=Warning: contains spoilers for 06x05=

Winchesters &c are not mine. I'm just having a bit of fun with 'em. (For the uncharacteristically longwinded Author's Notes, see the bottom of the page).

Easy isn't a word I tend to use.

Not because I don't know it—I mean, hey, I've known some easy girls if you catch my drift—but because nothing in my life seems to be it. Hell, I can't remember the last time something was easy.

Hell. Well, damn, ain't that an interesting choice of phrase.

Hell, after all, is something I've known, and known well.

…

Cold.

So damn cold it cuts to my bones… am I nothing more than bones? But wait, I don't have bones any more… I'm not even alive…

Funny. I thought it would be hot, but it's not. But I guess it's so cold it burns. Same thing, really. Pain's all the same after a while—except it's not. It should be, but it's not. How can I feel if I don't even have a body?

Ah, will the wonders never cease.

…

It still shocks me that I'm dead, proper dead. I made that one deal I couldn't get out of.

'Will you hold the knife?' he whispers in my ear, hisses like the snake he is.

'Fuck you,' I spit, cough, a simple variation of the same reply I've given every day for twenty years. Twenty years? Has it really been…? I know I think it has only because he tells me how much time passes. It blurs here. I forgot time long ago.

'You could end it, easy,' he says, and I can hear the smile in his words. It makes my skin crawl. Or, at least, it used to. At first. I'm too numb now.

'Easy,' I murmur, then give a laugh that crackles from deep within my punctured chest. 'Don't remember that word, dude.'

The forms of demons are different in hell, but they are still basically humanoid. Basically.

He grips my jaw with searing claws, and looks me in the eye with sockets so dark I can't even rightly call them black. They're darker than that. Think I'm nuts? Well, it makes sense in hell.

And then his teeth twist into something like a grin, and he tears into me. You'd think that you'd eventually block out the pain when you're constantly bombarded with it, but not here. Hell is not for the living, and it sure as hella don't follow the rules of the living. Living is painless, I know that now. The Pit is nothing but pain. There are no words. Not even.

I forget when I stopped caring if he knows I feel pain, but it must have been early on. Being stoic achieves nothing here.

I scream.

…

It wasn't a break. It wasn't some sudden epitome, slicing through the agony. All I know is that there came a day when I had no idea what I was still doing on the table. Why was I not the one inflicting the pain? It made no sense.

So I took the knife, and it was nothing. Nothing at all.

And then I was the one doing the tearing, the slicing, the dicing. And it was like nothing I'd ever done. It was what I was meant to be doing. Hell, it was the best thing I'd ever done.

Turns out I had natural talent. The kinds of skills you can't even teach. His protégée.

My fingers weren't fingers any more after the first decade. They were hooked. Absently I noticed the scales, the black skin sloughing off round my ankles, as I twisted the soul of the day into impossible places, making it bleed in just the right way, scream just so.

My grin matched his by the end of the second decade. I hummed Quiet Riot as I flayed. It was a good life.

…

Then came… light. Utterly blinding, painful as it shone into the dark edges of my soul. Agony—or worse, righteousness. The word tasted wrong on my tongue—or was that "right"? I cringed away from it as only those of the Pit can, but it seized me with hands brighter than noon-day sun, and dragged me upwards to places that existed only in memories I didn't know I still had.

With a roar of burning, holy fire I ceased to exist.

…

But then I was again. Whole. In a way I had forgotten I could be.

I had a body again. I was…

Dean. Dean Winchester. A rusty name, but mine, not easy to think, but it was me.

And I was buried. Totally buried, underground. With a muffled shout I kicked out and scrabbled around, trying to move, to grab the empty space I knew must be somewhere above me. Instinctual in a way only babies are, as they rush to be born.

One hand broke the surface, free, floundering. I pulled myself out of the earth, gasping.

I couldn't stop the first Dean-though to rush through my head as I clutched the grass with everything I had in me.

What. The. Hell.

The first thing I'm aware of is the cooled sweat on the back of my neck. My eyes snap open and it takes me more than a second to remember where I am. Bed. Motel room. MOTEL ROOM. I mentally shout it, trying to jerk away from the dream. I'm not in hell anymore, I'm here, alive, living my life, free of any obligation except to family.

C'mon, Dean. You're better than this.

The clock tells me it's about four in the morning, and I look across the room and want to see a Sam-arm hanging over the side of the bed, but I don't. Instead he's in a chair facing away from me, reading one of his smart-ass books by the light of the crack in the curtains. "Research". Of all the things that have changed with him, it would be that geek-trait of his that he keeps. Sleep? Nah, but abnormal nerd tendencies? Of course.

I sit up and he doesn't even notice me.

It's robo-Sam, that's why. Ever since he found me again he's been weird. I have no idea how, or why, but he's not Sam. There's something gone in him. I can't even attempt to explain, seeing as it makes no sense. Sure, I tested him for everything I could think of, so convinced was I that he was somehow possessed, but… nothing. Actual-Sam would instinctively know something was wrong, and he'd pester me about it. I wouldn't admit I still had nightmares about being in hell, of course, but still. I almost miss him bothering the crap out of me.

I know I'm not going to be getting any more sleep tonight. I've lived on less, it's fine, but I like sleeping. It's damn annoying when the shit from real life invades there. Especially stuff from years ago. I kinda take it as a personal offence. But it's not like I can do anything about it. I just do what I always do and suck it up. Comes with the job.

This is a hilarious job, really. And kinda sick. Chicks going missing, lured in by real vamps. I can see how it'd be easy pickings, but the fact that crap like dear ol' Romero even got published, let alone became best sellers… I just don't get it. What's wrong with girls today? Why do they all go swoony for pansies who are all bummed out over nothing? Don't even make sense.

Job takes us to some ridiculously over-the-top bar called "The Black Rose". I snigger at the name—black roses don't exist in nature, even I know that. I tease Sam about picking up some emo chick, which earns me nothing more than an exasperated look. I was hoping for a 'jerk' at least, but I take what I can get.

I look around the club. Whole lotta black. A girl sidles past wearing a dress made of some sort of vinyl-type fabric. Which can't be comfortable. I mean, I'm one for appreciating the finer things in life—scantily clad women being pretty damn near the top of that list—but weirdo girls aren't really one of my turn-ons. I have enough weirdness in my life, thanks.

'You think she wears all that rubber to the beach?' I say with a laugh. Robo-Sam barely acknowledges that, scanning the room for potential vamps and victims.

I have to admit, though, the one good thing about this fakey-Sam is that he is good at keeping his mind on the hunt. As soon as we spot the possible vamps, he switches into hunter-mode, following his quarry, alert and totally focussed. I run after my own vampire, following him into the alley.

With annoyance I discover he's nothing but some glittery wannabe poseur. I guess it's a good thing he's not a real vamp, but the thought of some ridiculous weirdo running round sticking his—

'And use a condom!' I shout after him. The world doesn't need any more prissy, sparkly dicks like him running around. I almost shudder at the thought. It just ain't right.

'Hey, you're pretty,' says a masculine voice from the shadows to my right. A middle-aged man with long, dirty ringlets emerges.

'I'm sorry?' I say, thinking—and yeah, probably hoping—I misheard the dude.

But no. 'I said, you're pretty,' he repeats, with a frank smile.

'Yeah, sorry again, pal,' I say. 'I don't play for your team.' I've had some unwanted attention from men before. Apart from creeping me out a little, I know it must just be 'cause I'm hellava handsome guy. Or so I tell Sam.

But before I know what's happening I'm flying through the air, falling heavily in a pile of garbage bags. I blink, trying to rid my head of the pain where it hit the concrete. But I don't have time to worry about yet another concussion, because he's walking towards me then. I stagger to my feet and take a swing at the dude with a metal pipe. My depth perception must be off, 'cause it doesn't take, and he's dragging me up by my collar and running me into the skip, punching the crap outta me. I'm only partly conscious now, fighting with everything I have not to black out. That's a vampire. You're a hunter. Kill the sonnva bitch, my head's telling me unhelpfully. Next thing I know he's forcing his wrist to my mouth. What the HELL…!

And then he's gone, I've fallen to the ground and Sam's striding over to me, an odd look of repressed fear cross his face. He knows it, and I know it.

'Sammy…'

He's turned me, that bastard. All it takes is a drop.

Sam grimaces as he helps me up, and hauls my ass back to the motel room.

Needless to say, I feel like ten kinds of shit wrapped in more shit. Sounds, everywhere, so loud I can barely think. The lights are hella bright, cutting into my vision like burning magnesium.

'Please—please shut that off,' I tell Sam. He gives me a look of pity and does what I asked.

No matter what he says to me, my replies are angry. I'm pissed off, and yeah, just a bit scared. But mostly pissed off. Of all the ways to die…

My senses are all amped up. I can hear things a block away. There's only one light on in the room. One dingy light, and it's brighter than if someone was shining a spotlight in my eyes. I can hear Sam's heartbeat better than if I was holding a stethoscope to his chest. And, dammit, I hate it. It's too fuckin' steady.

So I tell him so.

'That's cause I'm—I'm trying to remain calm,' he says. And shit, I can smell the lie on him. Samuel's going to come, and he'll kill me to save my brother doing the deed.

And then Sam has the gall to ask how I'm feeling.

Man, I have to get out of here. The walls are all but closing in on my ass.

When Sam questions my trip to the bathroom, I snap. 'Newsflash, Mr. Wizard: vampires pee!' I say, internally worried I might take my more of my anger out on him than just your normal verbal abuse. Sam can handle himself, no doubt—it's just me. I don't want to die just yet. Not to mention I don't want to put Sam through the act of killing me. Besides, I have things to do first. Important things.

Like say goodbye to my girl.

Lisa.

Ben.

I don't mind admitting I love them both. They're family. Specifically—exclusively—mine. As close as I've ever gotten to normal. They weren't just me keeping some half-assed promise to my little brother. They were all that I could have been, if my crappy life didn't keep coming to drag me back. I guess I include Sam in that. He's my brother, but he was dead. I failed him. But then he was there again… Damn confusing.

I don't make a noise as I edge into our—Lisa's bedroom. It isn't mine anymore. I've been fooling myself, thinking this back-and-forwards thing could work between us. It should've been all or nothing. She deserves that. And Ben … hell, Ben deserves way better than me. I love the kid like he was mine, but I don't think I could ever be anything but a shadow of the man he and Lisa need in their lives. I just couldn't face up to admitting it to myself.

But circumstances haven't given me much choice now. I'm not going to be some Gordon Walker, clinging on to something hunter-like while chomping down on innocent people: I need to cut myself out of their lives for good, surgical-like. And then I need to get dead. Really, truly dead. They'll thank me one day. Even if they hate me for it, they'll know deep down I never really fit properly into their lives.

I stand near Lisa's bed, just watching her. I can hear her heart beat, slow with sleep. I can hear her breaths, deep and even…and I can hear Ben's, too, and the neighbours', a hundred feet away. But I do my best to block it out. I'm not one of those things, not yet. I'm still myself, just here to say goodbye.

I remember her being this beautiful, but for some reason tonight she's even more so, now I know this is the last time I'll ever see her.

Shit, this hurts. It's unreal, too. I'm going to die tonight, and I'm gonna walk into it because I can't even contemplate the alternative. It's so absurd that I'm going to finally go out this way it's almost funny.

Then something I didn't plan happens. A dog somewhere barks loudly and Lisa stirs, and sits up abruptly.

'Dean?' she says. I can tell she's confused as to why I've just appeared in her room in the middle of the night. Which is fair enough. Normally I wouldn't do anything this creepy, but… extreme circumstances and all that. There's also relief in her voice that it is only me. Which is a whole lot more unsettling.

I try for a smile, but it probably comes out wrong. 'Hey.'

Lisa reaches over and flicks on her bedside light. It's the motel spotlight-in-my-eyes all over again. I shy away as much as I can without being too obvious about it.

Lisa smiles. 'Hey yourself. I wasn't expecting you for a couple of days.' Well, neither was I.

I swallow heavily, trying to keep ignoring the damn sound of her heartbeat. 'Ye—yeah… I wanted to see you,' I say softly. I sit down at the end of the bed. I want nothing more than to jump in bed with her and curl up in her arms, but that is never going to happen.

'What's up? Are you OK?' I can hear a change in her pitch, like she's beginning to sense something is wrong.

'Listen…'

'Dean, what's going on?' Oh, god.

'It—it doesn't matter,' I say. I though it was painful before. 'But I need you to know, you and Ben, just…' My resolve almost fails and my voice cracks a little. 'Thanks, okay? For everything.'

And then damn, she leans in, and I can't smell anything but her, and it's like this living thing somewhere in the middle of my chest lurches—and wants to tear her throat out. I jump backwards off the bed and walk over to the other side of the room, facing the wall.

'Dean, you're scaring me.' I'm scaring myself.

Suddenly I take in the situation, and with horror I realize that my life has turned into a ridiculous cliché of a cliché, some teenager's wangsty wet dream. 'Oh, God, I'm Pattinson,' I mutter. This has to end, and NOW, I tell myself.

'What?' says Lisa.

I grimace. 'Nothing,' I head to the door. 'I gotta go.'

Then she starts to get angry, in that cute little way of hers. 'Just stop,' she says, indignant, 'And explain what's going on out there.'

And what do I say to that? I can't tell her the truth—it would terrify her. Or, worse, she'd try to stop my death. 'Lisa,' I begin, 'I… I can't bring this crap home to you.'

'Work?' she asks, familiar ground. I never did like talking about hunting with her.

I'm not sure if I feel like swearing or bursting into tears like a little girl. I generally make a habit of the first one, but all this damn emotion is probably making the second one more likely. Dammit. I hate having to be all touchy feely, but there's no getting around this.

I try to take a deep breath to steady myself and fail. Her scent is everywhere. 'I'm talking about my life,' I say, the words jagged, making their way up my throat like frickin' broken glass. 'It's ugly… and it's violent… and I'm gonna die. Soon.' Truth, Dean, truth, you told her the truth…

Which has a predictable result of upsetting her. She begs me to tell her, and comes towards me, and clutches at my arms.

Fuck.

I can't do it. I grab her shoulders, and they feel so damn fragile, but I don't care as I push her against the wall. Her heart rate spikes, and I can smell something different steeping her scent, and guess it's probably adrenalin. I zone in on her throat, unable to help myself. I feel myself drifting towards her neck, and this pervading feeling of rightness zips up my spine. In this moment I am a predator, at the whim of instinct. The closest feeling to this that I've ever felt was when Sam and I were younger, and we used to have competitions to see which one of us could hold our breath the longest. You get to this point where you have to breathe, even if it means you're going to lose. It's that feeling, but ten times worse. And what I am going to lose now is a hundred, a hundred thousand times worse.

Yet from somewhere deep I manage to drag myself away from that hunger and step away from her. As I face away, I can feel a prickle within my gums, no more than a tickle really. With a slight crunching I feel my teeth realign, and I realize the second set of vampire teeth have descended.

Oh god, no.

'Dean?' says Lisa behind me.

'I have to go,' I say. Aw, shit, I really really do.

I stumble into the hallway, frantically trying to cover those damn teeth, when I hear a door open. Ben's door.

He comes out in a hideous glare of brightness, clearly just woken up, and a little confused. 'Dean…?' he yawns, like he thinks he might be dreaming.

'Ben—Ben, just stay there, OK?' I say desperately. Oh, not Ben, not Ben…

'I thought I heard you—'

'Stay back!' I say, pushing him away, harder than I should. I feel guilty immediately, but I can't linger here. Any longer and the–the thing will take over.

I sprint down the stairs and out the door faster than I thought I could. Once I'm in the car, my hands are shaking, the frightened looks on Ben and Lisa's faces as she dragged him away from me are replaying in my head. I'm seeing them practically burned into my eyes. Hell. They were scared of me. I grip the steering wheel till my knuckles turn white, trying to steady myself. I take a deep breath, and put the baby into gear. As I roll away, I sneak one last look at the house.

I know I've done the right thing, but it sure as hell don't feel like it.

Sam will be panicking I know. He phoned my cell seven times before I turned the damn thing off. I park the car the next block over—the parking spaces are just under our room, and Sam will recognise the sound of her engine anywhere.

It's shocking how easy it is to enter the motel room without anyone noticing. I come in through a window open to the fire escape, and I don't make a sound.

Samuel's arrived.

Great.

It takes a bit of effort to force sincerity into that thought, but actually it is a good thing he's here. He's never liked me, yet I guess having family off you is better than some random hunter. As long as it's not Sam. Even though he's different, I doubt it would do his head any good knowing he'd killed his brother. It wouldn't be good for anyone. And, frankly, I have doubts about his sanity enough as it is.

They're arguing about me. Of course.

'I told you he'd kill me when he showed up,' I say to Sam. They're both good enough hunters not to jump at me announcing my presence, but I can tell it unsettles them, because quick as anything, they both draw their machetes. I don't begrudge them; hell, I'd do the same. But knowing it's my head they're going to be whacking… I dunno… even I'm finding it hard.

'Did you feed?' asks Samuel in that terse, no-crap voice he always talks to me in.

'Well… I went to say goodbye to Lisa,' I say truthfully. 'Which, for the record… was a lousy idea.' It's almost irritating to admit how much of a failure I am to him, but it's also true. And, heck, I'll be dying in a minute anyway. It's not like I'm going to drop much in Sam's esteem any more than I already have, and the old man? Him I don't really care about. I don't value his opinion as much as Sam's, and I've never been exactly shy in saying so.

'Dean,' says Samuel, teeth gritted, 'Answer the question.'

The worry coming off the old man is so thick I can pretty much taste it. Well, it's not worry, exactly, more like… apprehension. Don't know how in hell I know that, but I do. Weird vampire shit, no doubt. Fan-fuckin'-tastic.

'Relax,' I say, smiling a little bitterly, 'I didn't drink anyone.' But, oh hell I wanted to.

He looks relieved, more than I expected. 'Thank god,' he says.

'But I did come close,' I bite out. You don't even know how damn close. I take off my jacket and hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. 'All right, do it. Now's as good a time as any.'

Samuel raises an eyebrow. 'Well, okay, if you insist… or I could just turn you back.' His words hit me like I've just run headlong into a concrete wall.

'What?' I say, though I feel as if I should be yelling it. There's a cure…?

Sam seems just as surprised as I am. Samuel gives him a slightly odd look, and something unspoken that I can't follow passes between them Then Samuel switches his attention back to me.

'I didn't drive all this way to kill you, Dean,' says Samuel with a slight shrug, 'I'm here to save you.'

It's too good to be true. It has to be. There's no way it would be that simple. Some deus ex machina to just show up and solve my problem, lickity-split. Hell, it's happened before, but it's never, without exception been a good thing, free of consequence.

I frown. 'What's the catch?'

Samuel smiles wryly, looking eerily like my Sam with that expression. 'No catch,' he says simply. He digs into his duffel bag and opens an old, leather-bound book. 'My grandfather's journal,' he says, waving it as he sits down at the table. 'Cure's an old Campbell recipe, kind of like the soup. No one's tried it since… well, god knows. And from what I hear...this stuff is one bad trip.'

'A bad trip,' I say, choking a laugh. 'That's it? Awesome.'

Samuel mistakes my reply as my usual sarcasm. Which it's not… well, not a hundred-percent, at least. Still sounds too good to be true, but I have to try it. Anything to be human. I swear. A "bad trip" can't hold a candle to the prospect of remaining a monster.

'The cure is good, Dean,' Samuel says. 'But a hellava lot of this is on you, buddy boy. You drink, you're done, and it won't do damn. I'm talking one drop of human blood, here—'

'Yeah, yeah, I got it,' I say.

'Do you? Because you will feed. It's only a matter of time. Give it long enough and you won't be anything but instinct. That's what happens, every time. Without fail.'

I shut the journal with a snap and toss it across the table back to him. 'What else do we need?'

Most things he outlines aren't too tricky to get, and he has the bulk of the ingredients already. But, as it turns out, the main ingredient is some blood from the vampire who turned me.

'That guy was huge!' Sam protests.

'There's nothing in the recipe about "easy",' Samuel replies. That word again. Dammit.

'I'll get it,' I say.

'What?' says Sam. 'No you will not.'

I give him that look that says Shut your mouth, Sammy-boy. It's that special kind of look eldest children perfect, a look which always seems to silence their younger siblings. For some reason it's working especially well tonight. He grimaces, but doesn't say anything more.

Samuel looks sceptical. 'You're telling me that you're gonna just walk right into the nest?'

'Well, I am one of them, aren't I?' I say. 'So, all I gotta do is get in there, get the guy alone, an' shoot him with so much dead man's blood that he'll think he's rushing a fraternity.' I almost feel like myself, fronting that much bravado. There's no reason why it won't work. Like it or not, for now, I am one of them. For now. I know I shouldn't relax yet—this crap is far from over—but already I feel myself relaxing, just a little. There's a light at the end of this tunnel which doesn't involve my own death. Odd, in a way. Most things seem to involve the death of someone. Well, this one does too, I guess. Only, it'll be me doing the killing of those filthy monsters, and I am sure as hell looking forward to making those nasty little bloodsucker's heads roll like fuckin' bowling balls.

Then Sam does his damn save-the-world-and-everyone-in-between thing and pipes up. 'I should come with you,' he says.

Time for honesty, bro. 'No,' I say bluntly. At his vacant expression I elaborate. 'Dude, you reek. You're like some damn walking hamburger. I gotta do this solo, Sam.' I'm not exaggerating, either. The new resolve this possible cure has given me is fading fast in the face of these two walking meat sacks in front of me. I know, logically, that I don't want to eat them, but that horrible thing in my chest is starting to wriggle and lurch again. I am concentrating hard on ignoring it. Only a few more hours, things going well. Only a few more hours of this weird, earth-bound hell.

'That's all very well,' says Sam, 'But we haven't been able to track down that guy who bit you, Dean. He could be literally anywhere.'

I grab my jacket and shrug into it. 'That's not a problem. I can smell him. Two miles east of here.' I've been able to smell him since my senses started turning vamp. Just hadn't mentioned it. I guess the whole thing where once a vampire gets your scent they can follow you anywhere is totally true. I'm not entirely sure how I can smell a dude two miles away, but I sure as hell know where he is. Without a doubt. 'Get the rest of the crap we need for the cure and meet me there,' I say, and give them more precise directions to the dive where the vamps must be holed up.

'Wait—Dean,' says Samuel, producing a syringe filled with dark red blood. 'Here you go. Dead man's blood. There's enough in there to drop a line-backer and then some.' I reach tentatively for the syringe from him, and I can smell the blood inside it, contained in chemical, sterile plastic. Through that, though, I can just catch the smell of something… well… dead. Like something that should be nice and tasty, but's gone a little wrong. Like… off milk. But worse. That thing in me knows it's poison. I suppress a shudder.

And then I'm out the door so fast I barely hear Samuel's last words. 'Good luck, son,' he says under his breath, almost like he cares. But I don't have time to worry about the ifs or whys that might appear if he really does care about me, 'cause I'm off, running on foot to deal with that fucker who got me into this place to begin with.

Shit, am I gonna waste that sonnva bitch. And I'm gonna do it with a smile on my face.

A/N: This is basically the realization of an idea of mine that just wouldn't go away. Watching the episode where Dean gets vamped up, I couldn't help asking "What happens if there is no convenient cure?". The Winchesters get royally screwed up, that's what. Essentially I believe Dean is a good character in his core, and I kept wondering what sort of things becoming something he previously hunted would do to him. Canon makes them pretty miserable, it's true, but I just wanted to make them Winchesters more unhappy. Obviously. [cue evil laugh] And, well, since this idea wouldn't bloody leave me alone, I had to write it. And it kept growing…

Hence this. It was supposed to be a tiny one-shot AU diverging from the show, but I found I couldn't do it unless I wrote out part of the episode from Dean's perspective. So, while it seems like a re-write, bear with me and it will get AU a bit later. Promise.

Now, I don't profess to be very good at getting inside character's heads, so... yeah. But I do try. I hope it's not too OOC for Dean or anyone else. Call me out on anything that doesn't sit right with what any of the characters would be doing, I guess. Also, no-one's beta-reading this, so I did my best with the grammar, &c. But please, point out them errors (in a non-NAZI way) because I have indubitably overlooked things.

Note about the language: I know this is the internet, where most people don't give a damn if someone drops an f-bomb, but personally I try to avoid swearing. Just cause, yanno, I think it's a bit vulgar. (the occasional 'bloody' and 'damn' and 'hell' aren't really swears in NZ, FYI. Those are about as bad as I usually get). But that's me. Not swearing would be really OOC for someone like Dean, however. So he swears, I don't. Just to clarify. That probably doesn't make any sense, and now this note is getting ridiculously long so I'll shut up now.

(And, if anyone cares, the two songs that I kept on repeat during the writing of this little thing were Rolling in on a burning tyre—The Dead Weather, and Ashes to Ashes—Tarbox Ramblers)

Also… review. Please?