ever tell you what a sympathetic guy you are?" Dean asked, his gaze wandering around the scene. "I feel a helluva worse than I look. You know where I can get a coffee around here?"

"Where the hell were you last night?" Sam ignored that, gesturing to the apartment block surrounded by police cars and the fluttering yellow tape. "Got another one."

"Sam, I need joe."

"Later," Sam said firmly. "Where were you?"

"Out. Decompressing. I can recommend The Cobalt Room, by the way. Awesome night. Although, I think I'm getting too old for this."

Sam slowed, not sure he'd heard that right. Dean strode on, heading for the apartment doors.

"Dean –"

"Seriously," Dean said, turning back to look at him, one hand waving impatiently at the building. "Isn't this supposed to be the coffee centre of the universe or somethin'? Where the hell can I get some joe?"

Six hours later.

Sam hung up from the Professor's call and looked at his brother. "He's put something together."

"I can hardly wait," Dean grabbed another beer from the fridge.

"I get it," Sam snapped. "He's not Bobby, but he's doing the hard yards –"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, I got it."

"What's going with you?"

Dean looked at him, eyes widening. "Nothing."

"Oh, yeah? Ellie was in Seattle yesterday," Sam said as he opened the door. "She came to see you, but your phone was off most of the time. She couldn't stay, had to leave almost as soon as she got here. Said she'd give you a call today sometime."

Dean looked down at the beer he was holding. He could feel his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat abruptly, booming there ominously. "She was … uh … actually in Seattle last night?"

"That's what she said. Drove up from Montana." Sam watched him, surprised at the look of confusion that passed over his brother's expressive features, vanishing a moment later. The whole day his brother had been different, he thought as frustration was replaced by worry, seeing Dean put the beer he was holding down on the countertop, brows drawn together.

Dean set his beer down carefully. A hazy memory lurked behind his eyes, a white pickup, parked opposite the club. He'd seen it. As he was getting into the taxi. With Lydia.

"You all right?" Sam looked back in through the door. "We gotta get going."

He nodded, shrugging into his jacket, one hand diving into his pocket to pull out his cell. Hitting the speed dial number, he lifted the phone, listening. Straight to voicemail again.

"Ellie, it's Dean. Call me when you get this," he said, keeping his voice low. He hung up and tucked the phone back into his pocket, the click of the lock as he pulled the door behind him echoing in the bare hall.

The memories had been coming back piecemeal all day. The bar. The woman. Then what'd happened after. He'd tried to shove them aside, had tried to focus on the case, which was getting weirder and weirder.

He'd gone out. Gone out and gotten just drunk enough to blur the lines, he thought. Then he'd crossed all those lines without looking back. Without stopping to think about it at all. It made no fucking sense to him but Sam's reactions had proved it hadn't been a dream, shattering his futile hopes on that score.