Through the Never

But nothing unclean shall enter it, nor any one who practises abomination or falsehood, but only those who are written in the Lamb's book of life.

Revelation 21:27

Chapter 1

The angel had disappeared, but he wasn't alone. He could hear them, feel them, smell them, a thick canine smell, moving around him, watching, deciding how easy he would be.

Pretty fucking easy if you don't get your ass into gear, he thought, licking his lips. His thoughts felt slow, hard, mired in the shock that was still seeping through his body. One minute, a clean white lab in Illinois, the next a dark and ominous forest, Cas said they were in Purgatory, fucking Purgatory, sucked here with Dick and he was struggling still to take that in. And he was on his own, truly on his own, for the first time in a long time.

You'll die on your own if you don't get moving. The voice in his head came again, and he agreed with it, looking around for something to get his back against, somewhere to hide. The trees were spindly, masses of saplings and prickly undergrowth, not much that would provide any kind of protection.

C'mon, think goddammit! Think! Shadows flitted between the trees, moving fast, faster than human, faster than he could move. The crackle and snap of feet over the forest floor, only slightly louder than the pounding of his heart, the ragged noise of his harshly indrawn breaths. Red eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. Too many monsters, too many fucking monsters he'd sent here personally. He could feel all of them looking at him. Fresh meat. Easy meat. One precious, delicious human, unarmed, disoriented, alone.

Fuck that. He started to run.

In the shadows of the forest, under a moonless, starless sky, he couldn't find a trail. He was running blind, adrenalin surging through him, driving him on, driving him faster, every noise, including the ones he was making, a goading spear tip, amping his fear higher the longer he went.

His head snapped around at a rustle beside him, and he slammed into the tree in front of him, bouncing off it and onto his back, feeling a wrenching pain in his shoulder, a sharper, brighter pain under his ribs. He rolled fast to one side, under the half-rotted remains of a fallen log, his head pounding with a combination of pain and adrenalin overload, eyes stretched wide to see something, anything, in the blackness that surrounded him.

Gonna kill yourself running in a panic, the voice came back, hard and cold. Get your bearings. You've got your knife. Get something behind you and let them bring it.

A shudder ran through him and he rolled onto his side, feeling for the knife sheathed at the back of his hip. His fingers found the roughened hilt and pulled it out, instantly feeling more in control with the blade in his line of sight.

The thump on top of the log above him brought his concentration back to a fine-point focus. Offence was only a solid option when one had surprise or numbers. Defence was a better strategy here. He had to stay alive. Let them bring it.

The head that swung over the edge of the log and into view was barely visible, a faint outline of hair and sharply defined features, but the eyes were clear, glowing in the deep set sockets, alight with bloodlust. He swung without thought, his body reacting as it always had, as it had been trained to do, and the long blade slid down the bone into the left eye, slicing through the soft tissue and into the brain behind it.

Dean rolled out from under the log, barely aware now of the pain in his shoulder and side as he caught the hair and yanked the head back, hacking through the throat and spine and throwing the head into the trees. The blood that sprayed from the ragged neck was icy cold on his skin and he turned his head fast, closing his eyes, his mouth compressing tightly.

Claws punched through the arm of his jacket, through his shirt and into his arm, and he turned, the yell of pain morphing into a scream of rage as the creature was swung with him, unable to release its hold in the tightly contracted muscle, looking down in astonishment as the knife plunged into its sternum, skin and muscle burning and blackening with the deep intimate touch of the silver. The fingers tightened unbearably, then relaxed and Dean dragged the claws from his arm.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, feeling for the smooth cool metal of the Zippo, pulling it out, lighting it and sweeping the flame over the dry undergrowth next to the log in one frantic motion.

Twigs and bark caught first, curling smoke and heat into the air in front of him. In the forest around him, the saplings and bushes leapt into view, painted with the pale gold light of the growing flames. Crackling and rustling around him as the souls of Purgatory drew back from the voraciously growing fire.

He reached forward, ignoring the pain as he thrust his hand into the fire and pulled out a long burning branch, tossing it behind him, a sharp glance over his shoulder checking that it too was catching the tinder of branch and brush, more smoke rising as the flames licked at the damper leaf litter.

Dean looked around warily. Not such easy meat, he thought with a faint thread of satisfaction. He looked down at the shifter at his feet, dead with the poison of silver deep in its gut, and crouched beside it, rolling the body over and feeling through the pockets and lining of the clothing. He rose a moment later and reached for the jacket of the vampire that lay over the log, dragging the body down onto the ground. Still clasped in the vamp's hand, he saw the long stick, the end split and a small chipped stone blade bound into it. He pulled it loose. He would need something with a better reach than the knife he had. Looking at the small blade at the end of the stick, he didn't think the weapon would do much, but it sure was better than nothing at all. Better than getting within biting distance of the creatures that filled this place.

The two fires fed upon the dry woodland brush, one of them starting to blacken the bark of the sapling close to it. He stood between them, watching the darkness at the limits of the firelight, every sense stretched out tautly to give him warning of anything that might decide to try their luck with him. He had to find Cas. Had to find a way out. Had to stay alive.

He was still standing there when he noticed that it was getting lighter. The fires burned reluctantly, charring the green wood more than consuming it, the dry branches almost gone and the damp humus that covered the forest floor quenching even the glowing embers. His nose was filled with the smell of the acrid smoke, but nothing had come close again in the night, and he touched the Zippo in his pocket lightly, hoping that the fluid in it would last as long as he needed it.

As the light brightened, Dean realised he could see through the trees now. It would be mistake to think that because the darkness had passed, he was in any less danger, he thought bleakly, feeling exhaustion and the heavy hangover of the adrenalin pressing at him. He needed to get moving, needed to find someplace that was protected enough to let him sleep, if only for a few minutes.

He looked around the forest again. Were there any kind of rules to it, he wondered? Any kind of predictable behaviour he could learn and use? He couldn't see any sign of movement, couldn't hear any other noise in the woods other than the slowing pop and hiss and soft crackle of the fires. He had the uncomfortable feeling that this place had no rules. That he would be surviving moment to moment, with precious little time to do anything other than stay alive.

He was surprised to find that he wasn't hungry. Just thirsty. Was that something that would continue? Or was it just a side-effect of spending the night hopped up on enough fear and adrenalin to override his body's needs?

Shaking his head, he decided it didn't matter, not now, not yet. He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the grit and grime and blood on his skin. Turning, he started to walk down the faint trail he could see clearly now, skirting the remains of the smouldering fire on the edge of it. He headed downhill. If there was any kind of water here, it would be in the valleys. Gravity worked here as well as it did in the real world, and he hoped that water would follow its rule in the same way.

The bright movement of the tiny creek caught his eye as it wound through the undergrowth and he hurried toward it, hearing the faint sighs and chuckles and splashes as he got close. He crouched by the edge, watching the water as it fell over the bare tree roots, over the rocks, widening here and there into pools dark with the decomposing vegetation that lined the bottom. Where it raced over rock, he cupped his hand beneath the flow and lifted it to his face, sniffing warily, then dipping his tongue into it. Clean water. Ground water, maybe. He put both hands under the little waterfall and filled them, drinking greedily then splashing the water over his face, scrubbing at the dried blood and sweat that coated it, running wet fingers through his hair.

The forest was silent. He got up and looked downstream, seeing the ground drop away a few hundred yards further on. Here, near the life-giving water, the trees were bigger, older, spaced apart. He looked up into the canopy thoughtfully. If he could get high enough, he might be hidden. Even if not hidden, he couldn't be taken by surprise. He looked around and found what he wanted on the other side of the stream, down the hill where the slope began to fall away. Crossing the stream, he picked his way slowly down through the mess of fallen timber and rampant vegetation. A broken ankle would put an end to everything, pretty fucking fast.

The tree stood eight or nine feet from the steep slope, the lowest branches fifteen feet from the ground. Dean looked at the drop, at the fork he'd need to make and pulled in a deep breath. His knife was back in the sheath on his belt, the long shiv angled through the belt. He backed up another step and then ran for the edge, jumping high when the ground fell away, reaching forward, his fingers clutching at the rough bark as his feet hit the branch. He looked back over his shoulder at the slope, then up the trunk in front of him, and started to climb.

He was maybe thirty feet from the ground when he found a good fork, hidden in the dense, healthy needles but giving him a clear line of sight over the hillside and down into the valley. The branch growing out from the trunk was almost horizontal, wide and solid, forking again almost immediately. He settled himself on it and stared out through the clusters of needles, the flat, even grey of the sky – was it sky? – showing no discernible clouds, just a diffused light that bled the colour from everything.

Purgatory.

God's lock-box, Death had called it. Prison for the things that could never be allowed to escape. And for the souls of the monsters created later, the Mother of All's warped and bloodthirsty children. Cas said they'd be more likely to get ripped to shreds than escape, but he hadn't said there wasn't a way out. So he was going to run with that, and keep looking.

He leaned back against the broad, rough-barked trunk, feeling the aches and pains coming back, making themselves known, felt. His fingers found an egg-shaped lump on one side of his forehead, likely responsible for the throbbing headache. He shifted against the trunk, easing the sore muscle under his shoulder off the knobbly bark. He thought he'd landed on a rock when he'd bounced off the tree. The sharp pain under his ribs on the other side of his back was where he'd fallen onto a branch end. The punctures in his left arm were still throbbing. He should look at them later; he thought vaguely, they needed cleaning out. He felt his eyelids drop and let them stay closed. He needed to sleep. Needed to get some rest. Sam would be looking for him. The thought brought a small measure of warmth. Probably wouldn't be able to find him, but at least he'd be looking. He let out a long exhale. He was probably going to die here. The thought didn't raise much concern, really. He'd thought he'd die taking Dick down. He was sorry that he didn't have a chance to say goodbye to his brother. But Sam knew, knew all the important stuff anyway. It wasn't like they had any real unfinished business between them. And Sam was the only one left. The only one left who knew, or would care, if Dean Winchester died.

The side of his mouth lifted briefly. He was still alive. And tomorrow was always a better day to die.

When he woke, it was dark. The forest around him was alive with movement, with soft calls and noises and rustlings. He stayed still; eyes open slightly, stretching out with his senses into the blackness of the night.

Distantly, on the other side of the ridge, he thought, he heard the ululations, five or six distinct howls, rising and falling discordantly. The werewolves probably hunted in packs here. And clearly the lack of a full moon was no problem.

His head snapped around as he heard a crash in the undergrowth, upstream and close. It was followed by laughter, high-pitched and hollow, and a hopeless, breathless scream. The crashing continued, heading toward him, and he closed his eyes, his ears picking out the differences between the noises of the desperate prey and the slower predators, confident in the certainty of the coming kill.

Hollow thump as two sets of feet hit the top of a log. Rasping breath and arrhythmic footfalls almost beneath him, on the other side of the stream. The dull thud of something hard hitting something softer and a wavering, thin shriek of pain rising in the darkness. He heard the slow scrabbling in the litter of the forest floor, and the low giggles close by. The scream was cut off abruptly, replaced by a tearing and a crunching and a soft wet sound that his imagination had no difficulty providing images for immediately.

He remained completely still, breathing slowly and deeply, listening to the raw and unambiguous sounds beneath him. This was the way it would be, he understood. Kill. Or be killed. No innocent people to be saved. No greater purpose or glory to be served. Just keeping himself off the dinner menu. Period. And if the Discovery Channel drama playing out under him wasn't clear enough, then he fucking well deserved to die.

Further away he heard another scream. It seemed like the monster's appetites were stronger at night – or what passed for night in this place. He might be able to travel in the daylight hours, look for Cas. The angel was his only hope of ever getting out of here. It was a thin hope, but he clung to it, because the alternative was unthinkable.

And if Cas was dead? Or had somehow left, escaping alone? The voice in his head mused.

Then he was fucked. Well and truly fucked. He would probably keep looking for a way out, for a while, he thought. Because that's all he would be able to do. But sooner or later, it would come down to a decision. He pushed the thought away. He would worry about that when he got to that place, not before.

After a year of finding it more and more difficult to care about life, to care about whether he lived or died, just putting one foot in front of the other, he realised that here, in this place, he cared a lot about living. He wasn't going to be the chew toy of some random fucking monster, not while he could still breathe and fight.

He had no idea of the time. His watch was still on his wrist but it had stopped, probably the second they'd come here. More sleep wouldn't hurt, if he was going to be moving tomorrow. He closed his eyes, shutting out the continuing sounds from below, telling his subconscious to wake him if there were any new noises in the vicinity. He hoped that Cas was still alive, still here. It was a strange feeling, to hope again.

Dean lay in the ditch, arms resting along a branch that sloped across it, covered in leaves and pine needles. He was still and silent, only his eyes moving as he watched the narrow trail below, waiting.

Bonus points for Purgatory, he thought vaguely. No bugs, no snakes or rats. His camouflage was warm without being irritating or dangerous. He moved his hand slightly, scratching at the puckered healed-over wound on his forearm. The pack had taken him by surprise the day before, only five of them, but all in their dogskins and together they'd almost brought him down. Didn't seem like he was in any danger of being turned into a monster here, though. He'd gotten enough bites. The wounds had healed, leaving a faint ache and an irritating itch.

He heard a muffled snap up trail, and tightened his grip on the thin, twisted rope of stripped bark and reeds in his hand, freezing into immobility as the shadows passed in front of him. Three, silhouetted against the brighter hillside on the other side of the trail, the long, unkempt hair breaking up their outlines. He jerked on the string as the last stepped over the trap-line.

The green boughs, bent back and held tightly, snapped free. Along their lengths, sharpened stakes, hardened in fire and bound tightly into splits along the branches, swung forward and into the creatures, and the forest was filled with screaming howls and bloodcurdling snarls as the monsters tried to get free. Dean erupted from the ditch, scattering leaf matter and twigs and needles, on the trail and beside the trap in a second.

The trap lay where the needle-covered trail narrowed and began to climb. It had taken him a couple of days to find the spot, and another two to set it up, but looking down at them, his mouth curled up on one side, satisfaction lighting his eyes. The werewolves were helpless in the man-made thorn cage; the stakes had penetrated their legs and arms, gone through their chests and torsos and the more they struggled, the deeper they became enmeshed.

"Guess you boys wolf out all the time here?"

He walked slowly to the nearest, looking over the long, black, tangled hair that fell from the scalp and neck and cascaded down its back, over the tattered clothing that it must have been wearing when it'd arrived here. The hands were tipped by curving claws, and the same long claws were obvious on the bare feet. The werewolf turned to him, lips drawn back from long, canine fangs and a deep guttural growl coming from its chest. Its blood, spilling from the edges of the punctures, was bright red, the only bright colour in the muted greys and greens and browns of the forest.

"Where's the angel?" Dean walked around the edge of the trap, looking from the first to the next, his knife in his hand.

The second werewolf twisted and lunged at him, its dark brown pelt silvered from the crown, one arm pinned to its body by the long stake, the snarl echoing down to the river.

Dean looked at it, unimpressed by the closeness of the snapping jaws. "I'm gonna be really fucking pissed if the only thing you monsters can do is dog impersonations."

"Angel."

The voice ground out, the word thick and indistinct in its throat. Dean turned and looked at the third monster. The smoky-grey pelt that covered most of its upper body was a vivid contrast to the deeply-tanned skin of its face, the bright blue eyes with their slitted pupils staring back at him.

"Where?"

The creature barked out a short laugh. "Why – tell?"

"Because I'll kill you quick," Dean pointed out dryly. "Instead of leaving you here for whatever else is hungry in this place." He gestured at the forest with the knife, and shrugged. "Might not be much of an offer, but it's the only one on the table."

"Four days." The monster looked up the trail, jerking his head in the direction, its jaw twisting oddly as it tried to get the words out. "Angel walked."

Dean followed its gaze. Four days ago? Not much help. He turned back to the werewolf. It was panting, and blood was bubbling from one side of the mouth. He stepped close, to the side where the arm was pinned and thrust the knife through the ribs. Dean watched the wolf features smoothing back out to the human it had been, once. Both remaining werewolves howled, the ululation rising in pitch and volume until the sound filled the tiny clearing. They fought and thrashed against the strong, green branches.

The creaking crack of the branch snapped his head around as the black werewolf pulled free of the trap, the stakes dragged through the long muscles of its legs, leaving bloody holes in its stomach and chest. He ducked under the long reach of a powerfully muscled arm, feeling the claws rake through his hair, rolling backwards to give himself more space. It came after him fast and he'd barely made his feet when the blow hit him, scimitar claws ripping across the side of his face and continuing down through his shirt and into his chest, the impact knocking him backward into a tree. The monster leapt at him and Dean shook his head, his knife coming up automatically.

He felt the blade slide in, the hilt shoved hard back into his own ribs with the werewolf's weight, crushing him against the unyielding trunk of the tree. For a moment, his vision greyed, the predator's rank smell enveloping him, the coarse hair brushing over his arms and shoulders and a truly stomach-turning, thick, putrid breath filling his mouth. Sagging back against the tree, his chest heaved as he tried to get air into his lungs. Then the weight dropped off him as the body fell to the ground, and he could breathe again, the wheezing inhale filling his lungs. The wounds on his face and chest and the back of his head throbbed in time with his heart beat.

In the trap, the last werewolf was frenzied, tearing at the stakes that impaled it from all sides. Dean wiped a hand over his face and staggered across the body, now, like the other, just a man. He squinted at the thrashing beast, edging closer.

Fucking thing would be free in a minute, he thought tiredly. It'd ripped several of the hardened stakes from its body, uncaring of the gouges that poured its blood onto the ground, lunging at him, the teeth snapping together furiously.

Recognising that the trap was too tightly entwined to reach the man from this side, it twisted away, feet scrabbling on the soft ground for purchase and Dean stepped in, driving the knife blade into the side of the thickened, muscular neck, and severing the artery there, the creature's shriek drilling into his ears as it turned for him, and exposed the broad chest. Blood hit him in the face as he plunged the knife into the ribs, feeling the tip hit bone and twisting it until it slid past and through. The werewolf's eyes blazed into his for an endless moment then the light in them died, and the body fell, hanging just off the ground, suspended by the branches still holding it.

Stepping back, Dean wiped his face with his arm, spitting out the blood he could taste in his mouth. His legs were trembling slightly from the last minute of action, and he reached up gingerly to feel the swelling on the back of his head, where the impact of the werewolf had slammed it into the tree. Still alive, he thought, leaning on the thicker branch in front of him. Get down to the river. The stink of the monsters still filled his nostrils, was all over him, and he didn't want to smell it anymore.

Well, at least Cas is still alive, was alive, four days ago. He stumbled down the slope, looking up river and down before he stepped out of the cover of the treeline and walked slowly across the pebbled bank. And he's still here … maybe.

He dropped to his knees at the water's edge, a still pool on the outskirts of the faster current, and cleaned the knife, drying it on his shirt and sliding it back into the sheath on his belt. Pulling off his jacket, he looked down at the long claw marks on his chest. They were stinging but they didn't seem all that deep. He leaned out over the pool, seeing the matching set on the side of his face, his reflection clear on the still water. They'd be gone in the morning, and just as well, he thought sourly, because the number of hits he'd taken in the last couple of days would've killed him topside.

He cupped his hands in the water and splashed it over his face, washing the blood away from the wound edges carefully. Despite the ache in them, they didn't feel all that bad. He wondered distractedly if the scars themselves would disappear eventually here.

"Help! Help me!"

The cry, a young and female voice, was more startling than a brass band. Dean was on his feet, his knife in his hand again as he looked across the river and saw her, scrabbling down the hillside, flashes of white and long hair in between the saplings that crowded the other shore. She stumbled out of the trees and into the river, a young woman, wearing a long white dress, the skirts held bunched in both hands. She struggled through the current, her tangled, dark hair whipping around her face as she looked back over her shoulder, her whooping breaths clearly audible to Dean, watching her approach.

"Help me, please!" She looked up at him, maybe fifteen feet away now, and he saw an oval face, covered in grime, pale skin under the dirt, wide, deep brown eyes staring pleadingly into his.

"What?" He looked past her to the forest, seeing nothing. "What's chasing you?"

"Vampires, dozens of them – I escaped –" She lifted her chin, and he saw the torn bites along the line of her neck. "They're coming, we have to hide!"

Human, he thought dazedly, another human. He listened but couldn't hear anything over the splashing she was making as she kept coming toward him. No sounds from the trees, nothing to indicate a pursuit. Really human? He looked down at her. Her skin was smooth, save for the faint crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. She looked exhausted, and he wondered how far she'd run.

"You might have lost them."

She shook her head vehemently, twisting to look across the river. "No, they're there."

"I can't hear anything." He looked back up the hillside. "You should clean those bites."

He stretched out his hand to her and she took it, holding the soaked bottom of her dress in one hand as she waded out of the river. Dean watched the bank behind her for a moment, then looked back at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as she seemed to slip in and out of focus. He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, wondering if the blow to the back of his head was worse than he'd thought.

"Are you alright?" She stepped closer to him, and he nodded, one foot sliding out from under him as he turned, making him wince. He felt dizzy, disconnected, and he tried to push it away, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the ground, on the water.

"Yeah. I hit my head a … a while ago," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "Must have hit it harder than I thought."

He started to walk and she followed him to the edge of the pool. Crouching down, he cupped his hands in the water again. She was behind him, leaning over his shoulder when he saw her reflection, the pitted skull only half-covered in torn flesh, the deep eye-sockets with nothing but blackness in them and a glint far back, the image wavering and shimmering nauseatingly on the still water.

He threw himself forward into the water, twisting onto his back as the wraith jumped onto him, a long crystalline spike extending from her wrist. Grabbing the wrist with one hand, he rolled to one side, fighting off the shaking and trembling in his vision, the colours that were pulsing all around him and frantically tugging out his knife.

Too many fucking monsters, he thought, feeling her fingernails slice into his hand. He ignored the pain and brought his knee up, taking her in the stomach and throwing his weight over to break her grip on him. The blade gleamed softly in the dull grey light and he thrust it in, forcing it upwards under the sternum to penetrate her heart.

The body crazed and crumbled into dust, filling the water with swirling milky clouds of god-knew-what. He sat up slowly, levering himself out of the shallow pool, face screwed up with distaste. Goddamned Purgatory, with its monsters on every corner. He was coated in the thing's remains.

The trees and the river bank were bulging and shifting, getting brighter and dimmer as the wraith's venom pumped through his bloodstream. He could hear rustlings from the forest's edge and turned his head, seeing nothing in the darkness under the trees. He stumbled across the flat rocks, seeing the river rushing ahead of him, but not the edge of the rock he stood on. His foot disappeared into the foaming current and he fell head-first into the shallow water, the cold, clean bite of it soaking through his clothes and into his skin as he lay on his back on the mica riverbed, eyes rolled back.

The drop-saw cut through the neck easily, sending out a spray of blood over the workshop, over the bench and over him. The crack of the revolver was loud in the street and the demon coruscated inside the human body, the light dying out finally and the body dropping on top of his brother. The girl was dying, and still he pressed at her, ignoring his awareness of her pain, of her suffering.

Killing that guy, killing Meg. I didn't hesitate, I didn't even flinch. For you or Dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill, it's just, uh... it scares me sometimes.

He opened his eyes, shivering in the cold water. The hallucinations were gone, the surreal feeling of the world bulging in and out had dissipated as well. He was freezing. He sat up and rolled slowly to his feet, looking at the knife still tightly held in one hand. Sliding it back into the sheath, he waded out of the river and looked at the deadfalls up near the trees. He needed a fire.

Two weeks later.

Dean ran through the forest, watching the ground in front of him, following the crashing and panting he could hear further up the hill. He froze as the noises stopped, waiting, then accelerated again when there was a further crash.

The vamp was starting to angle down across the slope, he thought, jumping the fallen branches and ducking under those too high to jump without thought or effort. He'd be on the same trail in another few seconds. He saw the flash of movement slightly ahead and lengthened his stride, unaware that a cold grin had flashed over his face.

He was fitter. Faster. Not entirely sure how that was, although he'd spent a lot of time over the past couple of weeks on his feet, running. No need to eat, or sleep. Not here. Even that first day, in the trees, he'd realised later he hadn't been sleeping, exactly. Resting was more accurate. He hadn't dreamed. The deep puncture wounds in his bicep had gone by the time he'd climbed down the tree the following morning, and seen the scattered remains of whatever luckless monster soul had been hunted the previous night. The bruising and the ragged cut on his back had gone as well. He wasn't completely sure about that, he couldn't get a look at them, but the pain had gone.

He'd wondered if that was because he was human, in his own real flesh, or if there was some kind of regeneration force at work in the place, as there'd been in Hell. The thought, he decided, was irrelevant. It was working on him, and that was all that mattered. It did make him wonder if he could be killed down here, but that wasn't an experiment he was willing to conduct.

The vamp broke through into a clearing and stopped, head tipping back in the unchanging grey light that was Purgatory's day. Dean came out onto a broad trail, moving soundlessly now on the thick leaf litter, and walked slowly up behind it. He still hadn't figured out how it worked, these monsters and their existence here. They fed on each other, in some way, he knew, but he couldn't imagine what they got from it – a continuation of the evil they'd done on the earthly plane? Or some kind of sustenance that was essential to them? It probably didn't make much difference.

He was expecting the turn when it came, the vampire swinging around fast, the crude heavy blade he held hissing through the air toward him. His hand hit the vamp's wrist, stopping the weapon's flat arc, and he struck at the arm holding it, the weighted fist holding his knife splitting the muscle and the weapon flying to one side as he shoved the vampire backwards, slamming it into the tree next to the trail.

Watching the second set of teeth descend, hearing the growling snarls of the creature he held pinned in front of him, he felt an odd sense of … completion. He was acutely aware of everything around him, everything in him … the strength in his muscles as they flexed against the strength of the monster, the depth of the silence in the forest around them, the sharp pine smell of the trees, and the deeper, underlying odour of decay from the fallen needles and leaves that carpeted the ground, and over those, the reek of the vampire, of rotting flowers and decomposing flesh. He could see every detail of the vamp's features, the shreds of old flesh between its teeth, the tiny clumps of dirt on its eyelashes as it looked down at him.

"Take a breath. Calm down," he said, easing the pressure a little against the vamp's chest. "Where's the angel?"

The vampire smiled fleetingly, breath still rasping in his throat. "You're him."

Dean drew back fractionally, brows pulling together. From the vamp's threads, it looked like it'd been here a long time, maybe there was a translation problem here.

"The human," the vampire whispered to him, and the stench of decay flooded out of its mouth over him.

"Where's the angel?!" he snapped, lifting the knife until the blade's edge was pressing into its neck.

"I don't know." The vampire leaned toward him, pushing against the blade, uncaring of the thin red line that it had opened. It stared into his eyes hungrily.

He probably didn't, Dean thought, looking at him. Another small fish in a pond where it was mostly small fish. He hadn't yet come across any creature that knew any more than this one, or any that had been stronger than this one. It was the percentages, he guessed, a lot of mediocre monsters down here. The corner of his mouth lifted at the thought.

He shifted his weight to the hand holding the vamp's chest and drove the knife through its arm into the tree trunk behind it, pinning it to the tree. It snarled at the pain, the sound curiously dulled and diffused in the forest. Turning away, Dean leaned over and picked up the weapon the thing had been carrying, feeling the weight as he lifted it.

A long stone blade, slightly curved, chipped out to sharp edge and blackened with old blood, lashed to a thigh bone. It was heavy and unbalanced, but it would do the trick, he thought. He swung around and the blade rose smoothly, an extension of his arm and hand, he felt, the edge slicing precisely through the vampire's neck and burying itself in the trunk behind. He watched the body drop and the head fall away without expression, yanking the stone blade from the wood.

There was no sound, no warning as he began to turn back to the clearing , just the creature's yell as it hit him, shoulder driving into his chest, the blade flying free from his hand as it took them both to the ground. He got a flash of teeth, too many fucking teeth in the mouth above him, feeling its weight against the arm he had braced against its chest, keeping those teeth off him, his head snapping to the left, seeing the stone axe lying nearby, but slightly out of reach. His fingers scrabbled in the humus, stretching out desperately but he was still too far, he needed to get closer, the weight over him and the slippery surface making that near impossible.

The vampire gripped the edges of his jacket, its full weight on his chest as it used him to get its feet under it. His breath was forced out and it jerked him up, his collarbone flexing sickeningly under the strength of its grip. A flash of shadow over him and the weight was gone, the hands were gone, he rolled onto his side and gripped the end of the bone, getting to his feet in time to see a second monster swing something at his attacker and the snarling sound stop instantly.

He watched the most recently arrived vampire turn his head slowly, the dim light showing the points and crevices in the fangs that slowly withdrew. First time he'd been saved by a monster – at least here. He couldn't imagine why it would have done it. Monsters were, by and large, predictable. Rapacious. Evil. Hard to kill, sometimes, but mostly predictable. An unpredictable monster made him nervous.

The vamp rose to his feet, and Dean's fingers tightened around the bone handle of the axe as he lifted the blade point a little, aware of the open trail behind him, the silence of the forest. Whoever this guy was, he had a feeling that most of the others gave him a little room. It wasn't a reassuring thought.

"What?" The voice was soft, scratchy. "No thanks for saving your hide?"

Louisiana, Dean thought. Those softly drawn out vowels that always seemed to have an edge of a French accent to them.

"Sure," he said, as the vamp quarter-turned toward him. "I won't shove this up your ass."

The vampire looked down at the ground and back up to him, exhaling. "Awful strange way to punch your meal ticket, friend." He started to walk, gaze fixed on him as he moved. "I got something you need."

Dean moved as well, keeping the distance between them. The vamp was too cool, too sure of himself. The back of his neck was prickling, the clearing was open, and he felt exposed, the need to keep his attention on the creature opposite making him wonder if this was a trap, an ambush.

"Yeah? What's that?"

The vampire smiled slightly. "A way out."

Was it just that they couldn't help it, he wondered, feeling the laugh rise at the blatant outrageousness of the offer. Or did they really believe all humans were just that stupid.

"Even a dental apocalypse like you knows there's no such thing," he said, shaking his head.

"There is if you're human," the vampire countered gently, that small smile playing on his mouth again.

Dean felt his laughter drain away. The words shouldn't have had the impact they did on him. He shouldn't have felt that thin shaft of hope at them, lighting up some tiny corner of his gut. He stared at the vamp, his expression hardening.

"God has made it so," the vampire continued in that gravelly southern drawl, inclining his head slightly. "At least, that's the rumour."

"Bull." He didn't believe it. Couldn't afford to believe it. Not now, not from the creature that walked slowly in front of him.

"Suit yourself." The vampire's eyes crinkled up slightly. "Maybe you've gone native." He kept circling slowly. "May be … you like being man meat for every Tom, Dick …and Harry."

He grinned at Dean, his face suddenly open, almost boyish.

Dean stopped walking and looked at him expressionlessly. Sonofabitch had a small point. Sooner or later, skill wasn't enough. And luck always ran out. He was a walking dead man if he couldn't find Cas, or a way out on his own. It was just a matter of time. Didn't make the vamp's words any truer, he thought.

"Prove it."

"No," the vampire said softly, his expression speculative. "You're either in or you're out."

This was bullshit, Dean thought sourly, pure, straight-from-the-bull shit. "So you just want to guide me out of Purgatory, out of the goodness of your undead heart?"

"More or less," the vampire said, the humour gone from his face but the speculation still in his eyes.

"What's in it for you?" Dean asked. He could sense a trap; he couldn't see it, not yet. And somewhere, inside, he knew he might have to walk into it anyway, because staying here was not a viable option.

"I'm hopping a ride."

"What?" He hadn't expected that, hadn't even thought of that. In all their research on Purgatory, when they'd been looking for a way to stop someone from breaking in, none of them, not him, not Sam, not even Bobby, had come across any mention of a way out. Or any mention of humans coming and going from the place either.

"It's a human portal, jackass, only humans can pass through," the vampire said sarcastically, eyes narrowing. "I show you a door … you hump my soul to the other side."

Was that even possible? The vamp seemed certain of it. He wasn't sure, he'd come up against stranger things, but … "So you're looking for a soul train?"

"Sure," the vamp said, mouth curving upward slightly. "If that's what you're into."

Dean didn't like the monster's easy amusement. He didn't like the certainty he felt that he was being manipulated into doing something that would work for the vamp but likely leave him dead. He didn't like talking to the fucking thing instead of separating its head from its body. He shunted those thoughts aside for the moment, matching the vamp's smile instead.

"And how do I know this isn't a set-up?" He glanced at the dead vamp lying on the ground. "How do I know I ain't gonna end up like your friend over here?"

The vampire followed his look, his expression indifferent as his gaze passed over the dead monster.

"He was my friend." He looked back at Dean, mouth curling up at one corner. "Now you are."

He inclined his head slightly as he looked at Dean. "First rule of Purgatory, kid. You can't trust nobody."

Goddamned sonofabitch was playing him, Dean thought furiously, smoother than a fucking snake oil salesman. "You just asked me trust you!"

"You see?" The vampire raised a brow. "You're gettin' it now."

This was a bad idea. Dean knew it, felt it in his gut, in his heart. But it looked like it was the only game in town. If it was real. If it was true. The vamp would keep him alive, at least until they got to the door, and with backup, he could search for Cas, he knew. With two of them, they had a good chance of finding the angel. Well, he amended unwillingly, a better chance of finding him.

He lifted the weapon in his hands, pointing it at the vamp as he walked toward him, the decision made. "First, we find the angel."

The vampire's mouth compressed as he looked away. "Mmm … three's a crowd, Chief."

"Well, hey." Dean smiled humourlessly at the vamp's obvious reluctance, the expression vanishing as he met its eyes. "Either you're in … or you're out."

The vampire smiled, a widening one-sided smile acknowledging the impasse. Dean looked at it, feeling his own sense of satisfaction disappear. He'd agreed to team up with a vampire. To find Cas, to get the hell out of here, but still. Needs must when the devil drives. The saying popped into his head and he shrugged inwardly. Maybe so. The vamp hadn't been keen on adding another partner to the deal, understandably since whatever advantage he thought he had would be lost.

He gestured down the trail with the blade and the vamp nodded, the smile in place.

Whatever happened, Dean thought, he had to stay on top of this bastard. Had to watch him. He was pretty sure that the vamp wouldn't risk his soul-ride – if that part was even true, a small voice in his head reminded him tartly – but who the fuck knew what other side-plans the monster had. A monster who thought and planned and betrayed his own kind without a thought about it. An unpredictable monster.

Suck it up, he told himself, following the monster down the trail, doors number two and three were locked up tight.