Hey Guys!

So, Real Life is starting to catch up to me, so I probably won't be able to update as quickly, but w/e, bc like I'm gonna power through till holidays and then churn 'em out, a dime a dozen.

Rewatch: 4x19 My Blood Valentine

New Tags: Hospital, Medical Procedure

Things Researched: Pagan Love Goddesses, Whether the things I was writing were too cliche that they already existed (spoiler, they did and I had to change it)


"I said it's not your fault

I lied

I don't have time to watch you cry

And I'm thinking

Romeo must die."

-Romeo Must Die Gabrille Aplin


Natasha had found the love of her life, and his name was William Scott.

Of course, she'd never technically met the guy, but she'd seen him, often, coming into the cafe where she worked and ordering the same thing every day. They had a connection, she and him. A connection she hadn't really noticed when she'd first seen him, but one that came thrumming full force into her chest one January afternoon. One moment, she was fixing a cup of coffee for a customer, and the next, she was watching him walk, completely entranced.

She swears, her heart skipped a beat when he looked back at her and smiled.

Natasha served him his coffee, heart in throat, nearly salivating as he spoke to her and handed over the cash. His hand, warm and firm grazed hers as he handed the money over, and their eyes met, startled, as a thrill of electricity flew through their skin.

Natasha drew back sharply, shaking herself out of a stupor and sticking the money into the machine, charging through his order. He didn't seem affected, other than put out by her weird behaviour, but Natasha could work with that. For one, glorious moment, she imagined herself with him. They'd talk and laugh and kiss, and they'd be in such deep, devoted love.

She could see it, stories of their tale, movies, book deals. There was something so deep and so profound about their union, something that stirred a deep yearning within her. That he was her other half. That he was the rest of her soul.

Natasha drew short, and the moment ended as he left the shop.

She was scaring herself. The man had a wife. Had a family. And, not to mention, he was about 10 years older than her and wore man-sandals around town, even in winter.

Natasha couldn't help it though. She imagined herself running her hands through his hair, pressing her lips roughly to his, tasting the sharp bitterness of the coffee he always bought from her, arching her back in pleasure as he pressed his lips to her neck...

Natasha shook herself and went on with her daily activities. But the more she fought against thinking about him, the more pressing he became. Suddenly she was imagining her hands across his bare chest, running her tongue—

No, Natasha stopped, closed her eyes and fought off the images, the feelings, totally unwarranted and totally unwelcome. She didn't want to love William Scott. He wasn't even that hot.

And he was married. He had a kid. She was 25 and looking to make a move into the real world. They were the worst possible people for each other.

Natasha took a long, trembling breath. This was getting out of hand. She barely even knew the guy. All she did see of him was the off chance that he'd come to the cafe to buy something to eat and a black coffee to drink.

She pressed the palms of her hands hard into her eyes and counted slowly to five, before pushing away and moving through the cafe. A few more hours and she could head home, have a cold shower and...read the bible or something.


Natasha had found the love of her life, and her name was Maria Shrove.

Natasha hadn't even known she was attracted to girls, but that didn't stop her heartache for the lovely Maria, who'd stepped through the doorway with half an hour to spare before she could run off home to cuddle up with her cat and try to contain herself.

"Hi," Maria had said, and Natasha had been smitten from the get-go.

Natasha wondered if she'd accidently taken something, because as soon as she thought about it, her immense feelings towards William rose up as well, and the fantasies of Maria and Will were tossed together.

It was confusing, it was terrifying, it was...kinda hot.

But Natasha was smarter than that. She'd gone to college, and her mom had always said that she had a good head on her shoulders. She didn't know Will, she didn't know Maria, and first sight was nothing to base a declaration of love on. Maria was beautiful, with her long red hair and bright blue eyes, with that smattering of freckles and smooth, pale skin...but Natasha wasn't in love with her. Interested, maybe.

Natasha poked the pen in her mouth as she finished up the order. With a final stroke of brilliance, she scribbled her number on the cup and handed it to Maria meekly.

Their fingers brushed, like with William, except this time, when the spark rang out between the naked skin, Maria jerked as well.

The woman smiled, brushing her red hair back from her shoulder. "So, when do you get off?"

"For you?" Natasha asked, eyes wide, stars caught in her gaze as her heart pumped madly in her chest. "Now."

Maria smiled and waited patiently while Natasha took her apron off, hung it up and joined up with her new friend.

She almost drew back, that reasonable head pulling her into the light of reality, forcing her to remember that she didn't know Maria, that she was doing nothing good. But Maria took her hand, and Natasha's misgivings melted away.

This was right. This was true love.

Maria smiled at her, and Natasha felt that her heart was about to burst.


Natasha Scott had met the love of her life. And his name was James Ryan.


The Bunker had been untouched since they left it coming from Hell, and Sam was struck with the oddly disconcerting though that, if it all ended, and he and Dean died as they probably were going to on the back end of some dusty road that no one knew about, like they probably were, then no one would come back here. Perhaps Cas, if he survived their prophesised demise, or Charlie, seeking her and Dorothy a doorway back into Oz. Maybe even Jody or Meg or Garth.

But probably not.

And the bunker would remain unspoiled. And their things would litter the floor where they'd been left, jackets on the back of sheets and mugs sat dirty and crusting on the kitchen sink. Sam's clothes were slowly making their way into the draws in his room, and Dean's had been settled since they'd decided to make it their new home. He wondered what somebody would think, if they came to their home. If they'd see Dean's things and think that Dean was the only one who lived here. That Sam was just visiting.

Something about that caught in Sam's throat. Something that although there were two of everything; two dirty mugs, two messed up plates, two chairs with compressions marking their bodies gathered around the library table, there was nothing that said that Sam had ever been there at all.

He was a ghost.

"You alright?" Dean asked, glancing back as he pushed passed his frozen brother, carrying the weapon bag over his shoulder and adjusting it from hand to hand, eyes meeting Sam's. Not worried, not yet, just curious.

"Yeah," Sam assured his, hating how raspy and distant his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and attempted a smile, eyes still drifting listlessly from the library to where he knew the kitchen was. Dean thought it was their home, do why couldn't he? Why couldn't he embrace it with the same gusto? He tried again, with his newly cleared throat. "Yeah, seriously dude. Fine."

"Right," Dean sent him a hesitant look before walking off, the clunking of metals saluting every step he took, banging against his shoulder as his feet padded heavily on the stairs.

Sam watched him go, throat tight again, breathing shifting uncomfortably in his lungs. But he ignored it, not moving while his brothers head disappeared from view. His footsteps echoed alone throughout the bunker, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts about family, and his big brother, and what home really was.

And whether it could really be defined as a place at all.

So Sam took off after his brother, and his feet were steady as he made his way through where he was living.

At the moment, perhaps it was home. Perhaps this place was to him what it symbolised to Dean. And maybe Dean agreed with him on why he saw it like that. Because home wasn't the bunker. Home wasn't even the Impala. It wasn't Bobby's burnt house and it definitely wasn't Lawrence. That tainted place would hold no real traction in the softer places in Sam's heart.

Home was here. With his brother, footsteps echoing around each other, hidden and warm together within the earth.

As sappy and dumb as it sounded to think, Sam knew it would be stupider to say, but he said it anyway, under his breath, before he got over his awkwardness and learnt to love it. That tiny phrase. That little bit of perfection that he'd crafted for himself.

"Home is a person. Home is you."


The Hunting community had hardly been up to their armpits in violent demonic possessions after the Escapees had run amok humanities without Crowley to tell them what to do, but they'd been busy all the same. Carlos had kept the boys up to date, but with Sam's new melancholic, blessed mood and Dean's aching muscles and tired soul, they'd ignored most of requests and denied all the others. They felt like they deserved at least a little rest, a few days for the nightmares to filter out and another few for contacting Meg and Cas and figuring out how everything was working out.

According to Cas, nothing had come up of Sariel's suspicions of an Angelic Rebellion, but he was still looking into it; scouring the globe had become a lot harder without his wings to guide him along.

Meg, on the other hand, was having a grand time. She hadn't found any demons to help lead her to Crowley, they'd been hidden under all the screaming of the 'Side acts' in her reincarnation. She'd killed a few demons, befriended a few demons, and exorcised a few down to the depths of Hell. She called Sam more than she called Dean, still sweet on the boy she'd picked on all those years ago, but Sam was more than liberal with the information she'd dished out whenever they settled down for the evening.

And whether it was with bottles of beer or buckets of popcorn really depended on their mood.

It had been lazy, a Rocky Marathon and cataloguing the vast hordes of information that the Men of Letters had gathered. Sam had been mainly onto the latter, typing out the notes made by the forefathers and sorting them into folders. He was getting through them, but it was going to take a while. Dean had allocated a few of his hours a day to helping his geek brother out, but he was really more of a hindrance. Twice Sam had chastised him about messing up his system, and uncountable times he'd managed to get on Dean's case about how he left the files once he'd finished with them.

Slow. Purposeful. Steady.

And, Dean had to admit, Guilty.

They should be out there, fighting, figuring stuff out, hunting—like they were supposed to be doing—but they weren't. They were taking the mother of Sick days, sleeping in and playing Solitaire on their computer for God's sake. Like a bunch of freakin' 70 year olds who didn't know how to use the internet.

Once it hit the two week mark, Dean started looking around. He deleted the history on their laptop after he'd used it, and let Sam think it was porn he was surfing for, when, in reality, he'd been cruising through the typical news sites for any little red flags.

It wasn't till the third time he did it, that he realised Sam's history had been deleted as well.

He smiled fondly, letting the white glow of the screen bask across his features. He was pretty sure that Sam had not been surfing for explicit materials.

"Hey, Sam!"

"Yeah?" Sam exited the kitchen, over-full sandwich balancing in his hand and somehow, he'd managed to get a white streak of flour in his brown hair. Having made a sandwich. Sam's prowess in the kitchen never failed to entertain.

Dean let his brothers lack of culinary expertise slide for a moment and nodded towards the screen. "So, find anything?"

Sam frowned, borrowing his FBI acting and leaning against the walls. Dean might not have Angel juice pumping around his veins, but he still knew his little brother better than anyone. He could still tell when he was lying. "What do you mean?"

"The cases, Dumbo," Dean raised his eyebrows and gestured to the screen.

Sam immediately turned sheepish, dropping the charade (and nearly his sandwich) in the process and moving to Dean's side. "Aw, crap. Did I forget to delete the history?"

"No," Dean grinned, turning back to the screen and typing away diligently, poking through another slot of obituaries, without expanding any further.

Sam frowned and shoved Dean's shoulder. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean came back automatically, not looking up, frowning at a particularly odd death in California.

"Well, I think I found something," Sam sighed, taking up his seat and placing his sandwich on the table, where Dean tried not to feel revolted by the crumbs that Sam would probably forget to clean up. "Series of 'Passion induced Murders' in Connecticut. Husbands and Wives stabbing each other, random people stabbing each other, and more often than not, the perp will blame love."

"So what?" Dean asked, frowning, moving away from the laptop and frowned up at Sam. "We thinking Siren?"

"Maybe," Sam agreed, but still unconvinced, holding his fingers absently together, index's slowly fiddling with each other. Dean supposed having an open mind about the case was important, but his brother's indecision and vagueness was irritating to say in the least.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll bite. What are you thinking, you absolute special snowflake?"

"It's just," Sam let his hands stop turning and entwined his fingers, setting his elbows on the sides of the chair and leaning back, looking distant, lost. Then he sighed and shook his head. "No, it's nothing. Nothing."

"Your Sarah Senses aren't still tingling, are they, Peter?" Dean asked, masking his worry with the light hearted jab. He tried not to let the real concern seep through, but the odd angle of Sam's eyes made him think that he hadn't taken as much care as he could have.

"No, no, nothing like that," Sam assured him, hand reaching up and rubbing his neck. He looked almost rueful as he met Dean's eyes. "Nothing like that at all."


"I can't explain it," the sheriff shook her head, hands crossed comfortably over her stomach as she looked at the brothers, eyes downcast as she revisited the recent madness that had overtaken her town. "It's..." She sighed, thoroughly disgruntled, looking at them helplessly. "It's bizarre, to say in the least."

"How many killings have there been so far?" Dean asked, frowning as he straightened his jacket and shifted more comfortably onto his seat.

"Five," she said easily, but familiarly. Like she'd known them, and the edge to her voice leant Sam to believe that she did. The town was small enough, after all. "Three women, two men."

"And all their statements were the same?" Sam asked, trying to wrap his head around it. Because didn't Sirens primarily go after men? And didn't the men always express regret afterwards? And they weren't killing their loved ones, they were killing other people's loved ones.

"Every one," The Sheriff agreed grimly, sighing and shaking her head in disbelief. "And none of them look like the feel like they've done anything wrong."

"But they all confessed?" Dean asked, backtracking, wondering how the two fit together. "How does that work?"

"Well, confess is one word for it," she said tiredly, looking even more distraught as she relayed the events. "They walked down the street, screaming about what they did. Like everything was some big, bloody love letter, written just for them."

"And what were their exact words?" Sam asked, wondering if any patterns could give them clues to something other than a Siren.

The sheriff typed on her computer, pausing, looking at them for a moment before turning to them. "This is what we could get from the witness statements. We tried to stamp out any irregularities but..."

"Easier said than done," Sam finished for her, giving her the world weary kinsman ship of a real FBI agent. She appreciated it, sending him a small smile before turning back to her screen, voice turning monotonous and guarded as she read out the statements. "I did it for you, Jill. I killed him for us." She looked over at them. "That was Michael Hackett, killed his neighbour's husband, says that they were having a love affair, which the neighbour actively denies."

"Do all of the..." Dean struggled for the right word. "Receivers of the 'Love Letters' deny that they were in a relationship?"

The Sheriff shook her head, snorting. "Hardly. In fact, Jill here seems to be the exception. Here," she clicked on the screen, bringing up the one from the next case. "I love you, Baby, you're my whole world. I killed her for us, so that everyone can know how much we love each other. That was Rachel Griffins, killed the wife of her College Professor. He came forward and demanded that we release her, that he loved her." She grimaced, sighing, folding her head into her hand, rubbing her temple. "Managed to give us enough evidence to charge him for accomplice to murder."

"Crap," Sam said, mouth drying as he thought about it. Love made people do stupid things, outrageous things, mind boggling things, and whatever was manipulating these people was taking advantage of one of the most prevalent weaknesses of the human soul. Sam couldn't help it, he cast his mind back to all the times love had stuffed things up for him. His Dad had loved his mother so much that he ended up tearing his children's lives. His mother had loved his father so much that she'd sold Sam's future agency to bring him back to life. Sam had loved Jess so much that he'd doomed her upon meeting.

How could it be, that something so pure, could be so selfish and selfless at the same time?

Romantic Love. Amy, Jess, Sarah, Madison, Ruby, Amelia. Sam swallowed the lump gathering in his throat and pushed the thoughts aside.

"Crap's right," the sheriff agreed. She pushed through the computer, mouse clicking as she brought up another witness statement. "I could read this out, but..." she grimaced again, hair dishevelled from where she'd run her hand through it. "It basically the same.

"What the Hell's goin' on here?" Dean asked, more Sam than the Sheriff, but she answered for him.

"Got no clue, Agent," she told them gravely. "I—"

She was interrupted by the shrill keening of her phone. She glanced at them apologetically before grabbing the receiver and setting it against her ear. Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, but his younger brother looked perfectly content to be patient and wait her out.

"What?" She demanded, eyes widening. She looked over to them and nodded, the gesture enough to set them on their feet, ready to move as she order them.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there right away," she nodded, scribbling something down on a sticky note she grabbed from the piles of stationary that cluttered around her desk. Her eyebrows were caught in a frown but she didn't seem upset. No, there was something about her that fired resistance and hope and perhaps. Something within her intangible but important.

"Bye, see you soon," she farewelled quickly, her phone hitting the receiver briskly, glancing up at the brothers, eyes bright and excited.

"What's happened?" Sam advanced forward, the electric tension in the room rising as she grabbed the coat slung over the back of her chair.

"There's been another victim," the sheriff relayed briskly.

Dean, having read the same feelings and tones that Sam had, tilted his head and frowned. "And...that's a good thing?"

"Sure," She said, glancing over, eyes jumping quickly from each of them to the things she was gathering. "Because he's alive."


"So, what are you thinking?" Dean asked Sam in a low voice as they stood outside the corridor of the most recent victim. He was coming around, and on the Sheriff's order, she and they would be allowed to speak to him to get to the root of the cause. The Hospital staff seemed happy to oblige, and the nurse who'd shown them in looked almost bitter as she passed a glance to the hospital room where he was being kept.

Perhaps she'd lost a close family member, or a friend, and Dean couldn't hold her accountable for understandable resentment.

Sam exhaled heavily, looking absently at the door the lady sheriff had disappeared behind only a few minutes before. "Got no idea. Definitely not a siren, though."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Weird that two parties are getting infected by the whole thing."

"'Infected' is a funny way to put it," Sam commented, glancing over to his brother, looking lost in thought. Dean ran over his last line, and had to admit, while it had been a spur of the moment description, it did describe what was happening decently well.

"Maybe there's something in the water," Dean tried again, but Sam looked unconvinced.

"Nah, man," Sam shook his head. "Something weird's happening. Supernaturally weird. If it was in the water, everyone would be Pants-offing it."

Dean shot his brother a look. "Dude. Seriously?"

Sam, although distracted as he had been ever since arriving at the hospital, managed a half grin, dimples and all. "Sorry."

"So, what, though?" Dean wondered, to a brother who seemed equally lost. "Pagan god?"

"There were Pagan Gods in charge of love," Sam admitted. "Venus and Aphrodite, the Roman and Greek version of the same goddess, was the god of Beauty, Love and sexual desire. Frejya was the Norse god of Love, and then..." he spread his hands. "Countless others."

"But it sounds worth following up," Dean said, wondering what the Goddess of sexual desire would look like, and wondering if they were finally getting another case with Strippers.

"Of course, there's been no actual recordings of the goddesses," Sam reminded him, shuffling a little to get out of the way of an empty bed being pulled down the hallway. "I have a theory that it was just the demon, you know, one of the seven Deadly sins. Lust."

"That does make some sort of sense," Dean agreed. "But...I dunno, man. What else have we got to go on?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short but a gaggle of nurses quickly walking passed. Dean wasn't sure where they were going, and why their heavy white shoes made so little noise on the ground, but he did pick up on their conversation.

"And she's pregnant—"

"—I sweat it's like the 15th this month—"

"—My Michael, you know, Mikey, he's been calling it the second baby boom—"

"—It's like the 60's out there, except, you know, without the racism and homophobia—"

"—I didn't know he was gay—"

"—Natasha Scott and Marie Singer? I never—"

They moved passed quite quickly, but looking at Sam, Dean could see that he'd heard all that his older brother had.

Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam quirked his lips, looking to where the nurses had gone.

"Well, I'm all for sexual freedom," Dean said, crossing his arms, still amused. "But Sammy, this economy ain't ready for that many newborns."

"Pagan God?" Sam confirmed, looking around their immediate area to make sure that no one had heard.

Dean grinned. "Pagan God."


"What can you tell us, Doc?" Sam asked, as they walked side by side the doctor into the room where the most recent victim was being held.

"Abrasions to the hand and face, a broken rib, stab wounds to the stomach, strangulation marks around the neck," he recited dully, shaking his head at the end of his recital. He sighed and looked over to the brothers. "Somebody really wanted this guy dead."

"And the culprit?" Dean asked, glancing around behind him before they stepped toward the room with the victim.

"Confessed," the doctor informed them, grimacing. "Loudly." He looked at them both pointedly. "Publically."

"Like all the other killings," Sam regarded, looking at Dean who nodded, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning.

"Exactly," the doctor said. He sighed and gestured to the room. "Sheriff Dodds and Bart Smith will see you now."

Sam nodded and pushed the door open, looking back to thank the doctor. "Thanks, we'll just be in here if you need us."

The doctor nodded and walked away, too distracted by all that had been happening in his town to go over correct procedure. He could, of course, just assumed that they'd be well equipped with hospital's and the like, and, while they were, it worried Sam that these people were becoming so complacent. Distracted by grief and worry.

And Sam had to ask himself the same question that must have been haunting them; who would be next?

The door opened, smooth and light on well oiled hinges. Dean followed Sam through, catching the door before it could hit him and letting it close heavily behind him as he entered into the room. The Sheriff glanced over at them, nodding, before turning back to get the rest of his statement.

Sam looked at the man in the hospital bed and swallowed back a wince. He looked even worse than the doctor had described, angry red marks around his neck, pressed into his skin like folding fingers. His eye was half closed, but both looked up with their full ability to Sheriff Dodds, who was nodding and murmuring to him as she wrote in her book.

She slammed her notebook shut and turned to the brothers. "Bart, this is agents Young and Johnson who have been assigned to your case."

"Hey," the guy croaked out, throat scratchy and raw. Sam guessed that his windpipe had been severely compromised in the fight, but just smiled.

"How are we feeling, Bart?"

"Crappy," he said truthfully, clearing his throat and wincing, raising a tubed-up hand to feel at the sore redness.

"Can you take it from here?" Dodds asked, packing up her pen and shoving her notebook into her pocket. "I've got the full statement, but if you want to run some particulars..."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean smiled to her, giving her the full Steve McQueen. "As long as it's good with you."

If the lady Sheriff noticed him flirting, she didn't notice it or didn't care. Either way her face was nonchalant as she gave Bart a final farewell, turning out the door and into the busy hospital hallway.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dean told him, as he and Sam went to opposite sides of the bed. "But dude, how'd you manage to survive this one?"

"Honestly?" Bart asked them, sounding oddly ashamed. "I was a coward. Pretended to play dead. Then he ran off, screaming after my girlfriend."

"Did you know him?" Sam asked, frowning, hands settling on the side of the bed, fingers playing idly with the edge of the blanket.

"Oh yeah, sure," Bart said, looking from Sam to Dean, eyes practically heavenward as he took in their massive heights. His voice was still croaky, and he winced every time he hit a hard K, but other than that he seemed coherent. "Me and Kayla, we knew him from school."

"So, he was in class with you?" Sam pressed.

"No, oh no," Bart frowned, looking from brother to brother again. "They haven't told you who it was?"

"Not yet," Dean admitted. He smiled, hard, trying not to look irritated. "Everything's still filing through. Who was it?"

"Our teacher," Bart said, confused again. He pushed himself up, making a wry face as the tubes tugged from his inner forearm and finger. "Yeah, our teacher. Mr. Shoemaker."

"So he was quite a bit older than you," Sam stated, thinking back to the other cases, and remembering something about a student and her college professor. That he could almost understand, the old student/professor niche was almost a cliché. He had to clear something up before he could follow his train of thoughts. Assuming things never got him anywhere. "And...how did your girlfriend—"

"Mia," Bart supplied.

"—feel about him?" Sam asked, looking across at Dean who'd been chasing the same thoughts in circles.

Bart opened his mouth to answer something hot and angry, but it petered off and he slunk into his seat. He looked away from their eyes, face fixed towards his hands, the tubes running out of his body and the slow beep from the machines around his bed seemed to rock with his change of mood. With the silence the hospital's noises heightened, and Sam already knew the answer.

"She hasn't come," Bart said finally, still not looking up. He finally did, meeting first Dean's eyes and then Sam's. "To see me. She hasn't come to see me."

Sam was finished with forcing the man to relive his girlfriend and teacher, so he pushed back and allowed Dean to take the front as the rest of the questions were asked and answered.

Sam looked at him, Bart, with the pink skin around his throat and the cracked rib he was obviously favouring. He'd lost her, lost her and what he'd thought as true love because of this.

For some reason, the pagan god outline didn't sit right with Sam. Surely Aphrodite or Venus or Frejya would be all for the love that had just been ruined, the love that had just been taken away. Surely that would be the love they were willing to preserve and create. It didn't make sense for something they already embellished and believed in to be taken away by the embellishers and those who had believed in it most.

None of it made sense.


"So, the girlfriend showed up," Dean said, between bites of his hamburger, looking across at Sam who was playing with his salad, fork pushing around the leafy green vegetables without much appeal from the man himself. Dean frowned and tried to break his brothers trance. "Hey, Sam?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Sam agreed, forking a mouthful onto the end of the utensil and balancing it on the side of the plate, dressing running off the tip of the leaves and into the rest of the foliage. "Don't worry. I heard you. Girlfriend made an appearance. Then what?"

"Said some romantic crap, you know, the usual; Romeo to my Juliet thing," Dean shrugged, taking another bite. He chewed and added something else. "She had to be sedated, I hear."

"Dude," Sam grimaced, throwing his spoon down in disgust. "Chew with your freakin' mouth closed."

Dean made a pointed face, still chewing, before he swallowed and washed it down with the remaining dregs of his coffee. He was nearly finished, his plate polished in his race to ease the hunger that had been gnawing at his stomach since a missed breakfast. "So, yeah. She's not pleading anything yet, just demanding they let her pedo love-potion boyfriend go."

"Great," Sam murmured, only half listening.

Dean glanced down to Sam's untouched salad, raising an eyebrow. "Gonna eat that?"

"Do you want it?" Sam asked, and it was obvious to Dean that he set the question up so that no matter what Dean said, Sam could claim the opposite. That he'd just been joking, curious, serious, willing.

"No, I do not want your messed up, deer food," Dean made a face, placing his cup away from his meal and letting his dirty fingers hover in the air above his plate. "Anyway, you have to eat it."

"Yeah, 'm not really hungry," Sam shrugged absently, pushing the plate away, still lost.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Dean reminded him, trying to get across to Sam without saying it that if he didn't eat the food, Dean would force it down his throat. Not hungry? Yeah right. There was a vast difference between not hungry and not wanting to eat. His voice was a little weaker and richer in sincerity when he broke out the next line. "Seriously, dude. You gotta keep your health up."

It was enough to shock Sam out of his reverie and then even enough to push him out to grab the salad and, making a point of it, sticking his fork in and taking an exaggerated bite.

"What's up with you anyway?" Dean asked, before Sam could finish his mouthful and sass him out.

"Just thinking," Sam replied innocently, tucking another mouthful onto the fork and forcing it into his mouth. Dean tried not to wince, but it was a massive bite. It was like Sam was forcing it down, like he just wanted to get it over and done with as quickly as possible.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll bite; what about?"

Sam shrugged, swallowing his massive mouthful. Dean wasn't sure whether he was worried or impressed that his brother had managed to get down half the salad in two tries. "This case. Something isn't sitting right."

"Like what?" Dean frowned. Running over the facts, he thought it all added up. It definitely wasn't a siren, and from what he knew about witches, none of their spells were powerful enough to render an entire town completely helpless to the whims of passion. The Pagan goddess (or God, not that Dean could remember any god of love that was male) fit, it worked.

But if Sam had misgivings, Dean had to trust them.

"Ok, Love, right," Sam pushed his salad away, and Dean was about to protest before deciding to bring it up after what Sam was about to tell him. "It's supposed to be this...this all encompassing thing, right? Once in a million years, all that crap."

"Ok, you might be reading too much young adult literature, but carry on," Dean allowed, watching Sam's passionate eyes.

Sam backtracked for a second to give Dean a disparaging look, before flinging himself forward into his theory. "And the couples that are getting torn apart, I mean, not all of them can definitely be counted for as being in a loving relationship, but, Hell, Dean, there must've been some."

"And?" Dean asked, frowning, placing the rest of his lunch on his plate, curious to where Sam was taking this.

"And those goddesses, I mean, sure, there's tonnes of Lore on Aphrodite causing people to fall in love with animals or the wrong people, but it was usually because she was slighted in some way, or because it was just...fate," Sam explained, running through the Greek Myths. "Like, she forced Dido, the Queen of Carthage to fall in love with Aeneas, her son, so that he could make it to Italy and found Rome."

"Did he?" Dean asked.

Sam frowned. "Uh, what?"

"Did he found Rome?"

"Yeah, he did, but that's not the point," Sam frowned. "The point is—"

"That doesn't make any sense, though," Dean stated. "I mean, if Dido fell in love with him, wouldn't she force him to stay?"

Sam sighed heavily. "Look, ok, it's a lot more complicated than just that, but that's not what I'm trying to say." He breathed out slowly and ran a hand over his mouth. "I just...Aphrodite was protector of love, causer of love. She only stepped in when insulted or when something big needed to happen." Sam let his hands fall to the table, searching for the right way to eloquently explain himself. "I just...I don't understand why she would, here, now."

"Maybe they slighted her, or whatever," Dean shrugged, not really feeling Sam's plan. Sure, maybe in ancient Greek times, at the height of her power, she could pick and choose like that. But here, now, on earth, she had almost nothing. She was a figurehead, the name of a ladies shaving line for God's sake. Maybe she'd finally cracked. Maybe she was just angry.

Did a monster need a reason for being a monster?

"Okay, let's think," Dean allowed, leaning back and picking up a long chip from his plate, taking a bite out of it. "What else could it be?"

Sam grimaced at Dean's disgusting display of his patataoed up tonsils, but didn't make any direct mention of it. "I was just..." He sighed. "Do you remember when there was that Cupid? That we thought was rogue, but it was actually just—"

"Famine hopping everyone up on Hunger Pills," Dean finished, swallowing his food before answering, not in the mood to taunt his brother any further, remembering that case, and not particularly finding anything funny about it.

Because inside, you're already dead.

"Right," Sam said, clearing his throat, and Dean had to realise that it would have been hard for his brother to remember it as well. Famine had channelled all of Sam's addiction into a surge of desperate hunger. He'd drunk two demons dry and paid the consequences; the mind numbing detox afterwards.

Dean had never asked Sam to go into the particulars about that part of his life, but he knew that it was harrowing, and that the hallucinations rocked him to his core. And the way Sam had looked at him afterwards, when he'd come into the room and pulled him out, half with trembling fear and half with overwhelming joy...Dean didn't want to know. He just didn't want to know.

"But think," Sam slammed through, ignoring everything that went unsaid between them and charging on with their current case. "Cas thought that it made sense for a Cupid to have done what happened to those people. So maybe, we're finally dealing with one now."

"Huh," Dean considered, leaning back. He frowned, a thought occurring to him. "And, why'd you hold off on this thought, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged. "I wanted to be sure." He looked satisfied now, and forked another mouthful of his salad up and down to his stomach. This time, it looked more enthusiastic and less Kamikaze.

"And you're sure now?" Dean asked, pushing the rest of the uneaten chip back onto his plate, picking up a napkin to wipe his hands.

Sam shrugged, taking the time to swallow his food. "I changed my mind."

"You...You changed your mind," Dean repeated, leaning back and sighing loudly. "Of course you did."

"What?" Sam challenged, taking time from gathering the leaves of salad onto his fork to glare at his brother. "I don't know if you've noticed, Dean, but when you set your heart on something, it's pretty hard to convince you otherwise." Dean raised an eyebrow, but Sam didn't relent. "And then when we didn't find anything else on the pagan goddess thing, if I'd already mentioned that it was an angel, there's no way that you would have considered my idea."

Dean scoffed. "Yes I would ha—"

Sam cut him off by a pointed scowl, ruining the perfectly disgruntled image by shoving a mass of salad into his mouth.

Dean couldn't help it, seeing his brother like that, he burst out laughing. Sam didn't make any effort to hide his smile, letting it creep freely over his lip, marred by his chewing and swallowing.

"So, why'd you tell me now, then?" Dean asked, genuinely curious. Wondering what his brother had been thinking about before Dean had interrupted him. That faraway look in his eyes was fresh in his mind, that lost twist of his lips. He wondered what his little brother had been thinking about.

But still, deep down, as little as he wanted to admit it, he didn't want to know. He just didn't want to know.

Sam just tilted his head, quirking his lips downward to prove his little knowledge. "No idea." He met Dean's eyes, and Dean could tell he was as curious as his brother was. "I'm not sure."

I'm not sure.

Dean didn't believe that that was the full answer, but he trusted his little brother. And he was glad that, whether consciously or not, his little brother had trusted him as well.


Back in the motel, they'd consciously finally made the decision not to call Cas to come find them. They knew that he was hunting down the Rebellion against Sarah, and although Sam was sceptical that it even existed, he knew that that was more important than one cupid terrorising a town. Dialling his number had reached him, but the crackle and snap of the line made it impossible to fully contact him.

Hannah, however, had been an option that they too full advantage of. She was too busy in Heaven to be of any real help, but she could suggest weaknesses of Cupids. She offered to send Angels to help them, but Dean turned her offer down. It was hard enough for Dean to be comfortable with the fact that Angels were running the freakin' universe, he didn't need a grey suited Nancy who had no idea what they were doing try to help them on a case.

No matter how helpful they'd be.

And honestly, after everything, Dean just wanted to handle a case by himself. With him and Sam, the two of them. One angel, what was the worst that could happen?

Dean avidly ignored the answer to that question, but he had to be reasonable as well. He knew that they were more than well equipped for the situation. Using Heaven's artillery would be wasteful, and dangerous. After all that killing, being forced to kill another angel might send them over the age. Perhaps that was how the rebellion had grown so large. Perhaps that was how it had started in the first place.

Sam didn't trust the angels. And neither did Dean. Not all of them. Not someone they didn't know.

"Well, the first thing to know about Cupids, I guess," Dean said, jacket slung over his motel bed, white dress shirt's collar unbuttoned as he strode around their hotel room. The phone call with Hannah had taken a long time, and Sam was convinced that the majority of it had been Dean telling Hannah that she was really pretty. Sam himself was relaxing back on his bed. His shoes were kicked off and left by the door and he'd traded his tight black pants for tracksuit pants, and his itchy jacket for an old, soft t-shirt that he'd had since Stanford. After the clock had hit 5, Sam decided that, whether the world needed him or not, he wasn't leaving the room until the next morning. At the earliest.

Dean, it seemed, was less optimistic. His suit was awry, but still very firmly on as he went through all that they knew about the particular brand of Angel.

"Is that they love Love," Dean finished decisively.

"Four hours, and that's what you come up with?" Sam asked, incredulous. He shifted on the bed, pushing his laptop (full, by the way, or lore and theories on Cupids and Cherubs and the lower order of angel) down his lap into a more comfortable position.

Dean gave Sam a pointed look. "No. Stop being irritating. No summoning spells yet, not that those would even work anymore, not since they all lost their wings... but, Hannah did say that they can be captured in Holy Fire, same as a higher order of Angel and can, you know, die from being stabbed by an Angel Blade."

"Well, thanks for that, Clueso," Sam sighed, clicking up to the document he had open with all he knew at the moment on the case. "Ok. So, from where we're sitting, we know a decent amount on Cupids, right? So there wasn't much lore I could even half believe, but... from what I could get, well..." Sam grimaced. "It's not looking good."

"Great," Dean stated, sighing and sitting down on the bed across from Sam. "What else you got?"

"Well, Cupids literally control love," Sam said, then he paused and amended. "Romantic love. Lore says that they shoot the heart of their victim with an arrow of desire, rendering them useless to their romantic wiles. Cupids can make anyone fall in love, despite sexuality or..." Sam looked faintly nauseous. "Age. Or previous romantic partners, past history. It can create the severity of the romantic connection, how intense or whatever. And, in a way, could be considered the most powerful sort of angel in the universe."

Dean snorted at the last line. "Huh. Tell that to Lucifer, pipsqueak."

"Well, think about it, Dean," Sam offered, looking across to him. "I mean, name the amount of things people will fight for, and 'True Love' is pretty high up there. Humanity is obsessed with it, to the point of insanity. Cupids could render some serious harm if they wanted to. Start wars, break down the leaders of Countries, turn the entire human race into a seething, wrenching Mass, but..." Sam looked around helplessly. "It's just staying here. It's just showing off its wings and fluffing up its own ego, but I feel like..."

"What?" Dean asked, encouraging Sam on after he'd paused to try and enunciate what he had to say.

"I don't know," Sam finally sighed. "But it sounds like it wants to be noticed. By people who'd recognise the signs."

"You think it wants to be found," Dean said slowly, tasting how the words fell out of his mouth, testing the weight of each on his tongue. It made sense, the public displays, as horrid as they were, was just a fraction of the power that the cupid ultimately had at its disposal. It was like the pilot of a plane carrying an atom bomb relying on bullets to take down a city. It just didn't make any sense.

"I don't know what it wants, for sure," Sam reminded him. "But I am sure that if it wanted, it could have made a bigger splash than this. And I can't see how tormenting just one town could be satisfying in the slightest."

Dean inclined his head. "Fair enough. What do you think we should do, Cap?"

"Track it down, quickly," Sam said, pulling his laptop back, rubbing the tiredness from his eye with the heel of his hand. "Whether it's what it wants or not. It can't be allowed to keep hurting these people."

Dean nodded his agreement, before snorting and walking. "Ugh. Love."

"That was beautiful, Dean," Sam told him. "I'm going to get that tattooed. Over my heart. Then I can look in the mirror every morning and remember the utter depths of your wisdom."

Dean scowled, pulling open their Dad's journal. "Oh, bite me."


"Why are we here again?" Dean asked, groaning and running a hand through his hair, adjusting his uncomfortable suit, trying not to make his grimace obvious.

"We don't have any other leads," Sam said, using his 'Be reasonable' voice. "And now we can look at the case with a different set of eyes."

Dean grumbled but didn't outwardly disagree, flashing a smile at a nurse as they walked passed the desk and into the psychiatry ward on their way to Bart Smith's new room. She responded in kind, offering a small smile before turning back to her work.

"I hate hospitals," Dean said, conversationally.

"I think most people hate hospitals," Sam told him, leading the way as they walked through the rooms.

"Yeah, well, I don't blame 'em," Dean grimaced, looking around and not bothering to hide his distaste. "And here, especially...all the crazies locked up in one place."

"Ok, well, first of all, that's irritatingly insensitive," Sam told him. "It's called a mental illness because they're trying to get better. And Secondly, anybody who comes here is probably just minor. Non-specific Hospitals aren't equipped with the really big cases."

"Right," Dean said, slightly uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure why.

Both stopped in their tracks when a young woman came sprinting out of one of the Psych Wards doors. She span out into the hallway, nearly tripped and then started to sprint off. Not catching her balance came back to bite her, because as soon as she spotted Sam and Dean, just standing a few metres in front of her, she stumbled again, and would have fallen if Dean had not caught her under her arms.

"Hey, hey, whoa," Dean placated, looking to Sam to help him. Sam quickly complied, hooking an arm under her back and pulling her to her feet. "Chill, ok? What's wrong?"

"I can't, I just...I couldn't—" she stammered, looking up at Dean fearfully, pulling herself to her feet and casting a fearful eye behind her, from where she had been running from.

The Psych Ward, Dean thought, despite Sam's earlier lecture. Great.

"What's your name?" Sam asked, using a soothing voice. Dean was immediately attentive, remembering their first aid training and watching the girl as she swallowed, gathering herself to give a shaky answer.

"Uh, it's...Natasha. Natasha Scott," she answered, voice still shaking, but strong. Easy instinctive questions calmed people down.

Dean didn't think anything by it, but Sam got a troubled look on his face, eyebrows clenched together as he thought back.

Dean decided to take the reins. "Ok, Natasha. What's wrong?"

She took a desperate breath, looking close to tears. "Oh my God, I'm so tired of it. I'm not strong enough—"

"Natasha, what happened?" Dean asked her seriously, wondering what could have caused the girl to be so hysterical. "Come on, we can help. We can help you."

"I don't—"

"Natasha Scott," Sam said suddenly, eyes bright with understanding. He gave Dean a look and Dean immediately looked at Natasha in a different light. "You... you started going out with Marie? Marie Singer?"

Her shock brought her out of herself for a moment, looking at them with wide eyes. "How did you know that?"

"Heard it," Sam shrugged. "On the grape vine."

"Yeah, I, she..." Natasha looked close to tears again. "I fell in love with her."

"All of a sudden, right?" Sam encouraged, voice low and sincere, looking at her with a kind smile. "Love at first sight?"

"More like love at fiftieth sight, but yeah," Natasha said meekly, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear and looking up at them miserably. "I'd never spoken to her, didn't even know I was into girls... but I just... and she..." Natasha grimaced. "I thought I was in love."

"What happened?" Dean asked, suddenly aware that they were in the middle of the hall in a hospital with a nearly crying girl, wearing a pair of important looking suits.

Natasha looked bitter, turning away. "You'll never believe me."

Dean gave her an assuring smile. "Try us."

Natasha looked at them curiously. "I don't—"

"Ok, how about this," Sam said, interrupting her before she could voice her doubts and make them real. "We go over there, and I tell you what I think is going on."

Natasha looked hesitant, but after a shaky "Ok", they walked over to the set of couches easily, only Natasha seeming out of place and nervous as she glanced around.

"So, Natasha," Sam said, and Dean knew he was completely bluffing. Even with their suspicions on the Cupid (which seemed to be more and more likely with every passing moment) they didn't have much on what Natasha specifically feeling. "You fell in love with Maria, without ever meeting her before. You went out, and then you fell in love with someone else. And there's no way you can explain it, and there's no way anyone will believe you."

Sam was facing her, and Dean was to her left, but Dean had to admit that the way she folded in on herself and the way she closed her eyes; she looked utterly alone.

She gave a bitter, shaky laugh. "If only, I guess."

"Why?" Sam asked her, frowning.

"I didn't only fall in love with Maria and 'one other person'," Natasha informed them, tired and sour and just done. "I can't help it...please don't, just..." Natasha took a deep breath and looked like she was about to start crying. "Please."

It seemed to trigger in Sam before Dean, and the younger brother paled, and looked at the girl with a new sort of tenderness and pity. "How many?" he asked softly, eyes searching out hers, open and understanding.

Natasha took in shaky breath. "I don't... it's driving me insane—"

"Natasha," was all Sam had to say, to get her to look at him, and really see that he would understand.

Natasha nodded and swallowed. "I...too many." She looked at him pleadingly. "I don't know."

"Don't know what?" Dean asked, deciding that it was a good time for him to come in, in all his misunderstanding.

"I just keep... falling in love," Natasha said, barely above a whisper. And though it was such a beautiful notion, romantic love, the way she said it... like it was the ugliest thing in the world. "That's why I was running. I went to my Shrink to see if he could help and I..." she took a shuddering breath. "I fell in love with him!"

"Ok, Natasha, can you excuse us for a minute?" Sam asked her softly, sending her a reassuring smile. She seemed to take to Sam easily, appealing to his softer nature a lot easier than Dean's gruffer, to the point attitude.

Dean sent her a small smile and walked off after Sam, turning around the corner, leaning against the wall.

"Ok," Sam said, in a low voice. They were both thinking it, and he didn't need to go over it, but Dean knew he would anyway. "She's infected by cupid."

"Really infected," Dean agreed, turning back to look at her. She had her eyes closed and her lips pressed tightly against each other. She was in pain, and it was terrifying. Dean could remember Sam's lecture about the overwhelming power of love, or whatever, last night, and he had to admit, seeing it first hand was terrifying. If Natasha had been a little more important or a little less strong-willed... Dean didn't want to know the lengths she'd have gone.

How insane she must feel.

"So maybe she's our best lead?" Sam suggested, looking at her, frowning. "Maybe Cupid's targeting her on purpose."

"Right," Dean agreed, eyes wide with understanding. He followed Sam's cue and the two of them walked over to where Natasha was sitting. Her eyes fluttered open as the two of them sat in their usual seats.

"What's happening to me?" Natasha asked them meekly, tears welling up in her eyes. "What's wrong with me?"

"Someone is doing this to you," Sam told her slowly, but the pace didn't help. Natasha still winced, and her expression went quickly from slightly hopeful to angrily disbelieving.

"Right," she snapped. She made as if to leave. "Yeah, thanks."

"Natasha, please," Sam said, and the wretchedness of the situation hit her, and she stopped trying to leave. She sat very still, and put her hands on her knees. "Can you think of anyone who you... treated badly? Or who seem to suddenly dislike you?"

"I, no... I," Natasha tried, before closing her mouth and choosing to just shake her head and shrug.

"Ok, good," Sam said, trying to smile, but Dean could tell he was miffed that their lead had just lost itself.

"But in town, can you think of anyone who's changed dramatically in the past few weeks?" Dean pressed, hoping to at least get a few people to check out.

"Everyone's been changing," Natasha answered meekly, fingers twitching against each other on her knees, head bowed as she studied them. "I mean... sorta. I guess."

"Ok, but not now now, now as in within a year, year and a half," Sam said, looking at Natasha hopefully. "Might have been very religiously devout, but then distanced themselves from society, or maybe they started going on a lot of trips at short notice. Maybe they stopped talking to their friends or—"

"What is this, the Exorcist?" Natasha demanded, looking from brother to brother. "No one in this town is possessed! You're insane!"

Dean gave a humourless smile. "I wish we were."

"Just hear us out, ok?" Sam asked her, and she calmed down enough to look ready to help them out. She closed her eyes, hard, and then took a deep breath.

"Ok," she flashed her eyes open again, and when they took them in, they were hard, unyielding, focused. Dean was impressed. Only a few moments ago, she'd been hysterical about her perchance for love and her insanity. She was dealing with everything surprisingly well, and Dean had to say that in her position, not many people would have reacted so adaptively. "I know it's not much... but I do have something..." She grimaced. "God, if anyone heard me say this, they'd think I was insane."

"Good thing we're not just anyone," Dean assured her.

Sam looked close to rolling his eyes, but he didn't. Choosing to be mature. For the first time in his life. Dean hid a smile. If there was anything the kid hated, it was Special Snowflake-ism. Except, of course, when he himself initiated it.

"Bart Smith," she said simply, looking at them both openly. "One day he was a bible preacher, you know, 'God created us all equal', and that crap..." she looked pensive, continuing despite the brother's sudden alertness. "I mean, he was kinda irritating, and he glared at me because I always took the shift at the cafe so I would get out of goin' to church, but... yeah. Now he's all Zen and constantly shuns pretty much everyone in the town. He was a good—"

"Natasha, Bart Smith," Sam summarised quickly, looking at Dean, who nodded, jumping to his feet.

"What—"

"Stay here," Sam ordered her quickly, and she promptly sunk back down into the couch, eyes wide as she looked up at the men who were standing, ready in front of her.

"He's probably gone," Dean said quickly.

"Maybe not," Sam suggested, looking down at Natasha. "He doesn't know that we suspect him, right? And he'll know who we are—"

"Who are you?" Natasha asked, looking at them both with shrewd eyes. She looked regretful, like the past minutes of her relating her story and believing them was the worst decision she could have made.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. They were a lot of things, weren't they? FBI agents and serial killers, protectors and harmers, brothers and enemies. Monsters and Heroes.

"Hunters," Sam said simply, looking at her, and Dean was relieved that Sam hadn't lied. Natasha didn't need to be lied to any further than she already was. "We're here to save you."

And with that, before Natasha could demand anything else from them, they were off, down the hall, Sam cursing that they hadn't grabbed the vial of Holy Oil from the trunk of the impala.

He needn't have worried.

The hospital room was empty.


After an hour of suppressed silence, where they'd driven to his empty house and then to the house where his girlfriend had lived and finally to where they were fiddling around in some leftover warehouse, Dean finally lashed out, banging his hands hard on the wheel of the impala. He let out a scream of frustration and Sam just let it ride out, feeling the itchy clang of anger root itself in as Dean's yells filled the interior of the car.

"We were so close!" Dean said, gritted teeth, eyes straight ahead, neck tight as they waited for the light to turn green.

Sam knew better than to murmur agreement, letting his eyes wander blearily from sidewalk to the car in front, letting his mind scatter as he tried to think of the next approach. There was no way to summon it, not any more. Without wings, the angels were useless at getting from place to place. It can't of gotten far, but even in that short amount of time, there were plenty of places for it to go.

They were interrupted by the shrill keen of Sam's work phone. Sam sighed, looking at the caller ID and, seeing that it was an unknown caller, flipped it open to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi, uh, is this the FBI agent I was talking to before?" Natasha asked from the other end of the line.

"Natasha?" Sam asked, startling Dean out of his funk and sitting up straight.

"Yeah, you kind of seemed like you were interested in Bart Smith—"

"Wait, how'd you get this number?" Sam asked, looking at Dean who'd been forced to look back at the road as the line of cars moved through possibly the only set of lights in the whole town.

Natasha paused, incredulous. "I'm not an idiot. I went to see Tracy."

"Tracy? What...Oh." Sam winced. "Tracy Dodds."

"Small town, everyone knows each other," Natasha reminded him.

"Right," Sam agreed, now that his shock was out of the way, he turned to what she had said before. "You said something about Bart Smith—"

"She said something about the friggin angel and you ask her how she got your number?" Dean demanded loudly.

Sam thought he heard Natasha give a shocked laugh, but it was over before he could fully concentrate. "Uh, so, yeah. I'm looking at him right now."

"Holy crap," Sam breathed, paling, looking out the window as if he might catch her in the act. "What do you mean?"

"He's here, at the cafe," Natasha said, her voice small. "I had to serve him like it was normal and everything."

"Thank you, thank you so much, Natasha, thank—"

Sam slammed the phone off, cutting through his own praise, turning to Dean. "We need to go to Natasha's cafe."

Dean, who had been torn between road rules and regulations and integrating himself into the conversation, got his brother's meaning immediately. He gunned off, tearing around the traffic. It wasn't late, still midday and an appropriate lunch time by the time that they'd pulled up.

"So, he doesn't know?" Dean guessed, watching through the window as the Cupid laughed at something someone said. Natasha was visible as well, wearing a black shirt and pants, with the apron for the cafe across her chest in bright red.

"Nope," Sam said lightly, watching, head woozy as the cupid looked around, utterly unknowing that they were gunning for him.

"All this..."

"Yeah."

They sat for a moment more. He still had that red mark around his neck, that grace across his cheek. He held a hand to his rib cage as he let out a belly laugh, gently chastising his companion as he rubbed it.

"Ok," Dean said, and they both heaved themselves out of the car.


"I just don't get how any 'new evidence' could have arisen," the Cupid flustered, looking from brother to brother as he was led out to the impala.

Neither, Dean admitted, because it had been a thing of the moment. They'd congratulated him on his fast recovery and then invited him to come with them, with Sam not so subtly reminding him (and everyone else on the premises) that they were armed. "That's perfectly alright, Mr. Smith. We just need to gauge your first reaction."

He quietly got into the back seat, and even from where they were sitting, Dean could sense his worry. Dean gave him a placating smile in the rear vision mirror, it dropping to menacing when the angel looked away.

Finally.

The place they were going was on the outskirts of town. Untouched other than horror movie wannabes, the old factory had made mannequins for the towns once thriving dress store collection. It ran aground a few years before the boutiques, and from there nothing had touched it, nothing had bought it. No one had even dared build on the land around it, and the nonexistent haunting led to most of the towns ghost stories.

There wasn't actually a ghost there. No one had even ever died there. (They'd checked.)

The impala pulled outside it, and they heard Bart cough in the back seat. "Uh, guys?"

"Sorry, Mr. Smith," Dean smiled. They all climbed out of the car and walked together up to the closed off doors. It was easy enough to open it up, Sam kicking at the door till it swung open, Dean swinging the torch around, picking up the corridor.

"I don't..." Bart stood back, pale beneath his injuries, adams apple bobbing as he took in where they'd taken him. "I'm not going in there."

Sam gave a serious frown. "Do we need to get a warrant, Mr. Smith?"

He looked torn. On one half, his instincts were probably telling him to flee, and on the other, he was threatening angering two government officials. And he needed to keep up his charade.

"No," he took another shuddering breath. "No, it's...it's ok. Let's do this. Alright."

"Awesome," Dean stated, deadpan, leading the way into the warehouse.

"What am I looking at?" Bart asked, his voice ringing tinny around the area, looking at the dilapidated construction lines and the boxes of untouched mannequins. When they didn't answer, he tried again, calling out louder. "Uh, Agents?"

They both turned simultaneously, looking at him, hard. When Dean brought out the lighter he'd been fiddling with in his pocket, Bart winced.

"I don't—"

His breath cut short as Dean dropped it. He looked around desperately, trying to see if the ground was coated in petrol or if there were lines of oil leading to hidden explosives.

He winced, bent down and closed his eyes, nearly giving out a whimper.

"Open your eyes," Dean said, looking at Bart, hard.

"Who are you people?" Bart demanded, looking at the ring of fire that surrounded him. There was something vaguely satanic in the way it flickered, in the way if caught the shadows of the men's faces. Bart looked hurriedly away from the half formed faces of the female mannequins. In the dark, the shadows cracked. In the dark, it looked like they were blinking.

"We're not FBI agents," Sam said smoothly, watching the man with the same amount of vigour as Dean was. He was staring at them both with shock and desperation.

"Yeah," Bart rasped. "I got that."

"So, why are you doing it?" Dean asked him, letting a silver blade fall from his sleeve and into his hand. He fiddled with it idly, letting his eyes lazily come up to scope out the man's terrified expression. He expressed all forms of patience on the outside, but there was a barely concealed anger, a rippling frustration. Sam saw it as well as Bart did. He was just used to it.

"Doing what?" Bart asked, his voice raspy, barely above a whisper. "Doing what?"

"Killing these people," Sam answered curtly.

"Your little Love Bug," Dean filled in, done with Bart's act. He glared openly, lip twitching in disgust as he took him in. "It's killing people."

"I don't...please, I just—"

"Natasha Scott said that you were acting strange for about a year," Sam said, shrugging, obviously a lot more nonchalant than his brother. His demeanour was strictly business, while Dean's was rippling with adversary. "We just wanna know why."

"You got a weird way of asking someone why they picked up yoga," Bart said slowly, looking from brother to brother. "I... my girlfriend got me a membership." He grimaced, unsure of how to proceed. "I'll... cancel it, if you want?"

Dean looked at him sharply. "Castiel."

"I'm sorry," He asked desperately. "Am I supposed to know what that is?"

"Hey, fellas," a new voice announced itself at the back of the room. Sam looked to Dean and nodded, once, and then twice, and Dean turned in synch with his little brother to greet it.

"Sheriff," Sam smiled, hand digging into his pocket. He felt his fingers secure around their failsafe, there second trap. "Good of you to join us."

The Lady Sheriff Dodds made her way into the light of the holy fire. She smiled at them, but it was a far cry from anything humane, anything real. It was desperate and dark and shallow, and there was a greedy wonder to the lilt of her lips scratched like claws into her cheeks.

She took another step, and without wasting any more time, Sam let his lighter fall to the ground, where the flame caught the oil and raced up to form a circle around the sheriff.

She halted, eyes wide with surprise. She spluttered, looking around. Utterly captured.

"I gotta say," Dean remarked, ignoring Bart behind him and focusing on her. "I've met a few Cupids before, and none of them were nearly as cuddly as you."

Sam flashed a smile.

Dodds barked a laugh, huffing in bitterness at the thought of her siblings. "Oh yes, those love driven fanatics. So suppressed and emotionally over connected. They had no idea what they could do with the power they held in their hands." She looked over at the brothers maliciously. "What we could force people to do."

"People are dying," Sam reminded her harshly, voice low, guttural, unforgiving.

"That was the plan, Velma," The cupid smiled. "Love drives people to do crazy things. Jump back into the Titanic, wage a war for ten years, launch a thousand Grecian Ships..." she trailed off, satisfied, smiling. Any shock left over from being captured was easily masked.

"You're a what?" Bart demanded, and no one turned to acknowledge him.

"Right," Dean said. He hefted the angel blade. "I've had enough, so, Sammy, if you'll—"

"Wait," Sam said, hand reaching out to stop his brother. Dean complied, but raised his eyebrow, looking like Sam'd have to have a really good reason to stop him from putting the Cupid out of her misery. He didn't look to see how his brother had taken his hesitation, however, eyes fixed seriously on the smirking woman. "Why?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, snappily, irritated. "I answer that, Sasquatch. I'm over this love—"

"Yeah, and I don't believe you," Sam said. His face was curious, caught. "I want to know the truth. You fell over a year ago, with all your brothers and sisters. Why wait till now to ruin this town?"

She gave sharp laugh. "Do I look like I need a reason?"

"I think I know," Sam told her evenly. "And I think I know why you focused on Natasha as well. Everything was planned out for us, and us specifically. You knew we were coming. But you didn't want to get caught."

"Oh, please, educated me."

"Natasha was your friend," Sam told her easily. Then he paused, sizing the angel up. "Well, the friend of your vessel. And Angels can integrate into society, despite what people think. It just takes a certain...skill set. So you continued your friendship with Natasha, and when she told you about her thoughts on how Bart had changed, you used it to your advantage."

"This is sounding pretty on par with what I was saying," Dodds informed him, crossing her arms in a display of boredom.

"Right," Sam agreed. "But you and Natasha were friends, and he's been off since around about the Fall. You needed a scapegoat." He looked at her level. "I'm guessing you heard about the Regime Change upstairs?"

"Sure," she shrugged. She seemed to brush off everything else he said. "Sariel. A big up and comer. The Lilith to Heaven, and all that."

Sam was put out, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. Scratch that, he was angry. Lilith had been evil, she'd killed Dean and started the apocalypse. How dare she? After all Sarah had done? After all she'd done for the brothers, as well?

And then it clicked. For both of them. Dean's blade went limp in his hand, Sam's mouth cinched into a hard line.

"The rebellion," Dean spat.

The flicker of surprise across her face was enough.

She seemed to notice that she'd given them all the indication they needed as well. Her mouth snarled into a fierce attack, the grimace stealing into her eyes. All the perfect satisfaction that she had exuded before has become lost, amid the tensing muscles in her neck and the way her eyes burnt bright blue.

"The rebellion? Oh yes, you have no idea what you're dealing with if you can speak about it so freely," she said, and although Dean knew that she had to be bluffing, a cold shiver still stole down his back at the thought. Because here they were. Here they were, again. "We'll get Sariel, and Castiel, and all his hopeless followers. We'll get you, Winchesters. For what you did to us. For your corruption of Heaven."

"Alright, time to go," Dean said simply, holding his blade firmly in his hand and advancing on her. She backed up to the end of the circle, nervous, but still a smirk grew.

Sam wanted to scream, to punch, to stab her himself. But he didn't, he just stood there, watching, eyes devoid of sympathy.

When she got to the edge of the circle, her smirk only grew. She had one last card up her sleeve, one last ace. "How will you be able to kill me, when you're too busy being in love with each other?"

Dean stopped, staring at her, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

Sam frowned, walking forward, crossing his arms over and looking at the angel with confusion. "I think she was talking about incest, Dean."

Dean scrunched up his face, and grimaced. "Ugh. We were having such a good talk. Why'd you have to go ruin it?"

The cupid, for all her bravado, looked stunned. Whatever magic she'd been planning to whip out had dampened under their odd response. "I don't...I'm sorry?"

"Well you might as well," Sam threw his arms into the air in frustration. "Everyone thinks we're Gay anyway!"

"It's a curse," Dean agreed. "We can never get a motel room without having to specify it. Do you want to know how many times I've had to say 'two singles'? Do you?"

Dodds winced. "Uh, no?"

"You know Lisa thought that I'd brought my new boyfriend to the neighbourhood when we showed up?" Dean turned to Sam conversationally. "That is an actual thing someone said to me."

"Wait, seriously?" Sam demanded. He sighed and shook his head. "Dude...I mean, seriously. Dude."

Dean's eyes were wide. "I know."

"I don't—"

"Hey, remember," Sam interrupted Dodds easily. "Antiquers?"

Dean shook his head, smiling despite it. "Classic."

"You can't distract me," Dodds hissed, her eyes blazing as she took the two of them in. "I will still curse you, I will still escape!"

Dean and Sam shared a long-suffering look. Dean was the first to turn back, sighing, Angel blade light and familiar in his hand.

He smiled to himself, nostalgic almost, wry. "Well, it was worth a shot."

He turned quickly, flinging his arm out. The blade flipped through the air, slamming through the angels ribs, turning her eyes bright white, forcing her onto her back, screaming light pouring out from her eyes and mouth as she died.

A few moments later, the Winchesters could uncover their eyes. And a few moments after that, they managed to get Bart back outside, with a half-hearted promise to explain everything to the too-quiet shell of a man. A few minutes more and the oil had burnt down enough that they could approach the body. A few more, and all that remained of the angel was the blackened wings burnt into the ground.

Sam followed Dean out of the warehouse, leaving no fingerprint, no hair or footstep. Nothing. Like they were two whirlwinds, two spectres, who rolled into town. They left no trace, and no one would have proof that they were ever there.

They might be remembered, in kind, when the people of the town revisited their odd spell, where people were not acting like themselves. But not in full. Any recollection of their face would be blurred. And sound of their voice would be generalised, until it wasn't their voice at all.

So Sam and Dean left the town in the same way they arrived in it. In a car with a trunk large enough to hide a body, with music nearly vintage with age, side by side, off to collect a few more nightmares.


Castiel had followed Dodds's energy trail to a T. He'd started at the town Sam and Dean had directed him to when he'd finally gotten down from the mountain and managed to find somewhere to get decent cell reception. He'd made his way through Heaven to the other side of the world, missing his wings but too determined and too excited to fully reflect on what it meant for him now that he didn't have what really made him an angel.

The House was once a Sorority, but it had been sold after the continuous assaults from the neighbours and the police's clampdown on the noise pollution of that particular area of town.

It had had been sold and bought by a large family in 2012, but no one had seen them use it since. It was like they'd bought the house to ensure that no one else could touch it.

But it was being used, and whether one of the family members had been possessed, or if it was all of them, Cas wasn't sure.

But he made his way to the house nevertheless. Sariel told him to harm as the last possible resort, and he agreed with her, relieved that it wasn't he who had to bring it up. He didn't want to kill anymore angels; no matter what they'd done, no matter what was left.

They were still his brothers and sisters. They still had the right to redemption.

The house was still and serene under the moon that shone brilliant despite the clouds.

Cas looked up at it, eyes wide, searching.

He walked up to the front door, and pressed his hand up against the wood.


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Name of the next Chapter: The Princess Bride