The cottage crept out of the trees like a hunched squirrel, huddled over its stash. It was bowed, brown, a bit furry looking and would have completely blended in with the world around it if not for Heath pointing it out. Dean thought it looked squashed, like a giant had stepped on it. He'd followed obediently along after them, pockets full of dirt and a single, solitary, very much dead worm he'd named 'Eustace' draped over his shoulder. The woods, they were the same, tree after tree, stone after stone, weed after weed. These were unlike Cottonmouth Woods – those had presence – they felt like a massive, curled clawed hand, closing in around you, so you had no where to turn, no where to go and nothing but your own insanity to keep you from really seeing demons. He kind of liked these trees – they were dark, but friendly and as he looked at each one he passed, he memorised them – the faces they presented to him. Some were withered and old, like wrinkled ladies. Some of them were smooth and dark, pretty-skinned like some of the ladies in Mullah. He would have to go back – see them. They had been nice to him before.

Of course, Renee was nice to him now. Brie was starting to be nice too. He agreed with the ginger man – she had pretty hair. Princess hair. What did Renee look like with hair? Did she have long, curly hair that you could twist and wave? Did she have straight hair that would catch on a breeze? No matter what, he imagined her hair smelling nice – maybe like strawberries. Despite the weeks of filth and bad sleeping and fighting and bleeding and hiding, she didn't smell bad. He knew, he had a good nose. Seth had once said he was like a bloodhound; in the old days he'd been the one to hunt down and corner their prey, following that excellent nose. Now it was a nose for danger. He could still catch the scent of gunfire on the awkward breeze that scampered through the trees. It was hot, metal like and singed his tongue when he poked it out to try and taste it.

Maybe…maybe he was the squirrel? Carrying his precious cargo round his waste like a careful hoarder. Of course the gold was a lot heavier than acorns but it was still a matter of life or death. He reached down and knocked a fist against his gut – still there. It was a lot of weight to bear – would Roman feel strong enough to carry it? To sit on a throne made of bones and the skulls of enemies and ancestors alike? He could be a good king. If he cared to be. Had anyone ever actually asked Roman if he wanted to lead Kennedy? It was his birth right people said. He was the one who was supposed to be next in line they said. He was pretty enough to be king they said. Some said he had a nice bum and it would fit snug on that throne. Triple H had a big arse. Too big to sit cosy for long. He wondered where the King of Kings was now? Was he throwing a fit somewhere in Kennedy? Was he wondering where the Shield had gone? The sound of St. Judes tumbling down must have caused his foundations to rumble.

Renee had a nice bum.

He hadn't really noticed until now. It was small and round and looked a bit like a peach. What did his arse look like? Tattered and torn and covered in scars probably. Like the rest of him. One of Regal's favourite punishments was slashing the cheeks of misbehaving inmates. He'd strap them down and whistle as he cut away, turning up a radio to drown out the cries as they bit down on lemons before salting the wounds. Regal…was still out there somewhere. He could feel it – evil never died. It sat within the hearts of those who had suffered it and that was why she was following him now. He'd hoped he'd left her on that bus, trapped in his fever dreams. But there was more footsteps than just those who could be seen. She was behind him, moving so light that her feet didn't crunch leaf or dirt. But her arms were reaching for him, coming closer and closer.

Just then, the cottage. There was fire light in the windows, flickering and dancing like tiny dancers. He could almost feel the warmth already. He could imagine curling up next to a warm fire to dry his clothes. He could picture there being a nice rug to sleep on. Maybe a cushion to rest the head. He missed cushions – the closest he'd come was Renee's lap. She was soft, she was warm, but a cushion, a cushion was luxury he'd not tasted in months. The last time he'd been near something so comfortable, so soft, it had been the padding tumbling out of the walls. He paused. Renee and Brie followed Heath with blind trust. He was not so sure. Who had hair so bright? Were they real? Were they like Little Jimmy and could only be seen by true believers? He believed and yet the things he saw were still horrific. She was only steps behind him now, those blissful, cannibal hands reaching for his throat. Would she tear his heart out if she caught him? Retribution for the one he chewed?

'Dean?'

Was it her? Calling him now? The voice came from all corners and when he turned his head she was there, beautiful and deadly, she had open him arms, calling him home. The sound of the wind rustled leaves, birds squawked and he was sure he could feel the earth rattle. Would Abigail be such a bad momma? She had loved Wyatt and he'd been a bad, bad man. Worse than Dean, some would say. Wyatt had talked snakes in the leaves and the burning of the world but her black eyes and vacuous face offered some kind of love.

'Dean? Honey?'

Such a soft voice. A hand touched his shoulder, tender and kind and he melted into its touch, feeling its fingers against his jaw. His cut lips whispered a kiss on one of them, hoping for reality but accepting that it was just a hungry, desperate dream. Another hand now, this one on his cheek, turning him round, spinning his world until he found himself facing something else – something light, something flush with life and with red cheeks and eyes that whispered home. She gave him a strange look – one he knew. AJ had looked at him like that. Back when the stars were a mystery and he'd never seen the sun. Her palm against his rough cheek, with its wiry stubble and smatter of scars, was kind. It held him and he found himself…calm. Quiet. Safe. He didn't move because he was worried if he did, that feeling would leave and he'd be facing the darkness once again.

'Dean…we're here, Heath said we can clean our wounds and have something to eat. Would you like that?'

'Don't…don't let go.'

She almost seemed surprised, but offered no resistance, even moving her other hand to hold the other side of his face.

His brothers were gone. Scattered to the winds. His north was welcoming darkness, but the south was a beaming sun and she was illuminated, shining. He had never felt so completely alone and incapable and so powerful all at once. It was a helpless feeling of complete subservience he'd never experienced…the closest he'd ever come was hanging from Wyatt's ceiling, intoxicated from heady perfume and drug. The Special K didn't compare to her touch. It was sudden and new, it confused him and he savoured it. This touch…was kind.

'Dean?' her thumb moved across his scarred cheek, rolling under his eye, 'Dean baby you're crying,'

Was he?

His eyes opened, wet, afraid and when he looked at her, really looked, through the fuzziness his sight offered, she was an angel. He'd seen her before, but never truly anticipated the truth. He knew it now, how she'd affected his brothers. How she'd drawn love from them as a doctor would with a needle. Her thumb was wet. She started to drag her hand away but he caught it in mangled fingers, kissed that thumb tenderly. She didn't seem to know what to do but it didn't matter. She didn't need to understand. Weeks had gone. He'd been a captive, he'd been an inmate, he'd near been a donor, he'd been a fighter. He'd been so many things but in all that time, he had never quite been Dean.

'Ah think…she's gone. Ah think…ah can't hear her now.'

'Dean?'

'You drown her out,'

'Dean I don't understand,'

He took her hands in his own, holding them tight and looking her straight in the eye. 'On the bus, in the woods, driving down a highway, she kept coming, getting in my head, making me see her and hear the buzzards scream but every time you made her go away again. Abigail. She can't catch me. Not now.'

'Sister Abigail? Dean…she's not real. Roman told me – she was Wyatt's delusion,'

Dean squeezed her hands carefully, 'One man's madness is another man's reality.'

'Dean are you alright? You seem almost…lucid.' She bit her lip with concern, 'You must have hit your head really hard,' she slipped a hand free to touch the dent on his forehead; it was quickly swelling into a bulbous, purple lump. 'We should get you inside. Heath said there's a fire. We should take you inside, get you warm, get you some food. Ok?'

Food did sound good. Warmth did too – a chance to shed the extra weight and to huddle and warm his butt against the flames. He could see in her face, she just wanted to go inside. She didn't understand what he was trying to tell her. That she was his lantern. That…he would never let her go out. His brothers had been right all along, this waitress, this warrior. She'd been more than a lucky chance. She'd been more than a tag along. She'd saved them; she'd saved them all. When this was all over, when the shiny was draped round the waist of a worthy king, he'd make sure that she found her happy. However she was happy, whoever she was happy with. He'd find her the stars she needed to light the way to her euphoria.

The other woman, the twin, the one with a name like a cheese. She came closer – Brie! That was her name. How could he forget? – and was stood with folded arms; the ginger man confused behind her.

'Hospitality has been extended and we should accept.'

It sounded like a warning and Dean quietly growled at her.

'Dean, don't. She's right. Come on,' Renee's fingers curled round his and she started to lead him toward the cottage. He glanced back over his shoulder. Eustace remained. But the faded outline of a cursed memory disappeared back, back into the thick darkness of the woods. For now, at least, for now. When the lunatic came out, when the Fringe came to play, would she spread her wings and come swooping back to claim his tarnished soul? His boots scuffed dirt and he was lead like a lost child to an unfamiliar wooden door. The ginger man – Heath, she kept calling him, didn't she? – opened it quickly and ushered them in.

'The girls will be asleep still – try and be quiet if you can – there's a room out the back, near the pantry. It has blankets and room to sleep. Its hidden too – you should be safe in there. There's bread, soup, whatever you need. But…until the time is right, please don't come out. My wife won't take too kind to me letting three strangers in.' He gave them a lopsided smile, like he knew he was going to get told off. Dean knew that feeling. Seth used to give him looks that suggested he was in trouble, but he'd smirk and wink and give him a lick and he'd be off without a hitch.

Renee nodded silently and she and Brie crossed the threshold, tugging him after.

As soon as they were in he felt uncomfortable. It was too homely, too warm, too inviting. He belonged where the dark things played, but Renee seemed happy in the light. Brie too was wide eyed and seemingly delighted at the warmth. For now…he supposed, it would do.

'Dean…please stop trailing dirt…you're dropping worms everywhere…'

He brought her hand to his mouth and gave it a lick.

Yes.