Epilogue

Missouri, the day after Ronnie and Andrew's wedding

Before they left, the Winchesters had a late breakfast. Ronnie was there too, making good on her intention to eat cake for breakfast until all the leftovers were gone. She seemed to enjoy making Dean uncomfortable by pulling a number of suggestive faces, making a number of suggestive noises, and doing things with a spoon that had no business being so, well, suggestive.

"So, Bobby found that bottle in the reading room," Sam said, "He was kind of happy about that, and... Dean!"

"It's like a train crash," Dean muttered vaguely, watching as Ronnie licked a smear of cream from her lips and pouted at him, "It's... it's just... but I can't stop watching..."

"She's not doing anything you haven't done," Sam snapped, "Only she's got a spoon, and is not using a member of the opposite sex as a plate..."

Dean winced, and tore his eyes away from the rampant provocation going on at the other end of the table.

"So, the mystery of Ian is solved," Sam went on.

"Yeah," grumped Dean, "Dr Cullen grinned at me as he left last night. Smartass."

"I wish I'd been able to talk to him before he left," Sam sighed, "I mean, just think of the things he's seen, and done, and lived through!"

"He didn't seem to want to talk about it that much," Dean recalled, "I don't think he actually enjoyed his time at the hospital."

"Anyway, I found us a job," Sam told him, "In Nebraska. Sounds like a routine salt-and-burn, but I'll have to check some more details to be sure."

"After this episode, any salt and burn will seem like a routine one," moaned Dean. "And just so you know, I am never takin' you to one of those crackpot re-enactments ever again."

They made their goodbyes, packed their gear, their dog and themselves into the Impala, and headed out on the road.

"Frigging vampire," mused Dean, unable to let it go. "I don't believe it. Lassie's 'big brother' is Doctor Dracula."

"Well, we know it's possible," Sam reminded him. "Maybe because Hunting was in the family, he knew what was happening, and could fight it. Maybe the doctor in him just couldn't face hurting people to survive."

"I could almost feel sorry for any fugly that ran into 'em as a combination," Dean commented. "Short of a troop of powerful demons, I'm not sure that much would stand a chance against a combination like that.". He paused. "Let's just hope it doesn't catch on with the feral ones. If vampires and werewolves start teaming up, we are so screwed."

Sam shook his head. "I don't think that's gonna catch on in a big way anytime soon."

"I thought vampires and werewolves hated each other, you know, natural enemies, that sort of thing," continued Dean, "If it did catch on, they'd have to rewrite the 'Twilight' stories." He grimaced. "I'm getting a headache just thinking about this. Hey, do you think that in a fair fight, a vampire can really kick the ass of a werewolf in human form?"

"Moot question", said Sam, "Vampires never fight fair. And any werewolf with control of the shapeshift would choose to fight on four legs. Mind you, Ian is actually a big guy. If it was a female, and he had a silver weapon, it might go his way, if he could dodge the claws." He paused. "Of course, if he ran into an Alpha male, it'd just rip his head off."

"Unless it was Andrew," Dean grinned, "That guy wouldn't rip the head off a dandelion, if he had a choice."

"Unless the dandelion was a triffid, and was a threat to his mate," Sam pointed out. "Jesus, seeing him ready to kill Len Shepherd isn't something I'll forget in a hurry."

Sam got out his laptop, and started checking a few things for their next job. They drove in silence for a while…

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you know that vampires and werewolves are sworn enemies in the Twilight stories?"

"Uh..."

"Because that really doesn't seem like the kind of book you'd pick up. You know, not enough barely-legal-age heaving naked female flesh?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you know there's no barely-legal-age heaving naked female flesh in the Twilight stories?"

"Because they were written by a Mormon, and the target audience is tween and teen girls. And crazy adult women with tendencies that border on paedophilia. So…"

"So, what?"

"So, how do you know that vampires and werewolves are sworn enemies in the Twilight stories?"

"Um… I might've, you know, kind of read some. Sometime. When I was laid up, and desperately bored. For research purposes. Just to have a laugh. You know, at how wrong they got everything? No such thing as female werewolves. If only. Sparkly vampires would be great, though, wouldn't they? Easy to spot, I mean."

Sam considered that. "It sure would make them easier to track in the dark. That'd be useful."

"Oh no, it only happens when they're in sunlight, see, they don't sparkle in the dark…" Dean's voice trailed off. "Stop smirking."

"I'm not smirking."

"Dammit, Sammy, you're smirking. Without lookin', I can hear you smirking."

"Dean, I'm not smirking, I promise. Look, let's just drop the subject." He turned back to his laptop. "I'll just check out some stuff for our next Hunt. I've got a few candidates for who the restless ghost might be, if that's what it is..."

"Is it anybody with any military experience at all?"

"Nope, none whatsoever. But one of 'em was an office holder of the Lincoln Ladies' Quilting Society."

A comfortable silence descended once more…

"Dean?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Team Edward, or Team Jacob?"

"Sam..."

"Or should I ask, Team Ian, or Team Ronnie?"

"Sam..."

"No, no scratch that, if I'm goin' for the analogy here, which one are you: Team Ian, or Team Andrew?"

"Sam..."

"Would you like a lifesize cardboard cut-out for your birthday?"

"Shut up, Samantha!"

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Great Aunts Sadie and Dotsie were farewelled by their family, then Mark drove them to Springfield-Branson airport, to see them off on the flight that would take them home to North Dakota. They played the dear little old ladies card for all it was worth, securing themselves bulkhead seats with extra leg room, and extra cakes and cookies from the refreshments trolley. The cabin staff smiled at the two dear old biddies chattering away to each other in German.

"She's a lovely girl," opined Sadie, carefully mixing sugar into her coffee. "Oh, you'd think they could make a decent cup of coffee, even on a plane, these days. We're not living in the Dark Ages."

"We should bring a flask, next time we have to travel," suggested Dotsie. "She is lovely. Veronica. I wish she'd use her full name, it's a lovely name. Ronnie makes her, well, it makes her sound like a man."

"Let's be honest, dear, she's no breathtaking beauty on the outside," sighed Sadie. "If they decide to breed, let's hope they take after our side of the family."

"Well, he didn't marry her for her looks," shrugged Dotsie. "Or maybe he did. Did you see that smile? Lights up the whole room. I think this cake is stale."

"They make them out of plastic, I think, like everything else. Surely they could make a proper cake? It's all done by robots these days, I suppose. Like everything else. In Taiwan. Will she give up her work?"

"No, Andrew says she's a very talented metal worker. Doesn't sound like a suitable occupation for a lady."

"Oh, don't be so old-fashioned. It's like that song says: sisters are doing it for themselves."

"Sounds like something disgusting."

"You old prude. Anyway, I was referring to her other job."

"I'm sure she will. None of them ever really retire, not completely. Like Bobby. Good grief, couldn't you just smell it on him?"

"Indeed. I think it's the gunpowder and the solvent. Oma could never wash it out of Opa's clothes, you remember?"

"Like it was yesterday. Pooh! What a stink. And I remember her complaining about the time he came home with ectoplasm all over his good jacket – I never knew that Oma knew language like that!"

"Still, she seems like a nice girl. She must be one of the ones that can control it, with so many Hunters at her wedding, and a Hunter herself. Have you got any spare sugar?"

"Here you are. You know, I think you might be right. Remember Herr Semmler? Frau Semmler used to have to lock him in the cellar. But his son could control it."

"I think she was bitten and not born, dear, like Andrew. Why do they never give you enough milk in these stupid little containers? Do they think we're midgets, or something?"

"Call the flight attendant and ask for more. Well, they seem very happy together. Perhaps if she learned, she's taught him as well."

"That would be nice. I think it's important for a husband and wife to have interests in common."

"What would you know about husbands and wives, you crazy old bat? You're a spinster. Anyway, I'm not sure whether being a werewolf counts as an 'interest'."

"I'm just glad they're Old North. They are, aren't they? Those native American weres, they're just not as convincing."

"I imagine they'd be plenty convincing if you ran into a grumpy one at the full moon. I'm just glad they're managing to conceal it. You'd never know, if you didn't know what to look for."

"She is a clever girl. You're not thinking of dropping a hint, are you? Don't go ruining their fun, you spoilsport, let the youngsters keep their secret."

"Of course I won't. Oma wanted the family to get out of the business. It's history. We let it lie. We promised her. Oh, will you look at that, chocolate chip cookie my foot! There isn't a single chocolate chip in it! AND, it's tiny. I've seen dimes bigger than this!"

"Push the button for the attendant again... Ah, there you are, dear, I wonder, could we get some more milk please? And maybe some more of those cookies?"

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"What were you doing at breakfast, pulling those faces at Dean? He was squirming like he had worms."

"Never mind, private joke."

"So, he didn't try to gank Ian, then?"

"Nope, he didn't try to gank Ian. Although he didn't get let on to the Big Chompy Secret until the truck was pulling onto the road."

"Well, the guy's no fool. So, Mrs Jaeger..."

"I'm keeping my maiden name, pal."

"Uh-uh, you're my wife now, and my pair-bond. We have Denned. I am Alpha, and I have decided, you will take my name..."

"Nobody is calling me 'Mrs' anything!"

"Not even 'Ms' Jaeger?"

"Don't do the eyes thing – who do you think you are, Sam Winchester? Maybe. Ms. Ms. Mzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Actually, I like that. Mzzzzzzz Jaeger. Makes me sound like a combination of Virginia Woolf, Germaine Greer, Granny Weatherwax and a bloodless castrator. Hey, are we gunna open some presents before we leave?"

"You are a mercenary creature. Yeah, okay, let's have a look... here, this one's from the Winchesters."

"Check to make sure it's not ticking."

"It's not. Besides which, if it was an IED, the timer would be digital, not analogue. Get with the program, Mzzzzzzzz Castrator. I mean, Jaeger. OW!"

"Smartarse. Well, open it. If Dean's put a collar in there, I will not be happy."

"Okay... well, the good news is there's no collar. There is a box of, let me see, it says 'gourmet hand-made peanut crunch cookies'."

"Yeah? Yum! Hand them over... what? These are gourmet dog treats! I'll kill him!"

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Bobby left last of all, and didn't go too far, waiting for nightfall. When it was dark, he took the small thimble and pincushion he'd lifted from one of the display cabinets, and walked back through the woodland towards Crossair House.

As the building came into view, he heard the sounds of crying, and called quietly into the darkness.

"Roisin? Roisin? Is that you, girl?"

Following the forlorn sound, he located her: still wearing the tatters of the uniform she'd donned to search for her sweetheart, she sat in a small clearing, a pale flickering image, and cried.

The spirit looked up and reached for her musket when she saw Bobby, but he forestalled her.

"I don't mean you no harm, missy," he explained gently, hoping he didn't need to use the salt rounds on the poor thing, "I'm here to help. You went lookin' for Ciaran, they tell me."

She stared at him, then nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said heavily, "But he died, Roisin. Doc Malloy got word after you left, but couldn't trace you."

The ghost looked forlorn, lost, and started to cry again.

"You shouldn't be here," he told her, "I know what it's like to lose the light of your life – I really do – and I know how you feel that you'll be stuck in the grievin' forever, but this aint right. And I know you don't have a proper grave, and I'm sorry for that, too, but in the end, your body aint the bit that matters. It's time to move on. Long past time. It's time for you to really go find him. That's why I'm here."

The spirit shot him a pleading look.

"I mean it," he went on, "He's gone to his rest, Roisin, and it's time for you to go too. Go find him, and be with him."

The wavering spectre managed a small smile.

Without further delay, Bobby took the small sewing items, doused them with salt and lighter fluid, and set them alight. The shape of Roisin began to flicker, and she smiled.

"Go on, now," he urged her, "Stand down, soldier. And go find that boy."

With a last waver, she dissolved into the moonbeams.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Two weeks after Ronnie and Andrew's wedding, Ian was in Maryland, standing in the flickering light thrown by the burning house. The wail of approaching sirens grew louder as he turned to the teenager standing beside him.

"Have you got your story straight?" he asked quietly.

The boy seemed to shake himself out of his shock. "Yeah," he stammered, "Yeah, I... yeah." He blinked, and looked down at his hands, then wiped them on his blood-spattered pants as if trying to wipe away a memory. "He... " he swallowed. "It really happened, didn't it?"

"It did," Ian said gently, "It was real. You saw what happened, and it was real."

"He..." the boy's eyes welled with tears. He was holding together remarkably well, considering he'd just seen his father turn into a monster and tear his family to pieces. "He... he was eating... why... he was eating..."

"The term is 'rugaru'," Ian told him, as the fire trucks pulled into the street, "And fire is the only way to kill them."

To his credit, the teen managed a combination of convincing lie and dazed shock, the shock not having to be feigned. The police bought the story about 'Uncle Ian', and they left as soon as they could, Ian taking the boy to an all-night diner, where he ordered coffee for himself, and food for the traumatised teen.

"Ryan," he began, as his companion sat staring at nothing, "It will help if you can eat something."

"I'm okay," the boy said vacantly.

"No, you're not," Ian countered, "And given the circumstances, it's okay not to be okay. Frankly, if you were okay, I'd be very very worried about now."

The boy, Ryan, looked at his as if seeing him for the first time, and managed to crack a small smile at that. "How did you know?" he asked. "How did you know about my Dad, that he... that he... how did you know how to..."

Ian smiled sadly. "I'm what's called a Hunter," he explained. "I hunt down, and deal with, things that hurt humans. I make it my business to know how to... stop them. Sometimes, that means I have to kill them. Even if, once, they were people, with families they loved, and who loved them. I'm sorry, Ryan, but your father was one of those things."

"I know," the teen said vaguely, poking at the pile of fries on the plate in front of him. "I saw him. I saw what he did." He paused. "If you hadn't come in, he'd have... he'd have killed me too."

"He would have," Ian agreed.

They sat in silence for a while, Ryan listlessly eating a few fries. "What other..." the boy began hesitantly, "What other... things are there, that you kill?"

Ian's eyebrows rose at the show of curiosity. "Well, there are things that most people think aren't actually real," he started carefully, "A lot of the job consists of laying restless spirits to rest – that's the ghosts of people who, for whatever reason, never quite managed to move on when they died. They..."

"How do you do that?" asked Ryan, biting into another fry.

"It's actually kind of hard work," Ian confided, "You have to find the bones, all the mortal remains of the person in question, then salt and burn them."

"So, how do you figure out who a ghost is?" Ryan pressed, "Like, if a house is haunted?"

Ian smiled. "It isn't always easy. And it isn't always a house, either. Sometimes, it's obvious, sometimes, it takes detective work to figure it out. And sometimes it's not easy to find the remains. Even if it is, digging up and filling in a six-foot hole, while some pissed ghost could be trying to stop you, is no walk in the park."

"What else?" Ryan bit into his hamburger.

"God, where do I start?" chuckled Ian. "There's vampires – they don't sparkle, and they are not harmless sparkly emos – and werewolves – two kinds, and the females are not to be trifled with – and ghouls, and poltergeists, there's wendigos, but they're getting rarer. Then there's demons, and they are the nastiest characters of all."

"How do you kill a demon?" Ryan wanted to know.

"You can't," Ian told him grimly, "Unless you have a very particular, special and rare type of knife, and you get incredibly lucky. You never, never bank on killing a demon. Mostly, the best you can do is trap 'em, and send 'em back to Hell before they possess or kill anybody else."

The next question wasn't completely unexpected. "What makes somebody a rugaru?"

Ian paused before answering. "It's not altogether clear," he chose his words carefully, "But one thing we do know is that the children of a rugaru will also carry the curse." He let his words sink in. "Ryan, I'm sorry, but when you're older, it'll happen to you, too."

The boy put down his burger, and his eyes filled again. "I don't want to be a monster," he whispered fiercely, "I don't want to be a monster, not like..." he swallowed. "I'll kill myself before I turn into that..."

"Well, there is a small ray of sunshine," Ian cut in, "You can't help the potential you carry – but you can learn to keep it under control. With enough force of will, and a lot of red meat in your diet, you can stop yourself from being turned. If you ever kill, and eat human flesh, you'll become a monster, like your father, and there won't be anything anybody can do to help you. And if that happens, a Hunter will come after you."

"Control it?" Ryan stared at him incredulously, "Control it? Are you nuts? I saw my Dad! I saw what happened! He was... he was crazed! He was totally crazed! How the fuck do I control that, huh? I'm goin' to turn into a, a, a mindless, bloodthirsty monster, and you're tellin' me, I just gotta learn to control it?" He held his head. "This is nuts. This is nuts. This is all nuts. I'm going nuts..."

"You're not going nuts, Ryan," Ian tried to calm the boy, "And I'm telling you, it can be done. You can choose not to kill. You can choose not to be a monster."

"How?" Ryan was on the edge of tears again, "How? How can something like that learn to control what they are? What the fuck would you know about it? How... what's so funny?"

Ian was laughing, and shaking his head. "Ryan can you keep a secret?"

Back out in the parking lot, he gave the boy the smile he'd shown Dean Winchester.

A week later, Ryan left town with Ian.

A week after that, he was referring to his new teacher as Vlad. Ian just rolled his eyes, and wondered whether it was just part of his fate in this vale of tears that every apprentice he took turned out to be a smartass.


Nearly done - Bruce says there's just one more leetle bit, then maybe a visit from the bus (we had to upgrade from the van). Feed the bunny delicious reviews! After all, that's how you get a spot on the DDD & SSS crew...