"I get the idea behind this plan, but, yeah, let's give the blind guy a gun," Nathan said as he gingerly took the gun from Bobby.

"I'm not too thrilled with it either, but you're the empath. Maybe you can figure out the way it works." He grunted. "Truth is, it's the letting the demon help us part of the plan I'm not thrilled with. The gun's not loaded, not much you can do."

Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean."

He nodded and finished running his fingers over the Colt. Then, he began to disassemble it, taking each piece and holding it, allowing his senses to drink it in.

"Anything?" Bobby asked after Nathan had the whole thing in pieces.

"Nope." He laid the last piece down and rubbed his chin. "I mean, I can sense its power. I can't explain it, but there is something different about this gun than any other gun I've ever handled. What I'd like to do is compare it to something else that kills demons, like, say, Ruby's knife. What do you say?"

"Well, I don't…"

"He's talking to me," a voice said from somewhere behind Nathan. "And I don't you well enough to handle my knife." There was a puff of air on his ear and a hint of warmth against his face as she whispered, "Unless, you show me yours first."

He couldn't help stiffening, but it was equally due to hating when people snuck up on him as the waves of demonic energy that went through him. Demons were rough and ugly. They felt like jagged glass and gritty sand under your eyelids. It took everything Nathan had not to wrap his hands around her neck and start exorcising.

But they'd agreed not to. When Sam had told him what Ruby had suggested, they'd talked about it for hours. Dean and Missouri had been firmly against accepting help from a demon. Rachel had been ambivalent, and Nathan…

Nathan wasn't sure. He was firmly in the anti-demon camp. Not only were demons bad, but they had it out for his boyfriend. Well. Not out. But they had plans for his boyfriend. Apocalyptic, evil-overlord, General Winchester plans. Yes, Sam said that Ruby didn't want a war to happen, but, hello? Demon. Demon lied.

And Nathan couldn't get what Meg had said to him while possessing Sam. That Nathan had proved how easy it was to talk Sam into things. And he didn't believe it—he didn't! If Sam hadn't been bi to begin with, he never would have gotten together with Nathan. Nathan had barely done anything! In fact, it was after he'd stopped flirting that Sam had softened to him.

But. The demons wanted to convince Sam to lead their army. What if Ruby was just being really subtle? What if this was just some twisted tactic to get Sam to go dark side.

But, after hours of discussing, at looking at the issue from all sides, they'd decided that the benefits outweighed the risks.

But, sitting here with a demon breathing in his ear, Nathan was second guessing that decision. "Sorry, Ruby, but I don't think Sam would like that very much."

She gave a little laugh then pulled away. "You might be surprised." She walked around the table, footsteps loud on the floor.

At his feet, Ginger growled.

"Call you bitch off, Nathan, or I'm leaving."

"She's not attacking, she's just uneasy. She won't attack if you don't hurt me." Nathan reached down and soothed his hand over Ginger's head.

She gave another growl but obediently settled back on the floor. He could feel her tense and alert at his feet, though, ready to spring if Ruby made the wrong move.

"This is all very nice, but can we get to the point?" Bobby asked. "How do we get it to work?"

"It's not the gun itself, it's the bullets. They have to be made a specific way for this specific gun. You got a way to make bullets, old man?"

"Of course," he answered stiffly.

Nathan tilted his head. "The legend says that he made it the night Halley's Comet appeared in the sky. We're out of luck if that was the key."

"Well, luckily, it's not," Ruby said scornfully. "What you can't see, but might be able to sense, is a special sort of devil's trap is etched on the inside of the barrel. The old bullets had etchings too, and when they pass through the barrel, the magic activates." She plopped down in the seat next to him. "Colt's original mold has been long lost, but I know what the etching looked like. Think you're up to it?" She nudged him with her foot.

He sighed. "Me? If you haven't noticed, I can't exactly see here."

He jumped when she put her hand on top of his. A moment later, the image blazed brightly in his head, followed by more glass-shards-under the eyelids feeling. A sharp pain also lanced through his temple, digging deep into his brain.

He pulled his hand back, just short of yanking it away. "I still think Bobby should do it."

"Well, Bobby isn't as powerful as you. No offense, but the Adams line naturally runs towards magic, and you, being an empath, channel it more easily."

"You want me to weld that image on the mold. I can't see what I'm doing and it's small."

"I'll help you."

He winced and rubbed his temple. "Colt wasn't an empath."

"And Bobby's not an artist." She sighed. "Fine, he can do it, but there's a ritual he'll have to do that you don't have to because, like I said, you can channel magic." She slid her arm around Nathan's shoulders and nuzzled his ear. "It'd be so much easier if you just do this."

"The more you try to convince me, the less I want to do this." Nathan looked over at Bobby, or at where he hoped Bobby was based on where his voice came from last. He raised both eyebrows and hoped the showed over his sunglasses.

"Let's just get this done," Bobby said. "I'll get what we need."

He pushed Ruby away and rubbed his forehead. His head ached fiercely and having her so close to him wasn't helping him.

This was a bad idea. It was such a bad idea. He was going to need her to show him the image again, and probably to guide his hands. But, they needed the Colt. And she was right: it'd be faster if Nathan did it than Bobby.

He sighed. "Fine."

Ruby clapped her hands. "Let's make some bullets, boys."


"Ramble on and now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song," Dean sang softly as he pulled the bottle from Ashley's mouth. He had her balanced carefully on his thighs as he sat on the bed feeding her. She was dressed for bed, in a yellow onesie, all nice bright and clean.

He gave it another ten minutes before something messed her up.

Waiting to see if she wanted more, he held the bottle a few inches from her mouth and continued singing, "I've been around the world, and I found my girl, on my way."

Ashley pursed her lips a few times and made a few gurgling sounds. Then, as if realizing the bottle was gone, her face screwed up.

Dean quickly put the bottle back in her mouth. "Don't start crying, little bit. Don't want your mommy running in here, all naked, wet, and panicked." Then he frowned, the image flashing through his mind. "Well. You don't. I wouldn't mind it. Except for the panicked part. Don't like that."

She stopped sucking on the bottle to blow milk bubbles and wave her arms .

"Yeah, you recognize Mommy's name? You miss her?"

She made a couple little gurgles, stretched, and twisted her mouth into what looked like a smile.

"You are gonna have a killer smile when you finally do it, baby girl. But, right now, I bet that's gas. Or worse." He raised the bottle back to her mouth.

A phone started ringing.

Dean frowned and glanced at his phone on the nightstand. It wasn't ringing. Neither was Rachel's.

"Huh," he said. He shifted Ashley into his arms and maneuvered off the bed. It took some tricky handling to balance her and the bottle and keep one hand free, but he was getting this parenting thing down.

His father's phone was tucked away in the closet on a shelf. He grabbed it and answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm looking for Edgar Cayce," a man's voice said on the other end.

"Uh, yeah, this is Edgar Cayce," Dean said. He tucked the phone under his ear and shifted Ashely again so he could hold the bottle in the other hand.

"This is Mike Donavan from Castle Storage. I'm calling to let you know there's been a break-in at your storage unit."

"Oh. Uh…"

"I haven't called the police yet, but…"

"No, no, don't call the police. Just lock it up."

Rachel came in from the bathroom. She was flushed her shower, hair wet as she combed it. Drops of wet darkened her pajama top and she looked half asleep as she crossed the room to the bed.

Dean snapped to get her attention. "Take her," he mouthed.

She frowned at the phone he was holding, but took Ashley and the bottle. She went to the bed as Dean walked to the dresser.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call the police? I don't know what was taken."

"Yeah, I'll handle it myself," Dean said, fumbling with the millions of paper that Rachel had strewn across the top of the dresser, looking for a blank one. Or at least one he could write on. "Can you lock it back up for me?"

"Of course."

"Great. Oh, and I don't have my book in front of my. Can you give me the address again?"

"It's 42 Rover Hill. Castle Storage."

"Thanks." Dean hung up. "So, apparently my dad had a storage locker."

"Oh?" Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"Well, there was a break-in. Don't know what's taken, but, knowing my dad, we should probably be worried. If it was important enough to keep, it was probably pretty nasty." He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "It's in New York."

She shook her head, a sort of desperate panic crossing her face. "I can't. Dean, I can't do that drive again."

"No, no. I know." He came over to the bed and sat next to her. "I wouldn't even consider asking you." He rubbed his hand up her back, feeling the soft cotton of the towel and then the wet strands of hair. "I could ask Sam to go."

"I…" She hesitated, then said, "I don't know if I'd trust him on his own right now."

"Trust him to what?" Dean demanded, mindful not to raise his voice. Ashely's eyes were closing and he wasn't stupid enough to startle a sleeping baby.

She shook her head, shrugging "I don't… I don't know. He was just really weird out there today. Saying that he didn't care how many innocent people he had to kill if we got the Colt fixed."

"He was exaggerating. Sam wouldn't…"

"Give me some credit! I may not know him as well as you…"

"No, you don't." He stepped away from the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Couldn't believe that Rachel would accuse Sam of being a stone cold killer. "Look, Sam is a lot of things," he said, voice low and angry. "But he's not a killer. He knows right from wrong. Knows it better than me."

"Then are we sure Sam is really Sam?"

He turned. "He's a tattoo. He can't be possessed."

Rachel was looking up at him through big, brown eyes, all earnest and serious. "He died, Dean. He died and a demon brought him back from the dead."

"A demon brought me back, and I'm fine."

"You weren't dead." She stood and placed Ashley in the bassinet next to the bed. "Dean, what Azazel did for you was rescue from a reaper." She ran her hands up his chest to his shoulders. "The crossroad demon brought Sam back from the dead. What does that do to a soul?"

He looked away, Azazel's words echoing in his head. How certain are you that what you brought back is 100 percent pure Sam?

But he shook his head and put his hands over Rachel's. "No. No, if Sam wasn't right, then Nathan would have said something."

"Nathan isn't infallible. And he's too close. He might want to believe that Sam is fine, even if he isn't."

"No."

Rachel sighed. "Okay. Okay, Dean." She kissed him on the cheek. "If you say Sam is fine, I'll believe you. But I still don't think he should be alone right now. I don't think any of us should be."

He wrapped his arms around her. "I don't want to go," he said softly, resting his forehead against hers. "God, Rach, I have less than a year left."

"We'll get you out…"

"Even so. I want my time with my baby girl."

"Then send Sam. Nathan can go with him."

"No. I don't know what's in Dad's storage locker, but, whatever it is, I should see it." He kissed her, meaning for it to be quick, but their mouths caught together, lingering. "I don't want to leave you, either," he whispered, sliding his hands up her back.

She shook her head and pulled him back to her. Her tongue traced his bottom lip and she stepped back to the bed. "I don't want you to go." Her fingers gripped at him.

Dean walked her back to the bed and lowered her down onto it. He followed stretching out beside her. They traded long, languorous kisses, hands stroking over each other. Warmth flooded through Dean and a slow, muted arousal. His cock stirred, but didn't harden even when Rachel slung her leg around his hip and rubbed against him.

"I can help you out," she whispered against his mouth.

He shook his head and trailed kisses down her neck. "Not really in the mood." Which was partly a lie. He could get into the mood if he tried. But between the perpetual haze of exhaustion Ashley kept him in and the ever-present weight of his contract pressing on him, it seemed like too much effort. Especially since Rachel couldn't participate as much more than a giver. He might be able to get her off, but he was a little hesitant to touch her too much without the doctor's say so. And, considering everything, they hadn't bothered to ask.

But this was fine. Making out, gentle caresses, slow kisses. Slow waves of dizzying warmth washing over him, making him sleepy and comfortable.

He noticed a dampness on his face. Pulling back, he saw Rachel was crying silently. "What's wrong?" He wiped the tears.

Rachel shook her head and turned it, kissing the palm of his hand. "Nothing. Everything." She tightened her grip on him and buried her face in his neck. "I don't want you to go, I swear. I'll do anything."

"No. No, Rach, I don't want you to do anything to save me. Or, you know. Everything. I want to do what's right. I want to do it the right way. Otherwise, what good will it do?" Because he still believed that. He got what she was saying, and he didn't want to kill anyone to save himself. It wasn't worth it. His life wasn't worth it.

But, more than that, he couldn't have that be his legacy. He had Ashley to think about. No matter what happened, she had to know who her father was, and her father had to be a good man. No secrets. No lies. He was going to be a good father, even if it was just for a year.

He was going to do it right.