Wow, look who finally updated. Thanks to everyone who reviewed or PMd me with answers to my questions. You guys are fabulous, especially StopSmackingMe07 and Jazzy, you chicks are the bomb. Anybody actually interested in reading my essay- just drop me a line and I'll email it to you.

Also, a bit of shameless cross promotion. I'm beta-ing the work of ToxicLullaby- check out her story 'The Shadows That Surround Us' and review. Anyway without further ado...

Chapter 11

His ears were ringing, his eyes watering and the onset of nausea was an unwelcome (although admittedly not unexpected) ingredient to the mixture of alcohol, cigarettes, greasy food and loud music. He needed some fresh air.

'Be back in five, mate.' He announced to Tom, his moshing companion.

'Huh?' Tom yelled, not troubling to cease his drug induced and rather abstract dance routine.

'I'm just gonna…look, I'll be right back.'

'Yeah orright...' It was clear Tom had not taken in a word as he'd grabbed a skinny blonde in a faux-vintage rock t-shirt and was now proceeding to grind against her in a manner that surely wasn't a result of being in an overcrowded makeshift mosh pit.

Fighting his way through the crowd, ignoring the angry swearing, Luke managed to escape into the balmy night air, away from cacophonous rubbish of the band on stage. Pretentious wankers, he thought to himself as the lead singer stage dived. This particular group seemed to think they'd made it already, with the guitarist performing elaborate solos in every song and the lead singer holding out the microphone to the crowd during the choruses- hoping they would chant the lyrics only to be met by embarrassing silences. Did the fact that they were playing a 1am timeslot do nothing to alert the idiots to their nobody-status?

Clutching his head, Luke sat himself on a grassy hill, populated only by the strewn litter of hot chips buckets, grease paper and cigarette butts. The remaining festival goers were either dancing in front of the stage, in one of the quieter venues- the marquee or the old shed- or partying on the other side of the hill were a sea of tents had been pitched for the occasion. After realising the whole sitting-down thing was only making him feel sicker, he decided a walk would be the best way to clear his head. If that walk led him to more beer, then so be it…The only way to cure drunkenness was to get even drunker…He really was a true Irishman.

He stumbled and tripped a few times but eventually he found himself by the river.

Sighing, he revelled in the crisp, quiet air- the music and lights of the festival were oddly muffled somewhere in the distance. He didn't know how much more he could take of this backpacking-around-the-US-business. His hard-earned travelling cash had all but run dry and third year uni was starting in September. It was all right for Tom with his father's trust fund- he could keep playing the fool for the rest of his life if he wanted to. But other people weren't so lucky…other people had to grow up and behave like adults once in awhile.

At first, the bitter weeping was only background noise- perhaps the crowd had realised how terrible the band really was but soon- as his senses sharpened it become louder, more pronounced and noticeable. Glancing around, his eyes settled on the form of a young woman, her back to him, kneeling beside the riverbank, crying her eyes out. She was unusually dressed, clothed in a flowing green, long-sleeved gown, her hair pinned elaborately on the back of her head. Then again…this was a music festival, meaning the dress code was limited only by one's pot-influenced imagination.

'Hey, love, you alright?' He inquired tentatively, edging toward her. 'Are you ok?'

He decided that it was most likely her boyfriend had taken advantage of the free condoms being handed out with another girl. In which case, the only thing that would make her feel better was a pint of Jack Daniels or Budweiser or whatever it was these Americans drank and he would offer to buy the first round…

As he approached her, her wailing intensified as she buried her face in her sleeves. He wondered briefly if she had been about to drown herself. If this was the case, he had to do something…

'Miss…Miss…' He tapped her on the shoulder. 'What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help you'

Gradually, her sobbing ceased, but still she hid her face in her sleeves.

'It's alright, darl.' He encouraged in what he hoped was a soothing tone. 'I don't care if your eyes are red or anythin'. I just wanted to make sure you're ok.'

She sniffled and began to stroke her face as though surreptitiously wiping her eyes. Then, slowly, she turned toward him.

It took him less than a second to register that something was terribly wrong. Below her hairline, there were no eyebrows, no eyes…No nose, no mouth. It was as smooth as an eggshell…Where was her face?

He might have screamed, he couldn't be sure. Electrified by fear, he staggered backward as she rose gracefully to her feet. Turning on his heel, he ran for his life, not daring to look backward. He'd never realised how far away the festival site was from the river- he seemed to run for miles. The first sign of civilisation was a guy packing up one of the market stalls selling items as eclectic and varied as trilbies, cigarette cases and beach towels.

He raced toward him, guided by the sole street lamp hanging overhead. Whether it was the terror or the alcohol, he found himself on his knees in front of the counter, gasping for air.

'What happened to you? Too many hallucinogens?' Snickered the stall owner. 'You're whiter than my ass in the winter.'

Ignoring this crude comparative, Luke found himself gibbering. Raving. 'And then s-she turned around and…I can't…I can't tell you what I saw. You'll think I'm stark raving mad…I won't say what it was…'

The man nodded sympathetically, rubbing his forehead. 'Was it anything like this?'

Luke's breath caught in his throat as he gazed slowly upward. The stall owner was faceless.

The lamp shining overhead flickered and died.

'Woah, check this out. We definitely have to get you one of these.'

As her eyes fell on the item her father was holding up, Ella frowned uncertainly. 'I don't know…'

'Oh, come on, lighten up!' Dean grinned broadly. 'If we're going to be spending other people's money using lies, fraud and subterfuge- the least we can do is have a little fun with it.'

Still grimacing, Ella took the jacket from him and inspected the price tag. 'Dean, that's real leather.'

'I know, and it's awesome.' Dean's eyes gleamed. 'Come on, consider it compensation for sixteen years without birthday presents.'

She took the bait, scoffing. 'Please, this is maybe one and a half birthdays. You've still got fourteen and a half to make up for.'

'One step at a time, my friend. Now try it on.'

Ella laughed, shaking her head at his enthusiasm. 'This is your repressed urge to play dress ups as a child coming through isn't it? Now you're living out your transvestite fantasies vicariously through your teenage daughter.'

'Just try it on, Sigmund.'

Rolling her eyes, Ella pulled her arms through the sleeves of the beautifully cut black leather jacket.

'Now you're a real Winchester.' Dean approved.

'That's superficial. Was I a fake Winchester without the 500 dollar jacket?'

'No…but I wasn't comfortable with publicly declaring that we were related.'

Ella made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat.

'Wow, have you been taking lessons from your uncle? That was good.'

She gave him a withering glare. 'I'm not letting you buy this for me.'

Dean mimicked her and she gave him the finger.

'Flipping the bird, Ella? I'm impressed. Maybe you don't need the jacket to qualify as my daughter after all.'

'Excellent-

'But I'm still getting it for you anyway.' Looking mighty proud of himself, Dean strolled to the store counter and took out his wallet.

'Just this?' Asked the sales assistant politely, assuming her position behind the counter.

'Yep, for now.'

'Oh and by the way, the other gentleman you came in with asked if he could see you.' The assistant turned to Ella. 'He's waiting outside the fitting room.'

'Ok, thanks.' She responded cheerfully.

Dean's eyes darted from Ella to the jacket, looking torn. 'Actually, do you think you could hold this for me? I'll be right back.' He assured the women.

'Certainly.'

Ella looked warningly at him. 'If he only asked for me I don't think you should come.'

Dean looked as though Christmas had come early. 'You made him try the skinny jeans didn't you?' He said, sounding positively gleeful.

'I'm not going to tell you.' She turned her back on him and began to cross to the other side of the department store.

'You did, didn't you?' He caught up with her easily. 'Please tell me they were the red drainpipes with the hearts on the back pockets.'

'I think I have a little more class than that.'

Chuckling, Dean flipped open his phone.

'What are you doing?'

'This'll make a fantastic screensaver.'

'Jerk.'

'Brat.'

They found Sam standing petulantly outside the fitting room, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Which was rather difficult for a six foot four man in black skinny jeans, green converse and a hip length, tight fitting graphic print purple t-shirt

Dean doubled over with laughter, dropping his phone, which Ella quickly tossed to Sam to use as blackmail.

'I hate you both.' Sam muttered as Ella fought back a smirk herself.

'It's not that bad.' She managed at last. 'At least you'll look the part.'

'I thought it was a music festival not Mardi gras.' Dean gasped between fits of mirth.

'Ha, ha.' Sam dead panned. 'What I don't understand is that if Dean can get away with the clothes he's been wearing his whole life, why can't I?'

Ella looked him in the eye. 'Do you want the truth?'

Sam nodded plaintively.

'See, while dear Dean here will fit right in with his metal headedness, immaturity and womanising tendencies regardless of what he wears, you, my best and only uncle, will stick out like a sore thumb with your tendency to drink only in moderation and turn down the stereo when it's up too loud. While there are many who appreciate your polite, bookish ways, we will not find them at the festival. So, in order to blend in, rather than asking you to change your personality- I'm simply asking you to change your clothes.' With this, Ella stepped back and regarded him appraisingly. 'At the moment, you look bloody ridiculous. However…' Brow furrowed in concentration in an uncanny resemblance to Dean, Ella yanked a number of random garments of nearby racks (or at least, they seemed random to the boys) 'I think there's still hope.' Now, she passed what she had gathered to Sam. 'Try the grey Levi's shirt with the dark collared shirt over it- but leave the shirt unbuttoned, ditch the green converse, I think we should stick with classic black and wear your own jeans.'

Nodding grudgingly, Sam returned to the fitting rooms. Dean glanced over at his daughter. 'Look at you go, Rachel Zoe.'

'I'm here til Thursday.' She replied.

Sam emerged five minutes later, looking thankfully less effeminate.

'Very handsome.' Approved Ella flippantly. 'Now, let's get these and have lunch, I'm starving.'

As she tried to lead them to a closer cash register, Dean shook his head. 'I'm not leaving this store without that jacket.'

In the two weeks that had passed since they had left Goldstone County, Ella had been given the Winchester Surviving on the Road 101. This was not, Dean had stressed repeatedly, to encourage her in any way shape or form to develop an attachment to hunting, but rather to help her deal with a lifestyle that was…somewhat out of the ordinary.

'Hunter or not, in your case not,' He'd said very early on. 'There are a few things you're gonna need to know if you intend on sticking around.'

Ella had often been teased by her mother for being the responsible, sensible one of the two of them. And for her whole life until this point Ella had assumed that was how it would always be: Laura would be the fun, bubbly, adventurous, slightly wild one. Whilst Ella would live vicariously through her mother's tales of her backpacking days. Although these stories ranged from table dancing in Italy, to being an accidental extra in a Hollywood blockbuster in Copenhagen, the epitome of her mother's crazy days, in Ella's opinion, was befriending a cocky American with a leather jacket and a chevy; having a one night stand with him and finding herself pregnant with his child at the age of 18.

But now suddenly, at 16, Ella found herself learning about and experiencing things that made her mother's anecdotes seem rather less surreal and out there. Being thrown out of her comfort zone, having all expectations she had ever had about her future and any notions she had of herself and her capabilities almost thrown out the window was terrifying in many ways and achingly sad in others. Often she found herself wishing that her mother could see her now, trying to imagine what she would think of it all. But if Laura hadn't been killed, Ella would never have been introduced the hidden world of the supernatural and the evil that lurked there. Nor would she have the desire to hunt these things herself.

It wasn't revenge…She didn't know if she was capable of such a consuming, bitter passion. But if there was anything she could do to stop another family from having their lives apart this way…she wanted to learn how to do it.

She never expressed this outright to Dean. He was so determined that she have a stabler, safer life than he ever had and the idea of his newly found teenage daughter that he would have been alarmed at her concepts of altruistic hunting. He taught her only what she needed to know. But she watched and listened to the brothers very carefully; read everything Sam lent her and more. Gathering knowledge and soaking up all she could about this foreign yet innately familiar lifestyle.

And in the past two weeks she had learnt a lot.

It had started the night after the Jersey Devil incident. She had been lying on the bed in her motel room-, which once again adjoined to the brothers' watching America's Next Top Model. Suddenly Dean appeared in the doorway, brandishing a camera.

'Say cheddar.' He remarked as she sat up, glancing at him questioningly. The camera flashed, capturing what Ella was sure was a rather unflattering shot of her.

'What's that for? Your MySpace?' She questioned.

Dean ignored this, glancing at the screen. 'I've seen this one, the hot whiny one with no personality wins.'

But before Ella could throw a pillow at him in indignation, he had disappeared, fishing his car keys from his pocket. Moments later, she'd heard the familiar putter of the Impala as the key was turned in the ignition.

It had just been her and Sam that night. His and Dean's room possessed a little kitchenette, and, tired of having take out or fast food, Ella proposed she cook dinner. They'd walked to the supermarket together at dusk. Looking quite the pair with their thirteen-inch height difference, Sam's loping strides and Ella's quick steps.

'Man, I haven't been to a supermarket for years.' Sam remarked in almost wonderment as Ella selected a trolley and wheeled it through the entrance.

She laughed disbelievingly. 'Are you serious?'

'Yep.' Sam surveyed the stands heaped with fruit and vegetables. 'Wow, I'd almost forgotten that produce could actually exist in organic form.'

Ella laughed again. 'Did you think they just came into being fried or freeze dried?'

'Can we actually buy this?' asked Sam excitedly, grabbing a head of lettuce.

'It's a supermarket, not an art gallery.'

Sam was like a kid in a candy store. Neither he nor Dean cooked- whether it be because they couldn't be bothered or had forgotten how to. The prospect of eating a fresh meal was almost giddying.

They were sitting down to spaghetti and meatballs, salad and garlic bread when Dean returned.

'Well hell-o Suzie Home maker.' He greeted as he eyed the meal appraisingly, shrugging out of his jacket.

'Yours is on a plate on the bench.' Ella nodded over to the kitchenette. 'Where've you been?'

'Well,' Dean grabbed his dish and seated himself at the table. 'If you want to be a Winchester…then you have to be able to be other people as well.'

'What?'

Dean handed her an elastic banded stack of ID cards. Her eyes widened.

'Ho-ly…' She flicked through them. 'Isabella Swan, Student ID for Harvard…Elizabeth Swann… 3rd year Yale Undergraduate…Princeton…Dartmouth…Connecticut State…Ella Fitzgerald…Junior Receptionist…Cat Stevens…Administration Assistant…Jean Simmons…Intern.'

'Sorry I couldn't get you any cooler aliases. At 16, you don't exactly look close to working for the FBI. Especially cos you actually look closer to 13.'

'Hey, do you want your dinner or not?' Ella threatened. 'Just because I'm short…' She continued to sift through the Ids. 'Hannah Montana? Are you serious?'

'Hey, that chick's going to be a babe in 10 years time.'

'Cradle snatcher.'

'Cradle…dweller.' Dean muttered.

After the Ids, it had been pool and poker. Knowing Sam disapproved, Dean had waited until his little brother had fallen asleep in front of the television before knocking on the bathroom door, talking as loudly as he dared over the rush of the shower without waking Sam.

'Meet me at the car in ten minutes, make sure you look 21.'

Ella was not good at pool. Being left handed, totally unco and 160cm tall, she was not cut out for wielding a cue and sinking balls. At one point she winded her father when he unwittingly stood behind her to help her line up a shot.

'Huh…' Dean grunted, doubling over in pain.

'Oh my God! I'm so sorry!' Spinning around, Ella proceeded to hit him in the face.

'Son of a…' Dean clutched his nose.

'Oh shit! I'm so sorry!' Ella dropped the cue. 'Oh! Sorry! I just swore in front of you! Is that allowed?'

'Get in the car.' Dean managed. 'We'll play poker at the motel.'

To their great relief, Ella wasn't that bad at poker. In fact, she was quite good.

One day it rained so hard that Dean's plan to take her out shooting that the three of them spent the entire day holed up in a motel playing. Ella had suggested they play with matchsticks. Ever confident, Dean magnanimously announced that she could use matchsticks but he and Sam would use real money.

By the time night rolled around, it was Ella paying for dinner and ordering the movie on pay-per-view.

In the days prior to the shopping expedition, Sam and Dean had alternated in training Ella up physically.

'Not enough to make you butch.' Dean assured her. 'Just enough so that you can save your own ass next time a Jersey Devil's trying to kill you.'

She'd already learned how to load and shoot a shotgun but they practised aiming at beer bottles Dean would line up on the fence posts of paddocks in the middle of nowhere. It went well…for the most part. Whenever Sam or Dean imitated the sound the lone cow had made when pelted with rock salt (a rather piteous moan), Ella would block her ears and sing loudly.

There was knife throwing- which she improved at, even while nursing a number of wounds, physical combat- in which she often resorted to screaming, scratching and kicks in the groin (in the end Sam refused to teach her 'You're her father' He told Dean in an unusually high pitched voice after hobbling out of the gym one afternoon.), hot wiring cars and more theory based study.

It was while showing Ella how to put together a file on a case that Sam had stumbled across the incident at the music festival. An Irish backpacker had reported sighting a man and a woman, both faceless, to a fellow traveller before being discovered drowned in the river.

'You think she's ready?' Ella had overheard Sam saying to Dean in the adjoining room one night as she tried to sleep.

'As ready as she'll ever be.'