They moved her to an unused bedroom. It was small and spartan and smelled like dust and stale air, but it had a bed, and that was all Nell cared about. Everything was too bright, too loud, too… everything, and all she wanted to do was burrow beneath the sheets and sleep.
Dean, who had kept a firm grip on her arm for the walk out of the dungeon and down the hall, eased her onto the bed. Stepping back, he hesitated, glancing at the ropes on Nell's wrists. He'd left hem bound, though he'd freed her feet so she could walk. Nell appreciated the gesture—she was getting dizzy, and she was sure being hoisted over his shoulder into the fireman's carry he'd used earlier would have been overwhelming to her overstimulated senses.
With a small sigh and a shake of his head, Dean knelt down. Instead of reaching for the knots on her wrists, however, he reached for the ones on her boots. His shoulders were tense, Nell, noticed, and he tugged at the laces and the leather with rough, abrupt movements.
"How long will it take to know if it works?" The whispered question sounded too loud in her own head.
"It's gonna work." As if to emphasize the point, Dean jerked the boot off her left foot. It thudded to the floor like the clatter of pans falling in a kitchen, and Nell winced, gritting her teeth at the pounding in her head. Dean glanced up, taking in her expression, and though he didn't comment on her reaction, he removed the other boot much more gently, placing it on the floor with quiet intention. "Shouldn't take more than a day."
There was steely determination in his voice, but it didn't bring her any comfort. Quite the opposite, in fact, though it took her a few seconds to process why.
The tone, the expression on his face, was deeply familiar to her. It wasn't certainty, or hope, or faith. It was denial.
Nell exhaled harshly at the realization. Dean seemed not to notice. "It's best to try to sleep it off," he advised, crossing the room to retrieve a small trash pail and placing it by the bedside table. "And you'll be needing this. Try not to miss."
"Great." Throwing up was unpleasant enough without the ridiculous hypersensitivity she was currently suffering from. She suspected the sheer sensory stimulation of vomiting would be enough to make her pass out.
Resigned to a thoroughly unpleasant night, Nell pulled back the musty bedcover and wormed her way under the sheets. Closing her eyes was sweet relief, cutting off one of her overly heightened senses. With her bound hands she fumbled to grab the second pillow from the opposite side of the bed and pressed it over her head, sighing contentedly as the sounds of beating hearts and sighing breath and groaning pipes grew quieter.
Dean's booted feet tromped away. The lights clicked off. The door creaked open. "It'll be over in no time," Dean promised once more, quietly, before closing the door and locking her inside.
As she drifted off, Nell wished desperately that she could believe him.
Nell wasn't sure how much time passed. She drifted in and out of consciousness, but it was difficult to tell when she was awake and when she was dreaming. Her skin itched, and every inch of her tingled painfully, as if every limb had fallen asleep simultaneously. She alternated between burning hot and freezing cold, and woke frequently to throw off the bedsheets or greedily wrap them back around herself.
Sweat covered her entire body, beading on her forehead and dripping into her still blood-matted curls. Her head pounded painfully with every beat of her heart, like her veins could no longer take the force of the liquid pumping through them. Her teeth and jaw ached with a pain Nell hadn't felt since she'd had her wisdom teeth out.
Worst of all, though, was her stomach.
She was nauseous. Dizzy. Even when she lay completely still, it felt as though the bed was rocking beneath her on violent seas. She felt simultaneously ravenous and repulsed by the thought of food, and her stomach seized and cramped more ferociously than she'd ever experienced.
She tried to vomit. She would feel the bile rising in her throat like a wave, and she'd leaned over to the trash pail, hoping that finally, finally she'd feel relief if only she could empty her stomach. But every time she thought she'd throw up, nothing came up.
Every time she dry-heaved without success, panic grew in her gut. She could feel her body trying to expel the poison, could feel it just out of reach. She was terrified of what would happen if she couldn't throw up, if the poison never left.
The third or fourth time she tried to vomit—it was hard to keep track, and more than once she dreamed that she succeeded, only to wake and find the trash pail still empty—she startled as, mid-retch, warm, rough hands pulled her hair back and away from her face.
"You can do it," Dean's encouraged, holding her damp curls off her neck. "Get it all out."
"I can't." Nell spat a glob of acid-flavored saliva into the empty pail, swiping at the crusty-feeling tracks of died tears on her face. "I heave, and I heave, and nothing comes up."
"You gotta try harder." Dean's voice was rough and urgent. Nell struggled to focus on his earnest expression, but her vision was blurry. With illness or tears, she couldn't tell. "That's how it works. You've got to throw it all up."
"What happens if I don't?" But Nell knew even before she asked. Dean didn't bother answering, just shook his head and stepped away again. Nell shuddered and collapsed back into the sheets, suddenly cold without the heat of his hands so close.
When Nell woke again for a fifth unsuccessful bout of heaving, she got desperate. She shoved a hand down the back of her throat, trying to manually stimulate the gag reflex, hoping she could force the expulsion. She earned bloody knuckles, a few loud, heaving retches, and a defiantly empty garbage pail.
The door creaked open again, and Nell's shoulders hunched. She hid her face in her sweat-drenched pillow, not wanting to see Dean's face when he saw the pail still empty.
But it wasn't Dean this time. The steps were quieter, and Nell turned her face to look as the bed sank to one side. Sam.
Nell couldn't decide which brother was more depressing—Dean, masking his denial of the situation with steely determination, or Sam, who was entirely unable to conceal his pity and guilt.
"How are you feeling?" He asked, tentatively, eyes flicking over her face with a pained expression that told Nell that she had to look at least half as bad as she felt.
"Dandy."
Sam ignored her raspy sarcasm, reaching one of his massive hands toward her forehead to check her temperature. Nell leaned into it, relishing the warmth, but Sam jerked his hand away after barely a second.
"You're burning up." He looked between his hand and Nell's face, worry evident.
"Really?" Nell clutched the blankets around her more tightly, in case Sam suggested she get rid of them. "I feel freezing."
Sam's lips thinned. He looked away from her, to the still-empty garbage pail, and his shoulders drooped.
"How long has it been?"
Sam swallowed. Nell wasn't sure if it was an objectively loud sound, or simply loud to her. "Twelve hours."
Nell shuddered out a long breath. Dean had said 'not more than a day'—which meant half her time, or more, was already gone. That wasn't a good sign, she was sure, not just because of the math but also because Sam had visibly winced when he said it.
He didn't believe the cure would work.
Nell turned her face back into the pillow without another word, unwilling to look at him any longer. Sam hesitated, but left, easing the door shut behind him as quietly as he could.
"Did she throw up?" Dean demanded in a low voice. He must have been waiting outside the door, but Nell could hear him as easily as if the two were standing at her bedside.
"No," Sam replied, keeping his voice low as well. "And, honestly?… I don't think she's going to."
"Of course she is." Dean said it too soon to be believable. "We gave her the cure."
"Yeah, we did," Sam agreed. "And if I'd given it to her thirty seconds earlier, it would've worked." He paused, and when he continued his voice was full of dark self-reproach. "If I hadn't hesitated… If I just ignored Crowley—"
"Okay, stop," Dean interrupted, no-nonsense. "Is her heart still beating?"
Sam hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, "Yeah."
"Then it hasn't failed yet." His tone was final, like the matter had been settled. There was a muffled thump that confused Nell for a moment, before she guessed that maybe Dean had patted his brother on the shoulder. "You should get some shut eye." There was an inhale of breath, like Sam was about to protest, but Dean continued, "You look almost as bad as she does."
Sam released his breath in a whoosh. "Ouch," he said, but without heat. He trudged down the hall, to another bedroom, Nell guessed. Dean waited for another few minutes outside Nell's door, but eventually he, too, walked away, leaving Nell alone once more.
Nell wasn't sure when she fell asleep again, or how long she slept for. In her dreams someone was calling her name, and she was searching desperately for them. She had to reach them, somehow, it was so important—the most important thing. She ran and ran, through darkness and whirls of color, her own name echoing in her head. Just when she thought she'd found the speaker, she reached out to touch him—
And clutched empty air.
Just a fever dream, Nell told herself, staring at the thin, bony hand curled in the air in front of her. The motion of her own arm had woken her, though she was sweaty and her breath heaved as if she had indeed been running around.
It had just been a dream… except, someone was still calling her name.
At first she thought she was still half-asleep, delirious, looking around the empty room and seeing no one. It took her longer than it should have to remember that she could hear far, far beyond the room she was locked in, and to place the voice of the person calling out to her.
"Nell," Crowley repeated, voice light and low. The sound of it was almost painful, like a stitch from running, but in her gut and her teeth. "Nell, darling. Can you hear me?"
Nell held her breath, as if, if she made any noise, Crowley would hear her. Maybe he would. Maybe he could hear just as well as she could.
"I bet you can," Crowley continued, certain and quiet and oddly satisfied. "Bet every heartbeat in this place is clanging like a church bell for you."
It was true. There were five hearts beating in the bunker. Sam's and Dean's, slow and steady in sleep. A faster one, accompanied by sighs and rustling pages, that Nell guessed belonged to whoever Kevin was. Nell's own heartbeat, racing fast and hard, like she'd just run a mile at a full sprint.
And finally, Crowley's: steady and strong, like a drum beat. The sound of its beating was almost hypnotic as Nell focused on it.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" It was more statement than question. There was something like sympathy in Crowley's tone, but not the sincere kind she'd heard from Sam. It sounded more like an affectation, like he was leading somewhere. But Nell would hear him out, because she couldn't not hear him, and because his words were intertwining with the beat of his heart like music. "I know it hurts... But all the best things in life do."
Nell couldn't suppress a derisive laugh, and then a groan as the movement pulled at her aching muscles and made her stomach twist into knots. "You and I must have very different ideas about the best things in life."
Crowley's breath caught. Nell's did, too, as she realized that, yes, Crowley's hearing must be nearly as sensitive as hers.
"Perhaps," Crowley breathed at last. "But not for long, I'm sure."
Nell was silent, but that was answer enough. Crowley sighed gustily, sounding vaguely disappointed. "If the Winchesters weren't so obsessed with fighting the inevitable you'd have an easier time of it."
"It's not inevitable," Nell denied, but she didn't believe it and it showed in her voice.
"Is that cure so disorientating that you can't see a good thing when it's handed to you?" Crowley continued, slowly, like Nell was hard of hearing, "You were going to die. Now, if you're very careful, you'll never have to."
Nell went still. "Never?" She repeated, voice shaking.
"Never."
Nell dove for the trash pail, shoving her fingers down her throat again and retching around her battered knuckles.
"What are you—" Crowley's voice rose nearly an octave in disbelief. "Stop! Stop that, you suicidal idiot. Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"Yes," Nell hissed, glaring at the empty pail like it was Crowley's stupid face. Her fingers were digging into the edge of the pail so hard it was starting to bend—a bad sign, Nell thought with no small amount of alarm, considering it was made of metal. "Yes, I am. I would rather die right now in a puddle of my own vomit than live forever."
"Don't." It was half-plea, half-command. Nell ignored it, shoving her fingers down her throat again and praying to any higher power who could hear her that she would finally just throw up. Her body shook with tremors, and every heave was physically painful, but she tried, desperately, over and over again.
"Don't die, don't you dare die," Crowley repeated the demand over and over, fast and urgent and more and more insistent every time Nell retched. After what must have been ten solid minutes of fruitless heaving, Nell sat back, eyes watering and throat aching, to catch her breath.
"Think this through, Nell. Just think." Crowley paused, like he himself was desperately thinking of something to say to get Nell to stop. It was useless, Nell thought. There was nothing he could say that would convince her, nothing that would make her change her mind. The thought of living forever was terrible enough, but to live like a monster?
She could remember, vividly, how kind old Henry, who shared his beer and loved his dog, had grown teeth before her eyes and sank them into her neck. She could remember the look in his eyes as he stared at her, hungry and remorseless and utterly inhuman.
Nell put a shaking hand to her lips again. She had to do it. Now or never.
"Think of the blood."
Nell froze, breath catching in her throat. Her heart and Crowley's heart were a cacophony, his beating rapidly, hers erratically.
"No," she breathed, but it was too late. She didn't want to think of the blood, she didn't, but it was impossible not to, now that Crowley had said it. Trying not to think of it only brought it even more to the forefront of her mind, and she couldn't shut out the thought of it, the memory—
Hot. Thick. Smooth as chocolate, heady as champagne. The best thing she'd ever tasted in her entire life. How could she have forgotten the blood?
"Yes, Nell," Crowley hissed, triumphant. "How did it taste? How did it feel?"
"Shut up." Nell pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear him. Each word rang like a gong over the loud background noise of their hearts beating rapidly together. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
"You loved it," Crowley pressed on. "You should have seen yourself—pupils blown, licking the drops of my blood off your lips, greedy for more."
Nell moaned, not from the image itself, but because the thought of it had made her sharp, jagged teeth descend so rapidly she bit her own lip. The bite drew blood, and she was licking it off her lips before she even realized what she was doing. But it wasn't the same, it wasn't enough.
"You want more, don't you?" Nell jolted, spitting the blood from her lip into the pail. A string of pink, bloody saliva stuck to her teeth, though, clinging. She retched again.
"Stop fighting it," Crowley admonished at the sound. "Choose blood, Nell. Choose life."
The weight of Crowley's words made Nell's breath hitch. Her heart stuttered. Stuttered. Faltered.
Panic swelled in Nell's chest, but instead of speeding up in response, her heart slowed further, beat irregular and sluggish. Suddenly Dean's words from hours ago rang in her head.
Is her heart still beating? Then it hasn't failed yet.
"No," Nell breathed, pounding her still-bound hands against her chest in a desperate attempt to get her heart beating regularly again. "No. No, no, no, no, no, this isn't happening. Come on… come on…"
Crowley said nothing, but he didn't need to. His heart was beating faster, even as Nell's slowed and faltered.
"Come on." A frantic beat on her chest, a feeble beat of her heart. A beat for a beat, a beat for a beat, until—
"No."
Nell thumped her hands against her chest, but there was no answering thump of her heart. She thumped again, and again, and again, but it was useless. Her heart was still.
The silence of it was deafening.
Her breathing was suddenly too loud. The air rushing in and out of her lungs sounded wrong without the answering beat of her heart. The panic, the fear, the anger and nervous energy that had been building for hours and hours seemed to fill her chest with every breath. There was no release with the exhale, though. The pressure simply built, and built, until—
She couldn't have held back the scream. It was rage, and loss, and fear, and the sound of it drowned out the horrible silence of her still heart. She screamed again, and again, harsh, sobbing, tearless screams, but it wasn't enough.
Her hands tore through her hair—her free hands, because in her rage the ropes might as well have been made of tissue paper. But it wasn't enough. Her heartbeat was gone, and that meant— that meant—
With a snarl, Nell crossed to the solid wooden desk pressed against one wall and kicked. Her feet were only clad in socks. With the force she levelled at it, and the sturdiness of the wood, she should have broken a bone.
But she didn't.
The kick knocked the desk clear across the room, clattering against the wall with a creak of wood. But it was still in tact, so Nell followed its path and kicked it, again and again. She didn't care about noise, or pain. All she wanted to do was vent her frustrations until either she or the stupid desk was broken beyond repair.
For a good minute, all she could hear was the sound of her heavy, ragged breathing, the rush of wind as her foot sailed through the air, and the splinter and crack of wood.
Then, "Nell, STOP!"
Sam. Of course. Nell stopped her assault on the desk, her anger fleeing, leaving behind a hollow despair.
Nell turned to look at them. Sam was holding a large machete, and it gleamed in the light from the hallway. Dean's knife was still at his belt, but he had a gun aimed right at Nell's heart. With despair, Nell realized that he might as well shoot it, for all the difference it would make.
"What the hell is going on in here?" Dean's eyes were fixed on Nell, unmoving, but Sam's eyes flicked from her face, to the shredded ropes on the ground, to the ruined desk, to the dented, empty pail. His shoulders sagged downward an inch, but his grip on his knife didn't falter.
"My heart stopped." Nell's breath hitched and her eyes stung, but no tears came. "My heart stopped, and I can't cry and—" Nell shuddered out a breath, wrapping her arms around herself to stop them from shaking at her sides. "The desk might as well have been made of toothpicks."
Nell herself was no worse for wear. Looking at her feet, she found that though her socks were battered and dirty and covered in splinters, her feet and legs didn't have so much as a scratch on them.
"That's okay."
The calm reassurance was so unexpected that Nell whipped her head up from her examination of her feet to assure herself that it wasn't some trick so he could get close and take her head off with his machete, like they'd done to Henry and those other vampires. But no—Sam's eyes were wide and sincere.
"It really isn't," Nell disagreed.
So did Dean, apparently, as he jerked his head toward the hallway without moving his gun an inch. "Sam, can I talk to you outside?"
Sam sighed through his nose, but nodded and turned toward the hallway with a long-suffering look. Dean kept his gun trained on Nell's heart as he backed out through the door, then swiftly shut the door to the bedroom.
Sighing, Nell slid down the wall to sit on the ground, resting her head on her knees as she listened to the brothers' not-at-all-secret conversation.
"'That's okay'?" Dean repeated first, disbelieving. "What's your plan, here? It's not like there's another 'vegetarian' nest we could send her off to." Nell was a little relieved to hear that Dean's short-list of solutions to this predicament didn't seem to include chopping her head off.
"We can't just send her away on her own, either." Sam's voice was earnest. "Even if she has the will to stay—er, 'vegetarian', she might draw the attention of some other hunter. This is our fault. She's our responsibility."
Dean was quiet for a moment. Curiously, he was no longer attempting to correct his brother's use of the collective word. "Well we can't exactly bring a cow into the bunker, and she's gotta be starving by now. How the hell are we supposed to feed her?"
She was starving. She was so hungry she felt sick—almost faint. But she was utterly unwilling to mention it, to admit out loud, to the Winchesters and to the doubtlessly-eavesdropping Crowley, that she needed blood, and soon.
"There's a butcher not too far away from here that sells pig's blood by the gallon," Sam said after a long moment of consideration.
"Already looked that up, did you." Dean's voice was flat. "And are they open at—" A brief pause. "4 AM?"
"No," Sam admitted. Sounding uncomfortable, he added, "And they're closed on Mondays." From the wince in his voice, Nell guessed that today must be Monday.
"Well, that's just great. What are we supposed to do until then?"
Sam didn't hesitate. "There's us."
"Uh-uh, no way," Dean denied immediately "Not happening. Once a monster's got the taste for human blood it's too hard to go back. You know that."
A monster, he said.
Was that what she was, now? Dean spoke the word easily, like it was a given fact, but Nell didn't feel any different. Well, physically she did, what with the super senses and the urgent thirst for blood, but Nell herself, the person she was on the inside, was still unchanged.
Wasn't she?
"She's already tasted Crowley's blood, and she didn't go crazy then," Sam reasoned.
"She was tied up, then."
"Then we tie her up again!" Sam's voice raised slightly. "It'll only take a day to get some pig's blood. We can tie her up, feed her a little at a time until we can figure it all out."
There was a shuffling motion, which Nell guessed might have been Dean crossing his arms. He heaved an irritated, but resigned sigh. "Okay, fine. But we're using my blood. You still look sick, and I ain't carrying you to bed if you faint."
"I'm fine," Sam protested, but sighed. "But fine, okay. A little bit at a time, then. Just for today."
Dean walked off, presumably to procure a syringe, and Sam re-entered the room. He opened his mouth, maybe to repeat the conclusion of his and Dean's conversation, but halted at Nell's unimpressed stare. He paused just past the doorway, understanding and a touch of embarrassment coloring his face. "You heard that entire conversation, didn't you?"
"Mmhmm."
Sam coughed awkwardly, cheeks still slightly pink. "Right. Okay, then. I'm just gonna… tie you back up, okay?"
Nell sighed and nodded, heaving herself off the floor and settling into the room's only chair, a solid wooden one which matched the desk she'd just destroyed. Sam tied her wrists and ankles together again first, before securing her arms and torso to the back of the chair. Nell decided not to mention how just how easily she'd snapped the ropes off her wrists just minutes ago.
When he finished securing all the knots, Sam stood, peering down into her face with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Are you, uh… hungry?"
Nell closed her eyes and swallowed. She was. More than she ever had been in her entire life, and with such intensity that she didn't think she would ever be able to fully describe the sensation. Instead of trying, she simply opened her eyes and nodded.
Sam frowned sympathetically, but furrowed his brow. "But you haven't gone… uh, toothy. And I've been pretty close…"
"What, were you testing me?" Sam shrugged minutely, still looking curious. Nell had to admit it was in an interesting point. Starving though she was, Sam did not smell appetizing. In fact…
Nell inhaled deeply, taking in Sam's scent, and coughed. "So, don't take this the wrong way, but you smell… bad."
There was a huff of laughter. Nell glanced at the doorway for a moment, expecting Dean to be amused by her description of his brother's smell, but the hallway was still empty. Crowley, she remembered belatedly, suppressing a roll of her eyes.
"Bad?" Sam repeated, confused. His arm twitched, like he'd briefly considered lifting it for a sniff. But that wasn't what she was talking about.
"Bad," Nell confirmed, actually a little worried for him now that she was paying attention to the smell coming off him. "Like… rotten, almost."
Sam's expression flickered from confused, to concerned, back to curious. "Is it just me? Or all human blood?"
"There's not a lot of humans around to compare..." Still, Nell obligingly drew in a deep breath. Pushing past Sam's off-putting scent, she smelled Dean's spicy musk lingering in the room. She did her best to ignore the hints of Crowley's intoxicating scent, focusing instead on the faint smell of someone else. "Dean and the guy I haven't met—Kevin?—smell better."
"Huh." Sam chewed on that for a second before asking tentatively, "And Crowley?"
Nell wasn't about to admit aloud that the smell of Crowley's blood ranked about a 50 on a scale of 1 to 10, considering he could apparently hear their entire conversation. She settled for a grudging, "Better."
"Demon blood." Sam muttered it thoughtfully, seemingly to himself. "Huh…" Nell looked towards the door as Dean's footsteps approached, and Sam followed her eyes. A moment later Dean opened the door, a syringe of blood in one hand and a small cup in the other.
Dean waggled the syringe cheerily, seemingly trying to lighten the mood a little. "Breakfast." He glanced at the ruins of the desk before crossing to the nightstand near the bed, setting the up down and emptying the blood from the syringe into it. The smell hit Nell immediately, and her teeth descended as easily and naturally as salivating. She kept her mouth clamped shut, mortified at her complete lack of control, the physical evidence of her monstrous hunger.
Dean approached with the cup, and extended it, slowly, to her lips. "Drink up."
Nell obeyed, gulping down the warm blood like a bottle of cold water after a long run. It was wonderful, but it was gone in moments. When the cup was empty, Nell blinked, licking the last drop of blood from her lips, savoring it. Her hunger was scarcely dulled, but she felt significantly less tense, and her teeth retracted easily. Looking away from the cup, she found both brothers eyeing her warily.
"What?"
"How are you feeling?" Sam asked slowly. "Do you… er, need more?"
Nell swallowed. The painful, aching pit in her stomach had barely been mollified by the small amount of blood. At the same time, she felt very weird about, essentially, asking to eat more of Dean—even if it was only blood and he'd replace it soon enough. "I'm still hungry, but it can wait."
Dean scanned Nell's face for a long moment, creases forming in the corner of his eyes as he examined her for… something. "I gotta say, I'm kinda surprised you're still… you."
Nell blinked, looking back and forth between them. Sam had nodded thoughtfully at Dean's words. "Who else would I possibly be?"
Dean's rocked back on his heels. His look of confusion was slowly being replaced with a sort of wary, hopeful skepticism. "New vampires are usually all instinct. They don't stop at one cup of blood and ask politely for more—they latch on to the nearest human neck and suck them dry."
"But your teeth retracted," Sam said. It was like he couldn't decide whether to be confused or impressed. "You just calmly told us you're still hungry. You didn't even try to bite Dean's wrist, even though he was close enough."
Nell's brow furrowed at that. "Was that another test?"
Dean shrugged, unapologetic. "A little one. Which you passed, with, uh—surprisingly flying colors."
Nell leaned back in her chair, licking her lips again thoughtfully and puzzling over the tension in Dean's shoulders and the deep line between Sam's brows. "That's good, isn't it? Not wanting to kill people is good."
"It is," Sam agreed quickly. "But it's also…" He trailed off, as if searching for just the right word.
"Weird," Dean finished gruffly.
Sam sighed, but nodded and echoed, "Weird."
"Maybe the cure isn't completely all or nothing?" Nell guessed, though she felt a little out of her depth trying to theorize about supernatural cures for vampirism.
Sam frowned thoughtfully. "Or the demon blood."
Dean straightened abruptly at Sam's suggestion, eyes dark and wary as he glanced between Sam and Nell. The look was dangerous, and it sent a little jolt of panic down Nell's spine. She would have bet money that that was the look on his face when he cut Henry's head off.
Sam continued to theorize aloud, either unaware of or ignoring his brother's foreboding look. "We know drinking demon blood can give humans special abilities. Maybe it's the same for vampires. Better self control, or something."
Dean grunted. "I like her idea better. I'm not keen to find out what kind of other powers a vamp might develop on demon blood."
"Oh, but I am," Crowley breathed. Nell shook her head, focusing on Sam and Dean and trying to ignore the way Crowley's voice made her spine tingle.
"If it helps her keep her mind, tamps down the bloodlust, wouldn't that be worth it?" Sam squared his shoulders stubbornly. "Besides, Crowley did this. It would serve him right to be her blood bag for a while."
Nell's teeth ached at the mere thought. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, hoping the brothers were too caught up in their little spat to see her nearly drooling at the idea of tasting the man's blood again. Or demon's, as it were.
"No." Dean's tone was final, but still he added, "We've seen what demon blood does." At that, Sam's shoulders hunched. Dean scooped up the empty cup and the syringe, promising to return shortly with some more blood, and left. With an apologetic glance, Sam followed after him, leaving Nell tied up and alone with her thoughts.
Her thoughts, and Crowley.
"Better, am I?" Crowley asked after the Winchester's steps had faded farther away. "How much better am I, love?"
"I'm beginning to understand why the Winchesters have you locked securely in a dungeon." Nell had hoped that her peeved tone would discourage the demon's attempts at conversation, but he was undeterred.
"Not too securely. You could get me out easily, I'm sure." Crowley said this in the tone of a compliment, before continuing suggestively, "I'd even let you have a taste again."
Nell managed to prevent her jagged teeth from descending at the thought through sheer force of will, but it took a moment for her to gather herself. When she was reasonably certain she could talk without sounding like a starved animal, she warned, "I'm not above asking them to gag you, you know."
"You wouldn't," Crowley said, disbelieving. Nell drew in a deep breath, as if to shout, and Crowley rushed out, "Okay, okay! I yield." Nell released her breath in a sigh. After a moment, though, Crowley tried his luck one last time, adding in a low voice, "You'd only be hurting yourself, though, you know. We're in the same situation, you and I. Tied up, alone, and entirely at the mercy of men who kill things like us for a living."
"Shut up, Crowley."
"If you say so, love."
And he did shut up, but the damage had already been done. Because he was right, wasn't he? Sam and Dean Winchester hunted monsters, and now she was one. True, they'd tried to help her, first when she'd nearly been killed by Henry, and then again when Crowley sabotaged their attempts to cure her. They were still helping her even now, feeding her blood… but that didn't mean they weren't dangerous.
Their botched vampire hunt is what had gotten her in this situation in the first place, and since then they'd made her a vampire, locked her in a trunk, tied her up in a dungeon with a demon, and then essentially poisoned her. When she'd had her minor panic attack earlier because her heart had stopped beating, their first instinct was to come in with guns and big knives. Nell hadn't missed the never-wavering aim of Dean's pistol, or the fact that Sam's hand had never loosened on the hilt of his machete.
The wary mistrust, their insistence that Nell and her transformation was weird, did not inspire confidence. Maybe the brothers felt sorry for her, guilty that they'd kind-of sort-of gotten her killed, and that was the only thing staying their hand from just killing her now that she was a monster.
Nell shook her head to dislodge that thought. It was just paranoia, and it didn't make a lick of sense. They wouldn't be going to all the trouble to feed her, or buy pig's blood by the gallon, if they were planning to kill her. She'd even heard them talking about 'vegetarian' vampires, although they'd admitted they didn't know any to send her to.
In the end, Nell thought, Sam and Dean just wanted to protect people. Most of the time, the way they did that was by killing monsters. But if Nell could prove that she wasn't a monster, that she wouldn't hurt anyone…
Then all she would have to worry about was figuring out how to spend an undying eternity as a blood-sucking vampire.
Dean visited once every few hours, giving Nell a pint of blood over the course of the day. It wasn't enough to make her hunger disappear, but it helped a great deal. The hunger pangs weren't nearly so painful or distracting, and when she'd drained the last drop of blood in the last cup Dean promised her that Sam would have some pig blood for her "real soon."
With a speculative, measuring look, he'd left her in her room untied and unsupervised, though he still made a point to lock the door from the outside. The small measure of trust and freedom was nice, if a little lackluster. The room was completely bare, except for the bed, bedside table, chair, and the desk she'd demolished.
Alone with her thoughts, time passed slowly. It was difficult to tell whether it was night or day, as the room had no clock and no windows. Though Nell wasn't tired, she flopped into the bed's stale, sweat-stained sheets anyway, hoping to sleep away the boredom. She closed her eyes, slowed her breath, and let her mind drift.
Without a way to keep time, she could only guess at how long she lay there by the sounds of Sam and Dean's distant conversation or the flipping of pages and soft breathing from another bedroom. It felt like hours.
Falling asleep had never been something Nell had trouble with before. Cars, airplanes, noise, daylight—she could sleep through it all. As time dragged on and she listened to the sounds of brushing teeth, the rustle of bedsheets, and the brothers' slow breathing, Nell began to suspect that this wasn't just trouble sleeping.
She was beginning to think that, whatever she was now, she couldn't sleep.
A sob built in her chest like an inflating balloon. She forced it down so it escaped in a shuddering breath instead of a wail. Her eyes burned and her forehead ached but no tears came, which just reinforced the overwhelming knowledge that she wasn't human anymore.
Drinking blood should have been her first clue, but that had just been weird. It was something new, it wasn't loss. But it was, she realized now, her chest heaving, because it was all blood from here on out.
Nell had planned to spend the last months of her life eating, drinking, and enjoying the sights of the world before she left it forever. Now, eternity spanned before her, undying and inhuman, with everything she loved to do lying just out reach.
She let herself cry, as much as she could without tears. She heaved dry, agonized sobs for hours, no longer trying to keep quiet, not caring that Crowley was doubtlessly listening. She deserved to mourn her humanity, and she did, until she exhausted herself. When her chest stopped shaking and her eyes stopped burning, she stared at the dust on the ceiling. With her body tired and her mind drifting, she could almost convince herself she dreamed.
Nell didn't know if she could drink coffee anymore, but the smell and sound of it percolating still roused her. She guessed it was morning, though she didn't know what time. Dean was still snoring, but Sam's breathing was absent. There was still breathing, heavy sighs, and occasional scribbling from another bedroom, which Nell guessed was the 'Kevin' she had heard about, but not seen. Nell didn't think he'd slept. If Nell truly focused, she could hear a distant heart beat and relaxed, steady breathing that she knew must be Crowley.
Nell sat up at the sound of the door to the bunker opening. Sam's breathing was quick and his heart was pumping quickly. For a moment Nell's stomach lurched, thinking it was a sign of panic or fear, but then Sam's breathing slowed as he walked slowly and leisurely toward the kitchen. He'd probably just gone for a run, Nell guessed.
Sam drank some water, and Nell mused over how odd it was that her hearing was so keen that she could hear him swallowing from so far away. Dean's snoring cut off not long after and he rolled out of bed with a grumble, shuffling toward the kitchen in search of coffee. Further down the hall, Kevin heaved a sigh. His chair scraped back as he, too, shuffled down the hallway.
"Hey, Kev." Dean's voice was gruff as he poured coffee. "How goes the Angel Tablet?"
Nell grimaced. Angels, now? She really hoped that 'Angel Tablet' was just the name of a text. Vampires? Apparently real. Demons? Also apparently real. But angels? God?
"Terrible." Kevin sounded exhausted. He also sounded young, almost like a teenager. Nell wondered how old he was, and just what he was or what had happened for him to end up in this bunker. "I've been looking for weeks, but there's nothing about returning the angels to heaven."
There was a thump and a shuffling of feet. Nell guessed Dean had thumped Kevin on the shoulder. "Just keep at it, man. There's gotta be something." Kevin sighed and poured a cup of coffee, slurping instead of responding to Dean. "Oh, and, uh. Stay out of the first bedroom on the left, okay?"
Kevin gulped his coffee and was silent for a beat. "Why." There was wary suspicion in his tone, with just a hint of anger.
"Nothing to worry about," Dean assured quickly, slurping his own coffee.
"Dean." Kevin's voice was strained and tired. "What's in the bedroom?"
"I told you, it's nothing to worry about."
"Sam." Nell assumed Kevin had turned to the other brother for an explanation. There was a thunk as something hit the table, and Sam sighed.
"There's a vampire in there."
Kevin's heartbeat picked up immediately and his breath hitched. Nell thought it was fear, at first, but then remembered his tone from earlier. Maybe it was anger… or perhaps a little of both.
Dean cursed. "Come on, Sam!"
"He deserves to know, Dean, and he was gonna find out eventually!"
"Why," Kevin's voice was tight, "is there a vampire in the bedroom?"
Sam sighed. There was a creak of wood as he shifted in his chair. "You remember the last case we went on? The wendigo in the Grand Canyon?" Kevin grunted an affirmative. "It wasn't a wendigo. It was a couple of vampires. We got them, but not before they turned another guy—and before we could cure him, he nearly sucked dry this girl who helped us find him in the first place. We killed him, but not quick enough to save her…" Sam's voice trailed off, sounding defeated.
"I don't understand." Kevin said. "If he's dead, who's the vampire?"
"The chick's the vampire," Dean corrected, voice part annoyed, part exasperated. "Chick was bleeding out on the forest floor, and Sam had the brilliant idea of turning her, then bringing her back to the bunker for the cure, so she didn't have to die."
"Come on, Dean!" Sam protested. "It would have worked if it wasn't for Crowley. If we'd put her in the bedroom in the first place—"
"In the first place you should've left well enough alone!" Dean's voice had risen almost to a shout. A long, heavy silence followed his words.
"So you guys tried to save someone, failed, nearly got someone else killed, and then accidentally turned her into a vampire." Kevin summarized, voice flat. "Yeah, that sounds like the Winchesters."
"Hey," Sam protested, though his tone was halfhearted.
"Is she dangerous?" Kevin asked, resigned.
"No!" "Yes." The brothers answered at the same time. "Yes," Dean repeated more firmly.
"Right. This sounds safe." Kevin poured some more coffee. "I'll be in my room, working on the angel tablet. Try not to get me or anyone else killed, okay?" He walked down the hall, pausing and sighing at Nell's door, before returning to his bedroom and his work.
"That went well," Dean snarked after his door had shut.
"Dean, Nell's not dangerous," Sam said, voice earnest. "She's actually kind of insanely well adjusted."
"Yeah, she is." Dean said, in a tone that said Sam was just proving his point. "And we don't know why. She's an unknown right now, which means she's dangerous until proven safe."
Sam was quiet for a moment. "Well it's either the cure or the demon blood. Or both."
"Speaking of demon blood." Dean's voice was grim, and his chair scraped on the ground as he pushed away from the table. Sam's footsteps rushed after him as he stalked down the hall and opened a few doors.
"Hello, boys." There was a smile in Crowley's voice that made Nell's stomach twist. "Where's our lady friend?" There was a fleshy smack and a faint noise of pain and surprise. "Well. Good morning to you, too."
"What did you do?" Dean growled, voice low and dangerous.
"I take it your little cure didn't work," Crowley said, as if he was guessing. Nell supposed he didn't want the Winchesters to know he and Nell could hear each other. His words earned him another harsh blow, and he grunted quietly.
"What did you do?!" Dean demanded, voice rising.
"Weren't you paying attention?" Crowley teased lightly. "I fed her my blood. I thought it was rather clever, myself."
Another smack, then Dean asked, "What happens when a vampire drinks demon blood?"
Crowley chuckled. "No idea." He sounded genuinely delighted by this, even though his words earned him another punch.
Nell thought, almost wistfully, that all this violence would surely have drawn blood by now. In his mouth, smearing his teeth, dripping down his chin… Catching herself fantasizing about it, Nell pinched herself and refocused on the conversation.
"What do you mean, 'no idea'?" Sam asked, disbelieving.
"I mean I don't know, Moose." There was a rattling of chains. Nell imagined Crowley was leaning back in his chair, as much as he was able with his restraints. "Demons don't make a habit of dealing with vampires. Their souls don't go to Hell when they die, after all. In all my time and research—and I did quite a bit, looking for the Alphas—I've never heard of a vampire drinking demon blood." More rattling chains. "What a grand experiment we've all embarked on."
"Experiment?" Sam repeated. "She's a—" He stopped abruptly.
"A human being?" Crowley completed sweetly. "Not anymore, I'm afraid. And what are you complaining about, Moose? You were all gung-ho about turning her when you heard she was getting ready to kick the bucket."
Sam was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I was." He sounded curious, wondering. "So why were you? Why turn her, why feed her your blood?"
A rattle of chains. Nell imagined Crowley shrugging carelessly. "Curiosity? Entertainment? Some small, petty revenge on my jailors? Take your pick."
"I don't think that's it." There was a rustle of clothing. "I think, deep down, you didn't want her to die."
"What?" Dean's voice was dismissive. "Sam, come on."
"Listen to your brother, Moose. You're talking nonsense."
"Am I?" Sam huffed lightly. "I don't think so. I think all that human blood still has some effect on you. Makes you feel things. So you tried to get us to let her turn, distracting us with her illness, and when that didn't work, you took matters into your own hands. Not curiosity, not an experiment. Human sympathy. Weakness."
"Shut up," Crowley nearly growled it, but despite his efforts to sound intimidating, his voice cracked a little bit.
Sam sighed. "Come on, Dean." The brothers' footsteps moved towards the door.
"What, is that it?" There was a strain in Crowley's voice Nell couldn't place.
"Yep," Sam said, brightly. "You don't have anymore useful information for us. Maybe the Men of Letters have something on vampires drinking blood from non-humans."
There was a click as Crowley's jaw shut, and the brothers closed the door behind them. They walked down the hall, back toward the kitchen. Behind them, unheard to their ears, there was a loud clatter, a rattle of chains, and a heaving sigh.
Nell puzzled over what she'd heard, trying to make sense of it. There was the mystery of Crowley's motivations, of course, but Nell wasn't confident she'd ever understand a demon's reasoning for doing something. Maybe Crowley simply liked chaos.
No, what she couldn't figure out was, "Human blood?"
Crowley hissed out a long, slow breath. "Heard all that, did you?"
"I hear just about everything now, thanks to you." When Crowley remained stubbornly silent, Nell pressed, "What was Sam talking about?"
Reluctantly, Crowley began, "Sam Winchester almost… cured me."
"I'm sensing a trend."
Crowley huffed a short breath at that. "Not the same. Curing a demon involves injecting them with purified human blood. Every hour, on the hour, for eight hours." There was something like trauma in Crowley's tone. "Dear Samuel stopped just after round seven."
"Why'd he stop?" Sam and Dean both seemed more inclined to beat and kill Crowley than to cure him, but Nell didn't understand why Sam would go through all the trouble to start such a process and then stop before he finished.
"Because the ritual was killing him, apparently. Lucky for me, he stopped. Unlucky for me, there are… side effects."
Human sympathy, Sam had said. Weakness.
"Is that why you did it?" Nell didn't need to specify. Crowley's chains rattled, but Nell couldn't guess what sort of motion he was making.
"What can I say?" Crowley's voice was rough. "Misery loves company."
"Hey."
Nell peeked an eye open. Sam stood in the doorway, looking sheepish and holding a small cooler in his hand. Nell had heard him approach, of course, his heavy footfalls and steady heartbeat giving away his presence, but it was the first time in a day either of the brothers had visited since they'd slaked her initial thirst and locked her in the bedroom.
"Hey," she echoed, pushing herself up on the bed slowly as Sam clicked the door shut behind him.
Sam took a few steps and stopped, lifting the cooler. "I, uh, brought you some food." Nell raised an eyebrow, and Sam cleared his throat, setting the cooler down on the bedside table. "Pig's blood."
"Yum." Nell stood and crossed to the cooler, opening it to see a large plastic container of dark red liquid and a disposable plastic cup. Hefting the container of chilled liquid, Nell shot Sam a curious look. "What does the butcher think you're doing with all of this?"
Sam huffed a little. "You know, I came up with a whole story about making blood sausage. I even looked up recipes—but he didn't even ask."
"I'm sure there are lots of legitimate uses for this much blood. Blood sausage, dumping on high school girls at prom…" Nell joked as she pried the lid off the plastic container, but wrinkled her nose in disgust as the smell of the blood hit her.
"That bad, huh?" Sam had been watching her reaction carefully, and Nell frowned, nose still scrunched as she poured a generous serving of the blood. Chilled as it was, it glooped slowly into the plastic cup.
"Let's just say I hope it doesn't taste as bad as it smells." Warily, Nell lifted the cup to her lips. Her fangs hadn't descended, though her stomach panged with mild hunger and her throat itched with thirst. Closing her eyes, she sipped.
Sam winced as Nell gagged into the cup, pulling it away from her face immediately and sticking out her tongue in disgust. "That bad?"
"Worse."
It was foul, and slimy, and cold. Her gag reflex, so elusive when she needed it a day ago, was now insisting that Nell should not drink this.
But it was blood, and it was what Nell would have to get used to if she didn't want to get her head chopped off. Determined, Nell plugged her nose with one hand, closed her eyes, and knocked back the chilled blood as quickly as possible. She shuddered in disgust, but as vile as it tasted, it did ease the twisting ache that had begun to return to her stomach. Grimacing, Nell poured another glass.
Sam watched all this with barely restrained curiosity, and a hint of some darker discontent lingering at the corner of his eyes. At Nell's questioning, slightly self-conscious look, he said quickly, "Sorry." He glanced away as Nell chugged another glass. When she shuddered, again, he asked, "Is it really that bad?"
Nell set the cup back on the desk and turned to Sam, pursing her lips as she tried to figure out a way to phrase it that would make sense to him. "Dean's blood," she began slowly, "was like… hot chocolate on a cold winter night. This stuff?" She glanced back at the dark liquid in the container. "Cherry cough syrup."
Sam winced, then looked thoughtful. Hesitantly, he asked, "And… Crowley's?"
Nell turned away, jaw working as her teeth ached just at the thought of it. Telling Sam exactly what Crowley's blood had tasted like, the euphoria she'd experienced from the few drops, felt too personal. Embarrassing.
"Better than hot chocolate," she said finally.
Sam, sensing her discomfort, let the subject drop, though her reaction had clearly intrigued him. "Maybe it'll be better if we warm it up first next time," he offered, changing the subject.
"Maybe." Nell didn't hold out much hope for that, though.
Sam shifted. "We, uh, met some 'vegetarian' vampires a couple years ago who fed on livestock. They said it was disgusting, and they needed more blood that way, but at least they weren't hurting anybody."
Nell frowned. "What happened to them?"
"What?" Sam looked surprised, and a little evasive.
"You used past tense," Nell pointed out patiently. "They weren't hurting anybody, not they aren't." The look on Sam's face told her this phrasing was not a mistake, though it seemed he wished she'd overlooked it.
"It's complicated." At Nell's deeply unimpressed look, Sam reluctantly explained, "There was this… mother of monsters, called Eve, who called out to all the vampires. Her call was pretty much irresistible, even for them, and all but one of them went to her, giving up on animal blood." Sam's voice was mournful.
"And the one who was left?"
"Lenore," Sam said, quietly. "The leader of the nest. She said she'd rather die than give in to Eve's call."
Nell swallowed, able to complete the end of that story without prompting. "What about Eve? Do I have to worry about—"
"No," Sam interrupted firmly. "No, Eve is dead."
Well at least that was good news. Which reminded her… "I have a few questions for you. Dozens of questions, actually, now that I think about it." She glanced at the door, hearing the distant sounds of flipping pages and clattering keys on a laptop. "Do you have time?"
"Yeah, sure, of course." Sam pulled up the chair from the shattered desk and sat, his ridiculously long legs sticking out and making it seem like the perfectly-ordinary chair was intended for children. The desk would have been a more appropriate seat for his height, but it was completely unsalvageable.
Nell retreated to her bed, sitting on the edge, facing him. "I think I know the answer to this one already, but: can vampires sleep?"
"No." Sam looked a little apologetic.
Nell sighed, but nodded. "Human food?"
Sam frowned. "I'm not sure what would happen if you tried. You wouldn't get any nutrition from it…" A line appeared between his brows as he thought. "I'm actually not sure what the state of your digestive system is, how it works now."
Potentially worth exploring. Nell made a mental note. "Alcohol?"
Sam shrugged. "Same answer."
"And right when I could really use a drink." Nell sighed, then braced herself for Sam's answer to her next question. "What about sunlight? I remember Dean said it wouldn't kill me, but…"
"It won't," Sam said, reassuring. "It's more like a really severe sunburn. But I've seen vampires out in the day before, so I think if you put on enough sunblock and stick to the shade you should be okay."
"Huh." That was… better than she was expecting. She didn't think she could live with this whole 'vampire' thing if she'd never be able to watch another sunset again.
Sam continued rattling off vampire facts, unprompted. "You're not susceptible to garlic, crosses, or holy water, and you can't be killed with a stake to the heart. The only way to kill a vampire for sure is to cut its head off. They can also be tranquilized, sort of, if you inject them with dead man's blood."
Nell stared. "I take it that's not an artful name for some sort of magic potion."
"Nope." Sam agreed. "Literally a dead man's blood."
"Good to know, I guess…" Nell sat up straighter as another question occurred to her. "How do you know all of this, anyway? Are you vampire hunters?" Then, with dawning horror, "Are vampire hunters a thing I need to worry about?"
"Woah, calm down." Sam put his hands up. The gesture was probably intended to seem non-threatening, but Sam was a giant and his hands were enormous, so it wasn't terribly effective. "There are vampire hunters, but you shouldn't have to worry about them as long as you don't hurt anybody. Me and Dean, we hunt vampires, werewolves… stuff you've never even heard of. If there are monsters out there hurting people, we hunt them."
"But only if they hurt people?" Nell clarified, feeling cold and small.
"Only if they hurt people," Sam reassured her. Despite his size and the memory of how swiftly and efficiently he could decapitate someone, Nell believed him, and relaxed a little.
"Angels and demons are real, too?" Nell asked, remembering. "And God?"
"God exists, but he's gone," Sam said, as casually as if he was telling her a restaurant had closed down. "Demons—yeah, you've met Crowley. And—" Sam furrowed his brow. "How'd you know about angels?"
Nell blinked at him. "I heard Dean and Kevin talking about them in the kitchen this morning."
"In the—" He looked to the door, then back to Nell, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "You heard that from here?"
"I can hear everything," Nell said simply, frowning. "Is that not typical?"
Sam frowned thoughtfully. "I guess it is," he said slowly. "I mean, I know vampires can hear a heartbeat from, like, a block away. Makes sense…" He trailed off, then asked, a little blood rushing to his face, "Everything?"
Nell couldn't help snickering at the look on his face. "I haven't heard anything embarrassing... yet. You might want to spread the word to put some music on if you want… 'alone time'."
Sam planted his face in his hand, looking caught between embarrassment and exasperation. "I'll tell Dean." With a sigh, he stood, glancing back at the blood. "I'll just leave this here for you, I guess. Is there anything else you need, or want?..."
"A book would be nice. Or…" Nell trailed off before she could request her computer. "Did one of you drive my car up from the Grand Canyon?"
Sam shook his head. "We didn't have time. Didn't want to draw any more attention."
"What day is it?" He told her, and Nell cursed. "Can you go get it? How far are we from the Grand Canyon?"
"A full day's drive, why?"
"Sam." Nell did her best to rein in the impatience which crept into her tone. "Firstly, I thought I was going to die on this trip, and I sold nearly everything I owned before I left. That car and the contents of that camper constitute all of my earthly possessions, and most of my money. More importantly, if it's not removed from the campsite before noon tomorrow, the park rangers will know that I never checked out, and have gone missing." Panic was making her chest tight. "Please, Sam. It is quite literally all I have left. Please don't let it become evidence."
Sam pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking between Nell, the door, and the still mostly-full container of blood on the desk. Finally he sighed. "Okay. Okay, Dean and I will go get your car. If we leave now we can make it back by tomorrow afternoon, probably. You just… stay in here, okay?"
Sam left, locking the door behind him, and stalked quickly down the hall to convince Dean to go get her car. It took a few minutes of reasoning, but eventually Dean gave in, bellowing down the hall to Kevin that they'd be gone until tomorrow and not to burn the bunker down while they were out.
Kevin grumbled a tired, "yeah, yeah" and returned to his scribbling and mumbling in his room. The brothers' booted feet tromped up a set of stairs and out of the bunker, the door slamming shut behind them. Distantly, she heard the rumble of their car's engine as they pulled away.
Sighing, Nell flopped back on the bed. Sam had forgotten to bring her a book.