A/N: And thus, whilst wondering how fic is so much easier to write than patient h&p assessment/plans, AiH continues on the mild to moderate angst train. Maybe grab some chocolate . . . or a quesadilla. Shout-outs to Sage of wind Dragons, Sweetie420, LILYpadsROX, MewLover9000, sonyavasquez, and Lady Aramis.


July 3rd, 2007 Lake View Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio 11:00 p.m.

Spike was waiting for them in the brightly lit gangway to his inset space ship, arms folded across his red t-shirt, his black duster billowing in the mild breeze. "Hungry? They're making quesadillas in the galley." If he saw the tear-tracks streaked down Lily's chin, he made no comment.

The hunter extended his hand. "Spike."

"Dean."

They shook hands once, and the vampire led the way up along the rusty iron gangplank into the belly of the beast. Up close and personal, the spaceship appeared to be built entirely out of reused scrap iron. Spike took them through a series of narrow passage ways and bulkheads until they ducked through a doorway into the kitchen. It was as narrow as the rest of the ship, barely wide enough for three people to stand abreast.

Andrew hovered by one of the metal counters, guarding a sizzling skillet and flipping tortillas. Behind him, Becka was grating some questionable-looking cheese. Somehow, Sam managed to look relaxed, although his head was practically scraping the ceiling. Dean filed the sight of his brother standing with his chin tucked to his chest away for future ridiculing.

"Where's Faith?" he wondered as Lily scampered past him on her way to help him with the cheese.

The others glanced up at him, and the wariness in their eyes was answer enough.

"She's by herself, with Angel, isn't she." It wasn't a question.

"Dean –" started Andrew placatingly.

"What the hell is wrong with you people?" the hunter demanded, glaring at all of them in turn. "He broke her leg, and you're leaving her alone with him?"

"Easy there, Cro-Magnon." Spike grabbed Dean by the shoulder and dragged him out into the hallway. "Faith can take care of herself, which you know. She doesn't need a hunter to protect her. So calm down and stop scaring the children."

Dean said nothing. He simply continued to glare, letting all of his frustration and anger be put to good use. "I want to be there," he growled. "Show me."

Spike shrugged. "Your funeral."


"Angel, I know you're listening. And it's about damn time you started showing signs of life – unlife – whatever."

Faith sat in a ramshackle metal chair just outside the cabin where Spike had stashed his grandsire. A pair of old handcuffs linked Angel's wrist and the radiator against the far wall, in case he tried to escape. She knew they were there more for the sake of the gesture than to serve an actual purpose. If the handcuffs were the only thing keeping Angel aboard ship, he would have been long gone by now.

Under other circumstances, she would have entered the make-shift cell and claimed a spot on the metal bunk opposite Angel's as her own. With the crutches, though, it wasn't worth the risk. On the very off chance this whole catatonic thing was a ploy.

"So . . . where to start . . ." The Slayer heard the noise of boots coming from down the hallway. She watched the hunter approach, his face like a storm cloud. Oh, well. Faith pointed to another empty chair and waved for silence. She was dealing with Angel right now. Dean could wait for later.

He took the proffered seat, shooting the vampire murderous looks. Faith ignored him.

"Angel, if you can hear me, tap your fingers, okay?"

The vampire did nothing. He simply sat there on the edge of the bunk, staring blankly ahead at the wall directly in front of him. His hands were draped across his knees, and cracks had appeared at the corners of his eyes and mouth from dehydration.

"Well, that was worth a shot," Faith said in an undertone to Dean. "Wasn't expecting too much. Spike can't get a single reaction out of him – he told Angel that he and Buffy had gotten engaged a couple of days ago, wanting to see what he'd do, and Angel didn't even blink. He just . . . sat there. And Spike's been having to force-feed him blood, which hasn't been working great."

Dean was still fighting the urge to jump up and ram a piece of wood through Angel's chest. It wouldn't take much time, less than half a minute, and this would be over. The hunter agreed with Lily completely. He hated vampires. They were worse than your average monster, because they didn't just kill you. Oh, no. Killing you wasn't enough. They turned you into one of them, leaving your friends and family to either die or have to kill you themselves. It was a special kind of sadistic.

And while Dean had built up a tolerance to Spike, Angel had always given him the creeps. Long before he ever met him, years ago, back when Faith was explaining the bite scars on her neck for the first time, he had looked forward to one day dusting him. That feeling had never really changed, although it had been suppressed and overlooked. Dean might not be a college graduate, but he was smart enough to predict the nuclear fallout with Faith if he dusted her vampire BFF. Didn't stop him from hating and resenting the fang job, though.

Taking his silence as agreement, Faith had turned her gaze back to Angel. "What are we going to do with you?" she said rhetorically. "You're not even talking. Doesn't stop everybody from being pissed at you. Spike's pissed at you, Xander's pissed at you, Buffy's pissed at you, I'm pissed at you – hell, Dean's pissed at you, and he wasn't even there."

She smiled at the hunter to remove any potential sting from her words, and Dean felt a little of his anger drain away.

"I don't know what's running through that head of yours, Angel. Knowing you, it's something broody and angsty. And damn right. You should feel guilt. You killed Giles." Here, the Slayer's voice cracked. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes, until she had herself under control again.

"You killed Giles," she repeated, more softly this time. "You killed him. Not Angelus. You, Angel. And some people . . . some people would say there's no coming back from that."

Faith sighed. "I guess I'm not some people. Look, Angel, you broke my leg. Well, I shot you with that poisoned arrow back in SunnyD, so I guess this makes us square. You . . ." she hesitated. "Dammit, Angel, if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't be alive right now. Nobody thought I could come back. Not Buffy, not Giles, not Wes, not Cordelia, certainly not Xander or Red. Nobody but you."

This was a part of the story that Dean had not heard in detail before, and he leaned forward, interested.

She continued, unperturbed by his presence, her voice rising and falling with earnestness as she gazed piercingly at the silent vampire. It was as though she thought that if she looked at him hard enough, something would happen. "I wanted you to kill me," she said quietly. "I begged you to kill me. And you wouldn't. Because you believed that I could change. You believed that my soul could be saved. You believed in redemption. Redemption for me, when nobody else did."

Faith ignored Dean's intake of breath. Her world had narrowed to the uncomfortable chair beneath her and the vampire six feet away. She didn't care if anyone else heard what she said. This wasn't about them, and they didn't matter right now. All that mattered was Angel.

"I kinda hate you right now. Giles . . . he was a hell of a guy. And you just . . . snuffed him. Feels like a little of the light's gone out of the world. Angelus was right, you know. It hurts to the bone, and no matter how I try to bury it, I can't get the hole deep enough. I pretend, and I pretend, and sometimes I forget for half a day, but then it's back. It cuts me up inside, and it's . . . it's temping to try and make it stop. Part of me wants to hurt you in return – give in to the pain, spread it around a little."

The Slayer shook her head. "But I can't give up on you, Angel. Wesley pegged me right. I can never give up on you, not even when I'd kinda like to. 'Cause you didn't give up on me. I'm in your debt, you sorry bastard. And those kinds of debts can't ever be made right."

"What are you going to do?" asked Dean, breaking her reverie.

She looked at him as if she had forgotten that he was there. "Only one thing to do," she said in a voice filled with resignation. "Look after him until he stops being a vegetable."

The hunter got to his feet. "So that's it – no justice? No punishment for what's he's done?"

"If Buffy wanted Angel punished, she should have done something herself. Not sent him to me." Faith accepted a hand and let Dean pull her upright. She steadied herself on her crutches, ignoring the protests of her aching armpits. Only a few more weeks, and she'd be off these forever.

"Think about it like this," she said as they made their slow way through the tangled insides of the ship back towards the galley. "If Sam did something awful, something really, really, really bad, would you be able to punish him? Would you be able to hurt your brother if he went a little Dark Side?"

Dean frowned. He didn't like wandering down this thought road. It made him too uncomfortable. "Last fall, we dealt with this demonic virus thing out in Oregon. Sam got bitten, and it was only a matter of time until the infection spread, made him dangerous."

"What'd you do?"

"I sent everyone away, waited with Sam for things to get bad. I was gonna end it all. Shoot him, then shoot myself."

"Dean –" The sympathy in her voice made him recoil. He didn't need her damn sympathy, especially not when he was still peeved with her over her irrational attachment to that bloodsucker in the brig.

Only a tinge of that irritation made its way into his voice. "I was tired, Faith. Tired of . . . of everything. Of trying to live up to what my Dad wanted. Tired of knowing that I'd made a promise to waste my little brother – the kid whose diapers I changed. Up until Sam took off for California, he was my number one concern, you know? Feed Sammy. Take care of Sammy. Protect Sammy. Killing him . . . if I ever had to do that, it would be the end of me."

Faith stopped their progress further down the hatchway with an outstretched crutch. He recognized the signal and halted. Leaning up against a bulkhead, the Slayer watched him carefully. Dean moved to stand beside her, mostly so he didn't have to look into those brown eyes brimming with concern. Their shoulders brushed, and her silent support was enough to loosen his tongue that final, fatal degree.

"Maybe that's why I was willing to deal with a demon," he said quietly, the words echoey in the deserted hatchway. "It's not . . . I can't. I can't fail that charge. Taking care of Sam. It's still my job – it'll always be my job. And I can't fail him. I can't. So when I did, I had to do everything I could to make it right."

Dean shut his eyes tight as emotion rushed him. He tried to push it all away – the incomparable pain that resurged every time he thought about Sam's too-quiet body lying limp, lifeless, dead in that shack, the fear that he felt whenever the subject of his deal came up. He'd been doing a good job, the last few weeks, pretending that he wasn't a dead man walking. But now the truth of his situation came rushing back in, and panic threatened to undo him.

"I don't want to go to Hell, Faith."

Her hand found his, and their fingers interlocked around the cool aluminum of her crutch. "I know."

They stood without speaking for several minutes, while Faith ransacked her brain for something to say and Dean slowly got himself back under control.

Finally, he said, "I'm not a fan of Angel. Not after what he's done to you. I don't trust him, and I'm not sure that he's anywhere near good. But, I see why you can't kill him. He's family to you, isn't he?"

The Slayer nodded. "I don't think of it quite like that, but, yeah, more or less."

"And you'll forgive him anything – broken bones, dead friends, bite marks . . ."

"The way you'll always forgive Sam. But I won't forget, you know. I do have a line, somewhere. I just . . ." Faith made an expansive gesture with her free hand. "I guess I just don't know where the line is."

He laughed humorlessly, startled by how much he agreed with her words. "G-d, Faith . . . you have any idea how frakked up that makes us?"

"Pretty amazingly frakked up?"

"Yeah."

Another beat of silence followed this exchange, and then an unwelcome thought dawned on Faith. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You and Sam. You're gonna take off pretty soon."

Dean shrugged. "Bobby's been calling us with cases the last couple of days. I've been turning him down, but it seems like you've got things under control here, so . . . I'd invite you to come with us, but . . . "

"But I've got my hands full with Angel, and you don't need an extra person to babysit."

"Mmm."

"So I guess this is goodbye?"

The hunter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "We probably won't leave until the morning at the earliest. Maybe stay for the fireworks, flame throwers . . . whatever. And anyway, I'll drop by again in a couple of weeks."

"Yeah." Faith pushed herself off of the bulkhead. "Come on, we should probably go join the others. I need to talk to Spike, figure out logistics."

"Plus, Andrew was making quesadillas – wouldn't want to miss those." Dean's stomach grumbled audibly at the mention of food.

"If your Bigfoot brother hasn't eaten all of them already."

"True."

"We'd better hurry, then, before they all disappear down his giant gullet. I swear, that boy doesn't just have hollow legs – he's got hollow arms and a hollow spine to go along with it."

Dean chuckled, relieved by the lightening of the mood. "Think this is bad? You should have seen Sam when he was twelve. Now, that was bad."

By tacit agreement, Faith and Dean started walking along the passageway, leaving their fears and frustrations behind. There would be time in the morning to deal with all of it, but for whatever remained of tonight, they were going to do what they did best and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn't ideal, but it was expedient. And that would have to be enough for now.