The Third Bride

by Nancy T

KU AU 2! Sam's a junior at the University of Kansas, Cas a grad student, Dean has graduated and is working for Bobby. Dean goes undercover in a cult to help a friend catch a murderer; Sam helps investigate and only almost gets stabbed once.

1. Chapter 1

The television show "Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment, Inc.

.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a sequel to my story, "The Fifteenth Secret," but you don't have to read that to understand this story. Of course, I'm hoping you'll love this one so much that you'll immediately go read & review that one.

As with "The Fifteenth Secret," a lot of people helped in research. You can skip these acknowledgments if you want to jump right into the story, but I hope you'll come back and read them after you finish this chapter, because they were all vital. Major thank-yous to: Lori Brent, Administrative Clerk of the Lawrence Police Department; Heather at Arrow Rents; Stillman at Santa Fe Sign & Neon; Diane Amos, RN, of Shawnee Mission Medical Center; and most especially to Megan at the Upper Crust bakery in Overland Park (oh, if only all research involved cherry pie!); Officer Gary Mason, Public Information Officer of the Overland Park Police Department; Lt. Steve Lewis, Public Information Officer of the Douglas County Sheriff's Office (who not only patiently answered questions, but encouraged more questions!); William R. Lindsey, Graduate Director in the Department of Religious Studies at the University of Kansas (sorry, Dr. Lindsey, Cas is sticking with Bonhoeffer as a thesis topic); my brother Phil; Mom, who helped me figure out what Jess knows; and my fantastic friend Robyn, who gave me the whole starting idea for the story!

.

The sound of galumphing signaled Sam Winchester's rapid descent of the staircase in William Schuyler Scholarship Hall. "Hey, Ash!" he called cheerfully to the mullet-haired junior at the front desk. "Makin' a McDonald's run. Want anything?"

"Fries. And anything with caffeine. This night shift is gonna kill me, dude."

Sam grinned, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. "What are you talking about? You were up until like four a.m. last weekend playing Skyrim."

Ash looked as if, in his opinion, Sam's IQ had just halved. "That. Was. Skyrim."

"Yeah, of course. What was I thinking? No, don't bother, I'll get the money when – "

There was a knock on the glass door. Ash moved to one side as Sam turned, and they both saw a middle-aged man wearing a business suit. His eyes, behind brown-framed glasses, were intense, but his face was tired.

"Hey – " Sam's voice started out sounding cheerfully surprised, then dropped suddenly – "Mr. Moore?"

The man gave him a small smile and wave. "You know this guy?" Ash asked.

"Yeah, he's fine."

Ash pressed a button at the desk, and there was a buzzing noise. Al Moore let himself in and said, "Hi, Sam. Good to see you again."

"Good to see – Is Jess OK?"

"I don't know. That's the whole problem, isn't it? Is there someplace we could talk privately?"

Sam glanced over to a darkened room off the main lobby. "Yeah, sure, there."

The combined TV room-game room-library was normally quiet by 10 p.m. anyway, but on a Friday night with all but the most serious students out of the building, it was deserted. Sam flicked on the small overhead chandelier and led Al to one of the worn, overstuffed chairs. Sam dragged a chair over from a folding table by a crowded set of bookshelves and sat facing his guest. "What's goin' on?"

"Did you know that – those Lifeblood people – they're moving to New Mexico?"

Sam sighed a little. "Yeah. I saw it on their website."

"You've been keeping track."

"Sometimes."

Al lifted his head a little, looking directly at Sam. "I'm never going to see my daughter again."

"Oh – No, I really don't –"

"She said as much. She called. A couple of weeks ago. Said they were doing a big festival this weekend and she'd be there, everyone would, and wouldn't I like to come and meet – a messenger of God – and find out what her religion's all about, and we'd be so moved. I said I wanted to talk to her, but I wasn't interested in talking to any quack pretending to be God. I said her mom and I would be happy to take her to lunch or dinner, we could have some time alone. She yelled at me. Said what was the point in having time alone when I wasn't interested in the real her, just an image of a perfect daughter. She said a family accepts the real person, and we never accepted the real Jessica. She said her mom and I aren't her family anymore, Lifeblood is."

"That really does not sound like her."

Al leaned forward almost eagerly. "It doesn't, does it? That's what I've been saying all along. This cult has warped her mind, they've brainwashed her."

Sam shifted in his chair. "I don't know about that, Mr. Moore. From what I've read about them, yeah, they're pretty extreme on how bad money is, but other than that – I mean, they're not great, but they're not the worst. They're not dangerous."

"How would you know?"

"Well, they're not, you know, telling everyone that the world is gonna end and we should prepare to die, anything like that."

"On their website. How do you know what that son of a bitch is saying to them in private?"

"Well, I don't."

"I wrote him a letter, after Jessica called. I told him if he didn't send Jessica home, I'd get the IRS onto his tax-exempt status, hit him where it hurts. That's all he's interested in. Lures in the suckers with anti-money talk, but I bet he drives a Mercedes."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Sam said ruefully. "Did he answer?"

"Are you kidding? Nothing." Moore gave a broken sigh, his back bowed. "Carla blames me, says I alienated her. But it's not my fault. She was alienated by brainwashing, thought control. She thinks that she can think for herself, but she can't."

"Well, Mr. Moore, why don't you go to the festival tomorrow? You know, just see if she's there, maybe – tell her you don't get it, but you respect her choices, something like that. Just because she got pissed off once doesn't mean she's alienated for all time. Just show up, you know? See how it goes."

Al's back straightened, and his eyes narrowed. "Oh, I'm going. That's why I'm here, Sam. I know you, I know how you feel about Jessica. I'm hoping you love her enough to help me with this."

"With what?"

Al's gaze shifted away from Sam and back. "You don't have to do anything. Just get her to talk to you someplace alone."

"And tell her – "

"Just, just pull her away from the group. We'll take it from there."

"We – " Sam's head lifted suddenly. "Who's 'we,' Mr. Moore?"

"A couple I found. They help cult members. They break the grip of the brainwashing."

Sam sounded astonished. "Involuntary deprogramming? I didn't think anyone did that anymore!"

"Well – If you look hard enough, you can find people."

"What kind of people?"

"They're not thugs, Sam. They're two ex-cult members. They know the techniques cults use to lock up someone's mind. The way he puts it, they rock the cage until it breaks and the mind is set free. I'll be there the whole time, Sam. Jessica won't be hurt. And one of them is a woman, so she can be there when Jessica needs to do anything private."

"You mean she follows her into the bathroom."

"They program these people to kill themselves if anyone gets them away from the religion, Sam! They – I – can't take the chance of leaving Jessica alone!"

Sam thought for a moment. "What does Mrs. Moore think about this?"

Al's gaze shifted again. "She's – Well, she says she's against it. She says it's a bad idea, but she hasn't tried to stop me. I think, in a corner of her mind, she's hoping it'll work. We've both been – Sam, we had a beautiful, smart daughter. You know Jessica. She had a mind of her own. She didn't care about religion. She was studying ecological biology – I mean, I never even heard about the field until she decided to major in it, and she's going to get a degree in it. We were so proud."

His head dropped again. Sam watched him quietly. After a moment, he raised his head and looked Sam in the eye.

"They took her away from us, Sam. I'm going to get her back. Will you help me?"

Sam sat back in his chair. "Y'know, Mr. Moore, I did a lot of research on cults. This was back when Jess broke up with me, and then she moved in with those guys. The thing is, the vast majority of people who join cults just leave 'em within two years. They had some kind of need, and for a while the cult filled it, and then they realize, no, it really doesn't anymore, and they leave."

"What need? Carla and I gave her – " Al shook his hand and head, erasing the question. "What about the ones who don't just leave?"

"Well, those are people who have a real problem with thinking for themselves. And it's like you said, Jess has a mind of her own. Yeah, she thinks they're great right now, but I have a feeling that sooner or later somebody's gonna come up with some doctrine that Jess just thinks is wrong, no matter how hard they try to get her to think otherwise." He gave a brief grin. "At which point, there'll be hell to pay in Lifeblood."

"I wish I could believe that."

"And just – and think about it this way. We're hoping Jess is gonna wind up resisting them, because no matter how indoctrinated she is, she has her own mind. OK. So if these deprogrammers grab her and try to browbeat her into dropping out of Lifeblood, isn't she going to feel like they're the indoctrinators? Isn't she just going to set her mind against everything you're wanting her to think?"

"But that's the whole point. Indoctrination against indoctrination, and her mind is freed."

"But suppose her mind gets freed, and she still chooses Lifeblood? Then you've – "

"She won't, I'm sure – "

"Then you've alienated her for sure. I mean, if the last time she saw you she got kidnapped by a deprogrammer, how is she gonna trust you again?"

"Once she's snapped out of it, she'll understand. She'll be grateful to us for getting her out of that. She won't feel like she was kidnapped. She'll feel like she was rescued."

Sam gave a brief smile. "I can see – "

"Like you rescued her," Al said with emphasis.

If he was hoping to win Sam over with that, there was no sign of success, as Sam's expression darkened slightly. But he finished the sentence he'd started. "I can see where Jess gets her stubbornness."

There was a moment's silence.

"And about that," Sam said. "Year and a half ago, a guy grabbed Jess, put handcuffs on her and tried to force her into a car. You really want to give her a flashback to that?"

"As I said, I'll be there. She'll know it's not – it's not the same thing."

"Except maybe mentally."

Another pause. Then Al said, "She's – she's probably – with, this guy, this Messenger. You know that."

Sam's teenage fidgeting belied the calm maturity of his words. "It's really – It's kind of unethical, Mr. Moore, for you to use the way I feel about Jess to try to get me to do something I think is wrong."

"You're not a father, Sam. You don't know. You could – use worse words than unethical, it wouldn't stop me. I'm not going to look my wife in the eye and tell her that I let an insane cult disappear with our child."

In the silence, they both seemed to realize that an impasse had been reached. Al stood, and Sam rose to follow him to the front door.

As he opened the door for Al, Sam took a final stab. "Just – why don't you just think about it for – "

"For God's sake, Sam." Moore sounded tired rather than angry. "What do you think I've been doing?"

He left, and Sam stared after him, watching him get into his car at the curb.

"Wooa." Ash's voice made Sam jump a bit and turn. "I didn't hear the words, but that sounded intense."

"It was. And now I've got to go do something first thing tomorrow that I really don't want to do."

After another moment, Sam shook his head and started for the staircase.

"Dude," Ash said plaintively. "Fries."

Sam gave a one-syllable laugh. "Yeah, sorry. And the guys are gonna be thinking I ate all their burgers. Back soon."

With a wave, he left.

.

Nick Munroe, the Messenger of God with the intense eyes and great smile, was pacing on the small stage, speaking to an audience of about thirty. Some of them lived in the house further up the slope from the storage building they were using as a chapel, some of them had come into town for the Festival on Saturday, some of them had just driven out to the old farm property for the chance to see him speak.

The men were mostly casually dressed; the women's tops differed, but almost all of them wore long skirts with ruffled hems and deep pockets. Most of the attendees, Munroe included, wore sterling silver necklaces with a simple red pendant shaped like a drop of blood.

"We are three times blessed by God!" he exclaimed, his gaze sweeping left to right and back again. "We have found such favor with Him that Lifeblood will be a national movement within two years!"

The audience applauded, a couple of them yelled, "Amen!" Nick stopped pacing and stood directly under one of the work lights strung across the building's ceiling. The light was harsh, but his smile seemed to mellow it. His backdrop was a ten-foot-wide, six-foot-high banner strung on a rod behind the lights. A huge red drop of blood, with a picture of the Earth centered in it, was in the middle of the banner; on the left side were the words "THE WORLD ENSLAVES," and on the right side, "PERFECTION SAVES."

Nick raised his index finger. "First, we already have a national presence. The New Mexico complex is being built largely because of loving support from our internet community. Max has subverted the technology of the Misled, bringing light into darkness and fearless agents to Lifeblood. Love to Max, everyone!"

A slight, short man half-stood and sat back down. His childlike face and premature balding made it hard to guess his age; his expression seemed locked into a permanent flinch, even as he gave a brief smile. A gaunt girl with scars on her wrists hugged him briefly as other hands reached toward him and voices called, "Love to you, Max!" "Thank you, Max!" One of the guys sitting in the back yelled, "You rock, Max!"

A lovely girl sitting in the front row looked around and then looked back toward the front. Although every other chair in the front row was occupied, no one had sat in the chairs on either side of her, and the speaker had not once made eye contact with her.

She had a length of large chain around her neck. It was about two feet long, attached at the ends with a padlock, with a couple of other locks on it like pendants from Jacob Marley. It was substantial, but didn't seem heavy enough to fully explain why, when everyone else there was echoing the Messenger's enthusiasm, she sat with her head bowed, her gaze on her folded hands in her lap.

Munroe raised two fingers, and the crowd quieted. "Second, plans for New Mexico are finalized and we will be moving there within the month!"

Brief cheers that subsided as Munroe said, "I know you'll all miss our gracious accommodations here – "

The congregation laughed. Even the girl with the chain yoke looked up and smiled, and two people nearby who'd been sneaking looks at her averted their eyes.

"There's a lot to be said for humble surroundings. But as you know, the Misled love physical beauty and comfort above all else. Our new meeting hall will nourish their spirits, our spacious kitchen and dining hall will nourish their bodies, and anyone who isn't already damned will be drawn to us like water to a sponge. Wait – " He looked up and around, playfully feigning confusion – "I don't – What's this? Who are these Lifeblood people I'm hearing about everywhere I go?" And, to laughter and applause, "The Misled of New Mexico won't know what hit them!"

Cheers, cutting off only when Munroe raised three fingers. "Third, we are not abandoning Lawrence. I've communed with God about my sorrow for this place, where godless faculty teach object-centered students in classes designed to make them desire high-income jobs and material reward. And, of course, He had the perfect answer. Clark will remain here, growing Lifeblood in Kansas even as we grow it in New Mexico!"

There were a couple of gasps that the Messenger apparently didn't notice. "I have no doubt that Clark will make this a flourishing outpost within a year, when we'll be growing a third and fourth outposts. We will bring hundreds, then thousands, to a life of meaning, winning the best of the best to a spirit-centered life, and the founders of each community will be blessed by God and praised by the people. Love to Clark!"

This time the cheers and claps on the back accompanied cries of, "We'll miss you, Clark!" Clark, a pleasant-faced, compact man with a touch of gray in his hair, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, smiled steadily at Munroe as he stood briefly, and Munroe smiled back.

Then Munroe raised both hands. "This makes our Festival of True Joy this weekend even more important, the last we'll celebrate with Clark. I don't want to – "

He paused, and his eyes were suddenly shining with tears in the harsh light.

"We must do mission work, of course. But I fear for my people, so many of you out among the Misled, where materialism is a non-stop temptation. You are strong. I know. But the Devil prides himself on breaking those with strength. And losing any of you – "

His voice broke. There was utter silence in the building.

"Losing any of you would break, not only my heart, but God's."

A middle-aged woman in the front row, three chairs down from the girl with the chain, spoke clearly. "Anyone who'd be tempted by materialism doesn't deserve any part of God's heart."

There was loud applause, cries of "Don't be afraid, Messenger!" "We won't fail you!"

Munroe smiled, taking a deep breath, and looked at the middle-aged woman. "Sue-Ann, you could live in Saks Fifth Avenue and be unmoved by materialism," he said with a smile, and there was laughter.

Then he set his jaw. "Pairing will be in effect, of course. Don't lose track of your partners. Protection of your souls is paramount. But also, always remember that the Misled are fearful people, and fearful people are the ones most likely to resort to violence. Some of you, like me, have experienced the violence outside before, and all of you know about the threats we've received. Useless, of course. This movement will never be stopped, even if martyrs are made. Our Festivals and our other mission work are the first few steps. At the end of the journey, at the end of the thousand miles, lies a world of inner peace, of joy, of people caring for each other and not for things, a world of salvation."

He closed his eyes. "Thank you, Lord, for choosing me as your Messenger. Thank you, Lord, for the brilliant and healing message. Thank you, Lord, for these your agents, who will send the life blood of joyful spirituality coursing into this sad lost community. Thank you, Lord!"

His voice emphasized the last three words, and the congregants recognized a cue. "Thank you, Lord!" they shouted back, and Munroe cried, "Bless us, Lord!", and "Bless us, Lord!" was echoed as Munroe called, "Protect us from our enemies!"

"Protect us from our enemies!" the congregation shouted, and the sound, even from the relatively small group, resonated against the walls and ceiling.

Munroe opened his eyes, but stayed still until the congregation was equally still, knowing there was something else but not what.

"Someone who has no name has asked to speak to this meeting," he said quietly, "and I have granted permission."

Someone took in an audible breath as the young woman with the chain around her neck stood. She looked straight ahead as she stepped up on the platform, Munroe moving to one side.

When the girl began speaking, her gaze was over the heads of the crowd, but after a couple of sentences she was looking directly at first one, then the other of them. "Please forgive me. I was – Well, I was wrong. I know what I said was flying in the face of God's message, God's Messenger, and all I can say is that it seemed right at the time.

"I've been trying to understand, over the last nine days, how it could seem right. And I finally realized – this is the biggest temptation. It's not pretty clothes or cars or drugs or power. The most tempting thing to hold onto is your own pride, your own stubborn self, putting yourself up against God's Messenger and saying you know better. That pride, that – stubborn self, is as much a possession as a fur coat or a cell phone. And it's as meaningless in the long run. Giving is what's meaningful. Giving up yourself, giving – giving faith, that even what you don't understand, is right.

"And Lifeblood is meaningful. You, you are meaningful. It's hurt so much, not being able to talk with you, or really be with you, walking past you like I don't exist. You're my family. I can't bear to be without my family."

Unspectacular tears were sliding down her cheeks. "I understand why it was necessary. I do. I needed to realize that the movement, our message, is so much more important than my personal – opinion." She said the word with disgust. "I do realize that now. Please – " She half-turned, facing Munroe – "please forgive me. Please call me by my name again. Please take me back."

There was a slight, dramatic pause. Then Munroe said, "You are forgiven."

There was a little ripple of applause, quickly muffled, as if the occasion were too important to be treated like a sports event. Three women – Sue-Ann, a lithe brunette with a slightly amused expression, and a woman who looked faded although she was only about forty – rose and went to the front of the room, then back behind the banner.

The brunette brought out two large pails of water, smiling a little as she tried to carry them without splashing. Sue-Ann brought out a third pail, and the faded woman brought out a large empty washtub and a white sheet folded over her arm. These were set on the old concrete floor in front of the platform, near a drain in the center of the building.

As this happened, Munroe went to the penitent and lifted the chain from her neck, taking pains not to catch it in her long blonde hair. She stepped off the platform beside the washtub, toed off her sandals, and removed her skirt and blouse. Now nude, she stepped into the washtub and stood before the congregation, her head bowed.

Sue-Ann picked up one of the pails of water and dumped it so sharply right over the girl's head that she flinched a little. "Your mind is cleansed," Sue-Ann said.

The brunette poured the second pail of water over the girl far more gently. "Your body is cleansed."

The faded woman, her joyful smile belying her sad eyes, poured a third pail so excitedly that about a third of it missed the penitent and splattered the front-row congregants. "Your spirit is cleansed. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Welcome back, Jess!" Munroe said, and now the applause rose unabated as the girl wiped her face with her hands, laughing and crying at once, and the brunette wrapped her in the white sheet. Jess Moore stepped out of the washtub, clutching the sheet, and people stood, beginning to congratulate and move toward her.

Then everyone stood where they were or backed up a bit. Munroe had descended from the platform and took Jess' face between his hands, gazing into her eyes.

"Welcome back," he said. "Bride of my mind."

As he kissed her, there were cheers.

.

At a corner of South Park nearest Massachusetts Street, the main drag through downtown Lawrence, three young men had just finished assembling a small stage with a microphone on a stand. To one side, Max was making adjustments to a simple sound system. A tent with a shading top but no sides was being erected, as was a booth where you could pitch balls at targets for prizes of cupcakes and cookies. At a long table, Sue-Ann and the lithe brunette were pulling apart six-packs of soda cans and sinking them in coolers of ice. Although it was 9:30 in the morning and the festival hadn't officially begun yet, Clark, of course, had already found a potential convert. There were several setups, under and near the tent, of café tables bearing Lifeblood literature with two chairs each, and Clark was sitting at one of the tables with an intense-looking young woman, listening to her with absorption.

"Give me a sound check," Max called to a heavy-set guy who had just put the final bolt in the stage.

The heavy-set guy stood before the microphone. "Testing, one two three. And I – aye – aye – aye – aye will always love youuuuuu – "

All the Lifeblood members nearby laughed. Munroe walked around the side of the stage. "I think you missed your calling, Dirk."

The heavy-set guy smiled bashfully. "I kinda think I didn't, Messenger." He made as if to hand the microphone down to Munroe, but the leader waved it away.

"I'm going to let Clark give the opening statement, and then the band – Does someone have a copy of the program?"

Five people nearby instantly scrabbled in their pockets in a race to give Munroe the program first. The exception was Max, who suddenly started toward a young man making his way toward Munroe. "Hey. Whoa. Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Sam Winchester said, smiling genially as if to make up for the fact that he was looking down about six inches into Max's face. "I'm looking for one of your members, Jess Moore. I was hoping she'd be here."

"She's not. Sorry."

"You're – Sam, aren't you?" Munroe asked. "You came to a couple of meetings with her."

"Yeah. That was about a year ago. You've got a good memory." Sam's tone was ingratiating.

"My focus is on people, not objects. Why were you looking for Jess?"

Munroe sounded perfectly friendly, but Max, Dirk, and a couple of other young men stood still, watching Sam as if they expected him to pull a gun.

"I have something private I've got to tell her. It's not – I'm not – This doesn't have anything to do with – I'm not trying to get her away. From here. Or anything. But this is a personal message, and it's urgent."

Munroe raised his eyebrows. "Does it have to do with her parents? Or siblings?"

"No. Well, yeah, in a way. Look, can I just talk to her for three minutes? That's all I need."

"Well, as Max said, she's not here. Depending on – "

"Will she be here later? I thought – "

"Depending on the nature of the message, I'd be willing to convey – "

"You can't. I can't tell this to anyone but her."

There was a moment of silence. Sam took a breath. "I thought everyone in Lifeblood was going to be at the festival. I mean, on your website, you're even encouraging members from other states to come to Lawrence for it."

"We're encouraging all people to come to the festival," Munroe said calmly. "It's a Festival of True Joy, showing all men and women that it's possible for the spirit to be elevated without degrading the body or mind. Why don't you stay and listen to a couple of the speakers, Sam? Have some refreshments. Jess may be coming by later."

"I have a lot more things to do today than hang around at your carnival waiting for someone who might not show up. Look, I know you think that this – " Sam gestured – "is the only important thing right now, but I'm telling you, what I have to tell Jess – "

"It is important!" Dirk jumped down from the stage, landing heavily, and faced Sam. "You know, you don't have to stand here and sneer. You can just go away."

"I'd love to. Believe me. Let me warn Jess about this thing – "

"Warn?" Munroe said sharply. "Is Jess in danger? Because if so, we all deserve to know. She's part of our family."

"Look, I'm not one of your cultists. I don't have to tell you everything I know about everyone. Some things – "

He stopped, confused, as the growing band of Lifeblood members around him gave a mockingly shocked "Ooooo."

"Cult! The dreaded word." Munroe looked around at them with a smile. "The beginning and end of all argument. Jess must be in danger with us, because we're a cult." He looked at Sam. "You've given yourself away, Sam. We know where you're coming from now. Your words will have no power here, with Jess or with anyone else. You might as well go."

He turned, gesturing to the people erecting a large "Festival of True Joy" sign. "I'd like to have the sign – "

"Hey, believe it or not – " Sam said, stepping forward and touching Munroe's shoulder.

Dirk lunged forward and shoved Sam sharply. Sam fell on his butt and two other men stood, one on either side of Dirk, between Sam and Munroe. Dirk looked down at Sam with his fists doubled.

Sam's irate expression was gone in a moment. "You know what, fine." He stood, brushing dirt off his hands. "It's not supposed to be any of my business anymore anyway."

He walked to the six-year-old black Charger parked at the curb. Munroe walked over to the people putting up the sign to tell them how he wanted it placed, while Dirk and the other two impromptu bodyguards watched Sam drive away.

"Dirk," Munroe called quietly, and Dirk hurried to him.

"Go check on Jess. Don't tell her what happened. Just see if everything's all right with her."

Dirk ran across the park as the sign went up and Lifeblood members went back to their jobs.

.

There was a sign over the door of the small bakery that read simply, "Baked.", period included. Dean Winchester pushed open the door, grinning in anticipation. The bell over the door rang, and the dark-haired young woman at the counter, whose blouse was unbuttoned to a perilous point, turned and smiled. "Is it 6:15 already?"

"I'm off today. I was picking up some stuff downtown and I couldn't resist stopping by."

"Ah, how I wish it was me you couldn't resist, but I know it's only the pie."

"Sorry, Casey. My heart's spoken for, but my stomach is free."

She laughed as he zeroed in on a temperature-controlled case that held whole pies and slices. "Is that – banana cream?"

"Yes it is."

Dean shot a quick glance skyward and mouthed, "Thank you." Casey laughed again, pulling open the case's door. "Two slices to go?"

"For banana cream? No ma'am. A whole pie."

Casey put the pie on top of the counter and began assembling a box as Dean looked around the tiny customer area of the bakery, just barely big enough to hold two small tables with chairs and a rack of free publications. "I passed by the park coming here, and it's really busy. What's going on, do you know?"

"It's a festival. Music, refreshments, games, like that. There's a big mural that anyone can paint on. I was over there earlier."

"Kind of for the kids?"

"Well, I had fun there, and I'm no kid. I think they're wrapping up now, but it's on again tomorrow. You should go."

"Maybe I will. I understand there's a good place to grab a snack nearby. How much?"

He paid for the pie and, as she gave him his change, she leaned forward and murmured, "Blueberry tomorrow."

"Ohh," Dean said in a low tone, narrowing his eyes. "Temptress."

She chuckled. "G'night, Dean."

"Have a good evening, Casey."

He moved the other groceries from the front seat to the floor of the Impala, rested the pie on the front seat with care that would have been appropriate for placing a child in a car seat, and drove the mile and a half to his apartment. The reusable fabric grocery bags had strong straps, so he looped those over his shoulder and carried the pie up the stairs with both hands, nestling it in the crook of his left arm as he turned the key and pushed open the door with his right.

A burst of male laughter from the combined kitchen and dining room was the first thing he heard, even before he had the door fully open. " – not the kind of thing I expect to run across in Bonhoeffer's work," Cas was saying as Dean walked in. "Hey, Dean!"

"But you wanted the vernacular and the idioms," said the other man sitting at the dining table. His English-accented voice sounded sardonic. "Sexual humor is in the vernacular of all languages."

"Dean, this is Balthazar DiAngelo," Cas said. "He's going to be my German tutor. Balthazar, this is Dean."

"Pleased to meet you," Dean said, putting the pie on the table. "What do your friends call you?"

"Balthazar, actually." Balthazar glanced for a just a moment at the hand Dean extended to him before shaking it, and Dean gave a subtle but self-conscious second glance at the grease stains he hadn't quite been able to get out from under his fingernails last night.

"He's an instructor in the German Department," Cas said. "My thesis advisor suggested him when I said I had qualms about learning German."

"I thought Rosetta Stone was working pretty well for you," Dean said. He put the pie in the refrigerator and began putting away the other groceries as Balthazar said, "Cas is reading the works of a mid-twentieth-century theologian. He's going to need a depth of understanding beyond street signs and menus."

Putting a can of Beefaroni into the cupboard, Dean shot another look at Balthazar. He was attractive, if you liked the polished sophisticated type: lean and long-fingered, with a little beard. His shirt, a deep powder blue, was open enough to show the glint of a single, simple gold chain below his throat. A chunky gold ring with a blue stone was on his right hand.

Cas said, "And at the moment I'm about at the level of Dorothy Parker. She wrote once, 'I can read French at glacier speed, muffing only the key word of every sentence.' That's pretty much where I am."

"Not really," Balthazar said. "You've made remarkable progress on your own. Dean, I don't know if you realize how intellectually gifted your partner is."

Dean drew in and let out a breath. "Yes, I'm aware of how smart Cas is. Cas, I'm going to go watch TV in the bedroom. Let me know if I need to turn down the volume."

"We're almost finished anyway," Cas said. "Dinner at seven?"

"Sounds good."

Dean went into the bedroom, which was dominated by the king-size bed. "There's not gonna be room for much else," he'd said to Cas when they'd bought it. Cas had shot him a sly sideways glance: "But that's a good thing, isn't it?"

Dean grinned, took off his shoes, sat on the bed with his back propped against the headboard, used the remote to find a 6:30 newscast, and watched it with the volume low. He heard another burst of laughter from the dining room; then low voices, then the voices growing more distinct as they moved into the front room. Cas said goodbye and the front door closed.

Cas came into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and dropped down on the bed beside Dean. They watched for a moment as a weather forecaster enthused about a front.

"Balthazar can be a bit much," Cas said.

"Really?"

Cas gave a flicker of a smile. "It's exactly what I need, though. For a while I was thinking about changing my thesis topic, the language aspect unnerved me so much."

"You know what. You're the one who doesn't realize how intellectually gifted you are."

"Thanks," Cas said, and put his arm around Dean's shoulders.

"Where do you want to go for your birthday?" Dean asked.

"Marienburger Allee in Berlin."

"Um. Second choice?"

"Chez Yasu for dinner, over in Topeka. I'd like to see the Brown vs. Board of Education building in the afternoon."

"And the Curry murals in the Capitol. Gotta see them again."

"Absolutely."

"I got us banana cream pie for dessert."

Cas shook his head. "I've gained fifty pounds in the six months since that place opened."

Dean laughed. "Ya have not either!"

"At least fifty. Another six months, you're going to have to roll me to class."

"Not a problem. We'll fix you up with a nice Hemi, four on the floor – "

The grin dropped off Dean's face as he sat up sharply. Cas looked at the TV and his expression became grave.

The female reporter was standing in front of a sign that read "Festival of True Joy," with the Lifeblood logo in the center. When Dean turned up the volume she was saying, " – spiritual movement or simply a cult."

Cas rolled his eyes a bit. They ran a clip of a girl identified on screen simply as "Gloria – Lifeblood Member." She was gaunt, with wide cuff bracelets on both wrists. There were numerous people gathered around a stage in the background where a band was playing. "Cult is just, it's a boogie-man word," she said. "It's the beginning and end of all argument. Lifeblood is going to save a lot of people. People who are saved don't care what you call them."

"We are the richest society in the history of the world." Another clip, Munroe on stage, microphone in hand, his gaze locked onto his audience. "Think of that! Of all human societies that ever existed, we are the wealthiest. So – We must be the happiest, right?" He paused to let a chuckle run through the crowd. "We act like that. We act like things, possessions, will give us peace and – "

An abrupt, edited cut, and the reporter was once again on screen. "The Lifeblood fair lasts one more day. How long Lifeblood will last in Lawrence, with its charismatic founder in another state, is anyone's guess. Ashley Frank, reporting from South Park in Lawrence."

"Thank you, Ashley. Police are still investigating – "

Dean muted the sound and looked at Cas. "Still not gettin' it."

"We may never. As I said, from the way that Jess was talking the last couple of times I saw her, it seems like Munroe made her aware of a spiritual emptiness she hadn't acknowledged before."

"So go to church!" Dean said, as if he were arguing with Jess herself. "Or do volunteer work or something. But how does she figure that dropping out in the middle of sophomore year – not to mention dumping Sam, who treated her like she was made out of gold – "

"You know this had nothing to do with Sam. I think even Sam's starting to believe it. There was some lack Jess felt in herself, and it wasn't something that a boyfriend could fill."

Dean shook his head.

"Sam seems to be getting along better," Cas said.

"Yeah. You know, he's doin' all the right things, seeing other girls, keeping up his GPA, but – it's just being hard for him to get past it."

Cas nodded.

"Makes you wonder," Dean said.

Cas withdrew his arm so that he could turn to look Dean in the eye. "But there wouldn't be any point, Dean. Sure, one of us might find something else or someone else tomorrow, theoretically. Also, one of us might get hit by a truck. Or win the lottery. There's no point in trying to safeguard against a thousand possible contradictory futures. All we can do is take sensible precautions, and treasure the present."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. Then, equally thoughtfully, "I'd rather win the lottery."

Cas got off the bed. "I'll see to that," he said, heading for the kitchen, "as soon as I have plenipotentiary abilities."

"I do know what that means, y'know!" Dean called after him.

He turned off the TV set, then looked more closely at the hand holding the remote. Then he went across the hall to the bathroom, pulled a nail brush and nail file out of a drawer, and started running water into the sink.

.

The 911 call came in three minutes after the screaming started. The Sheriff's deputies and paramedics arrived within five minutes, sirens wailing, rolling one after the other up the drive and onto the grounds surrounding the run-down two-story farmhouse just outside Lawrence. The deputies went in first, pulling people (in some cases literally) out of the old storage building that served as a chapel, separating them so that they couldn't talk to each other, checking for anyone who might be hidden with a weapon, securing the scene. Only then were the paramedics allowed in, but what the paramedics had to say had been clear for a while.

Detectives from the Sheriff's office came in next, talking to the witnesses, except for the one who was so hysterical they had taken her to a hospital. The house's residents were put into deputies' cars and driven away from the scene.

By the time the first of them made their way back to the compound, the body had been removed, and there were cars and news vans strung along the gravel road in both directions from the house.

.

The third time that the doorbell rang, Cas was sitting up on the edge of the bed, staring in a baffled way at the clock, which read 4:42. Dean was already on his feet, wearing only pajama pants and a disgruntled expression, headed for the door.

He peered through the security peephole, and, at the sight of the woman's face, looked as if he'd been startled into full wakefulness. When he opened the door he went from startled to shocked. Her long light gray skirt and hoodie, and white T-shirt, were all smeared with blood.

"Jess?" he gasped.

"Dean," she said brokenly. "I need help."