Chapter 3 The Air That I Breathe


Christmas Eve

"Can you pass me the adjustable wrench?"

Ellie picked it out of the toolbox on the floor between them and handed it to Dean, dropping back on the couch and smoothing out the wrapping paper under the box she was wrapping. She was acutely aware of the anxiety that hummed just below the surface of her conscious thoughts, keeping it dampened down by an act of will.

Five years they'd been celebrating Christmas now together, and she should have been over the feelings of trepidation, the…dread…that filled her as the date got closer. She glanced at Dean, his face dark with concentration as he adjusted the chain and tightened the nut holding the rear wheel. He loved Christmas, sitting on the floor with John and Rosie at the crack of dawn, filled with pleasure at the surprise and happiness on their faces, sharing the big dinner with Sam and Trish, Baraquiel and Talya, Marcus and Twist, all his ideas of family rolled into one special day.

She fixed the final piece of tape over the neatly folded edges and picked up a length of sparkling ribbon, winding it around the gift and tying the bow deftly. The tag was already written out and she slipped the ties around the ribbon and knotted it, then set the box to one side and picked up the next one.

Everything was ready for tomorrow, all the food that could be made ahead of time was done, the turkey was thawing, pies and cakes and the hand-made chocolates she, Tamsin and Trish had been experimenting with, all ready and waiting. She glanced at the tree, almost eight foot tall and taking up the entire corner of the room, bristling with decorations and candy canes, lights and baubles and shimmering under a load of tinsel. Most of the presents were already there, wrapped, the paper and foil shining in the lamplight, stockings hung on the chimney breast, bulging at the seams, even the weather had co-operated, a big fall last night had covered the trees and road, the houses and gardens, in a crisp, spotless blanket of white.

"Done."

She looked up as he set the bike to one side of the tree, adjusted the huge bow wrapped around the handle-bars and picked up his tools, dropping them back in to the toolbox.

"He'll be over the moon." She smiled. "Riding around the house though; the snow's still too deep outside."

Dean shrugged. "We'll move the breakable stuff upstairs for the day."

He picked up the toolbox and walked around the sofa, leaning over the back to drop a kiss on her neck. "Back in a minute."

She nodded and folded the paper around the basket in front of her, gathering up the edges to fit the awkward shape, and wrapping a broad ribbon around the rim to hide the joins in the wrapping paper.

Everyone enjoyed the day. Except her.

She looked down at the gift in front of her, and tied the tag on distractedly. For the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year, she loved having everyone around; birthday parties were no problem, Thanksgiving and July 4th both enjoyable, even the adhoc and infrequent barbeques in the long summer months were great. It was just this one day when she felt like withdrawing from everything and everyone and hiding somewhere until midnight had passed and the day was relegated to history.

It wasn't that she hadn't tried to get past, over or through the issue. She'd tried tricking herself, mentally assigning another name, another reason to the day; she'd tried ignoring it; she'd tried pretty much everything to make it a normal, non-threatening day, but so far, at least, nothing had worked. So she smiled and laughed and tried not to let it show, made every attempt not to spoil it for the people she loved.

"Eggnog." Dean came back into the room, balancing two cups of the brandy-laced cream drink and a big slice of blueberry pie in his hands, walking carefully around the sofa and setting them down on the low table with a sigh of relief.

"And tomorrow's pie." Ellie looked pointedly at the slice.

"Hey, I worked hard, I deserve it." He took a big bite and leaned back.

She got up and set the wrapped presents under the tree, stepping back and looking at the pile critically. It wasn't as large as the one she used to get. That had been a mountain of professionally wrapped toys, games, books, clothes and other assorted things that she had packed up after a few weeks' play and taken up to the attic to join the other years' rejects. Each and every gift here had been picked out carefully, wrapped by the giver—Rosie's efforts looking very interesting indeed—and would be treasured for years, she hoped.

She felt Dean's gaze on her, and drew in a deep breath, turning and smiling at him. "I think we're ready."

He nodded, swallowing the last of the pie. "You okay?"

The first couple of years, knowing about her past, knowing about her childhood, he'd been worried about her on Christmas Day. It had been too easy to see how that worry had taken his enjoyment in the day, his delight in watching his son in such a solidly normal family event. It was the last thing she wanted, for her problems to impact Dean's dreams of family, to taint or tarnish her children's enjoyment. It wasn't difficult to pretend she was over the past. He wanted to believe it.

It was the only thing she lied about to him, and it wasn't so much a lie now because he didn't ask often how she was feeling. More of an omission, she thought to herself.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just tired." She sat beside him and sipped the eggnog, his hand lifting to rest lightly against the back of her neck, run slowly down her back, rubbing it gently.

From the corner of her eye, she could see his brows starting to draw together, as his fingers felt the tension in her neck and shoulders. She shifted closer to him, leaning into him and forcing him to encircle her shoulder instead.

"How early do you think they'll get up tomorrow?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Last year it was five." He looked down at her. "Maybe we should let 'em stay up longer on Christmas Eve?"

"That ever work for you?"

It wasn't entirely a fair question. In its own way, Dean's Christmases, his and Sam's, had been as lacking as hers; their father sometimes not there at all, scrounged trees, stolen presents. She closed her eyes, wondering at the way he looked back on those times. Last Christmas, she and Sam had gotten into a conversation about the ghosts of Christmases past, and she'd discovered that Dean had reworked many of his past memories into a rosier view than what they'd actually been.

"Nope." He grinned down at her now, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. "Doesn't matter. By bedtime, they'll be totally out."

She nodded. It was true.

"It's snowing again," he said softly, looking out the window that faced the street. Ellie turned her head and saw the big flakes falling slowly past the glass. Maybe it would be too deep for visitors, she thought.

The Christmases at Last Chance hadn't been too festive, just the three of them, John too little to understand the holiday, the time mostly spent together in front of the driftwood fire. She shook off the thoughts impatiently. It didn't matter, really, whether they were on their own or the house was full of people. Neither situation overlaid her childhood memories of an utterly empty house, no matter which way it was.

A shiver ran down her back and she yawned widely to cover it, feeling his attention return to her again.

"I'm totalled." She turned to him, kissing him lightly. "I'm going to bed." She looked around the room. "Anything you want me to do before I head up?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll check the house. I won't be long."

She stood up, stepping over his legs and walking out of the living room, feeling her shoulders slump as she passed out of his view. The lies, the pretence, were to protect him, so why did she always feel so bad about them?


Ten minutes later, Dean walked slowly up the stairs, recalling the tension he'd felt in her shoulders, in the long muscles of her back; the way her eyes hadn't really met his when she was speaking; the shiver he'd felt through his arm.

She'd told him that she'd made peace with her past, that it didn't haunt her any more. And the last couple of Christmases, he'd believed her, watching her join in, smiling, laughing, talking to everyone naturally, sensing no tension or grief in her.

He stopped at John's door and opened it silently, his gaze going to his son's bed, then travelling around the room to check the windows, the closet door, and returning to the small, motionless lump beneath the covers. It wouldn't matter if he did this every night until John was grown, he thought, it would still tighten his chest. The little boy turned over, one arm emerging from the blankets to lie above them. Dean slipped in and straightened the covers, tucking John's arm back under, leaning down and kissing the boy's hair. He padded back to the hall and carefully closed the door.

Rosie's room was on the other side of the hallway, and he checked it with the same care, going in to retrieve her teddy bear from the floor and tuck it back in beside her. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead and backed out of the room, his gaze checking the room windows and perimeter without thought. He pulled the door shut and walked toward the main bedroom, turning off the lights.

Maybe he hadn't been paying close attention; he thought. Maybe his relief she was okay, and enjoying the day as much as he did, had given him an excuse not to worry about it. But she'd told him that she was good, and she never lied to him, about anything.

It'd been a rough year, he considered as he turned into the main bathroom. He'd brush his teeth in here to avoid waking her if she was already sleeping. He flicked on the light and pulled a new toothbrush from the drawer, loading it with paste and brushing absently.

A very rough year, in fact. Maybe it was just that. Spitting out the toothpaste and turning the tap on to rinse, he acknowledged that he still felt better for having made the call. He thought it would make a difference to her. He rinsed the toothbrush and left it on the sink.

The bedroom was unlit, but the curtains hadn't been drawn and the luminosity of the snow outside gave enough light to see by. Dean stripped off his clothes, dumping them on the timber box at the end of the bed, and eased himself under the covers, shifting over to lie beside his wife. Wife, he thought, disbelief still permeating the word even now. He didn't often think of them in those terms; Ellie was his partner, his best friend, his most trusted confidant, his comforter and the source of his strength, his wildest lover and his deepest love. One four-letter word couldn't hope to encompass it all.

She rolled back against him, making a small noise, somewhere deep in her chest, and he smiled, his hand running up the smooth bare skin of her back, over her shoulder, leaning over to brush his lips over hers, feeling the deep, spreading heat filling him when she kissed him back.

His fingertips had just registered the hardness of the muscle lying under the skin, the knot in them, when she twisted around to face him, and he found his hand resting against the full curve of her breast instead, his barely formed question vanishing as sensation took over, her hands sliding down him, the kiss becoming more demanding, taking his attention at the same time as it took his breath.

He'd wondered, a long time ago, if making love, sex, whatever one wanted to call it, would ever become ordinary between them. If they would ever become so familiar with each other's bodies, each other's needs, they lost spontaneity, lost that shivery thrill that felt like the first time, every time. As he felt her touch over his body, his hands following the curves of hers, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, and he registered her deep hunger for him, he recognised vaguely it wasn't going to happen, couldn't happen.

It wasn't just the physicality of it, touch and sensation and nerves; just looking into her eyes and seeing her open abandonment, her unapologetic raw need for him was enough to send a jolt through him that brought him perilously close to the edge, a swelling, aching torment that filled him, made him groan with its strength, and shut out everything except his own answering need: to be as close to her as he possibly could.

He heard her exhale as she settled against him, and he curled his arm around her, his released breath just as long and relaxed.

Whatever tension had been there before, it was gone now, he thought drowsily, and tomorrow was Christmas. He didn't know what it was about the day; why it meant so much to him. The years of trying to make it special for his brother?

He could still remember the last Christmas he'd had, in Lawrence, with his mother and father, before Sam had been born. The tree and the lights and the way the house had seemed to be filled with love. Sam had never had that, and he'd tried every year to make that up to him, to give him one time when he could feel that specialness in the day. He didn't think he'd really succeeded, not even once over the years. Something had invariably gone wrong, tainted the day, even if just slightly.

He shifted slightly against the pillows, Ellie shifting with him automatically, her arm curling a little more tightly around his ribs.

Now, with the kids, and his brother and his family just down the street, Christmas had become what he'd remembered, filled with everything he'd ever wanted, glowing in his imagination the way that long-ago Christmas had. It took away the pain of the years in between, took the last, rough edges from his memories, gave him the hope that the curse on his family was gone, for good.

He glanced down at Ellie's face, relaxed in sleep. Her memories seemed to have been healed as well, he thought, the tolerance that had been all her parents could offer her wiped out by the real thing she had now.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand beside him. Two a.m. A faint smile lifted his mouth as he closed his eyes; he'd be as wasted as the kids by tomorrow night.


Christmas Day

The distant slam of a door woke him, and he turned his head to look at the clock. Four-forty-five. God, they were getting up earlier every year. Rubbing the heel of his hand over his face, he let out a long breath, then acknowledged the buzz of excitement that was already worming its way down his nervous system. He wanted to see his son's expression when John saw the bike.

He eased himself out of the bed, pulling the covers closely around her, then pulled on jeans and a tee shirt. Hurrying downstairs, he could hear exclamations coming from the living room.

John and Rosie sat in front of the tree, snugly wrapped in pyjamas and robes, staring at the pile of presents in front of them. Dean came in quietly, and stood for a moment in the doorway, watching them, listening to the quiet debate about what to open first. He let out his breath and John turned around at the small noise.

"Dad! Santa brought me a bike!"

Feigning nonchalance, Dean walked into the room, crouching beside the boy and looking at it with him.

"You gonna try it out?"

"Mom! Look at what Santa brought! Look!" John waved his arms at his mother as Ellie came into the room, picking her way over half-assembled games, piles of books and toys, and through drifts of shredded wrapping paper.

From his cross-legged position on the floor, Dean smiled up at her. He was mid-way through freeing Rosie's present from the plastic-wrapped wire that held it to the box. In jeans, a soft white wool jumper and socks, he thought distractedly that she looked far too gorgeous for someone who'd just gotten up after a late night.

"Santa was feeling generous this year." She grinned and crouched beside him, picking up Rosie and lifting her up. She kissed her and looked down at the floor.

"What did you get, Rosie?"

"Toys!" Rosie crowed, pointing down at a pile near the tree. "John got bike!" she added confidentially, at the top of her voice.

"He did, didn't he?" Ellie looked at her son, who was crawling around the bike, absorbed in every detail. "Have you ridden it yet, John?"

He looked up and shook his head. "Dad said to wait until you were 'wake."

Dean ducked his head at her glance. "Didn't want you to miss it."

She laughed softly. "Okay, who's hungry as a horse?"

"Me!" Rosie shouted.

"Me!" John yelled.

"I could eat." Dean looked up at her, a one-sided smile creasing his face. She held Rosie out to him as he finished undoing the last wire, and he reached up to take her, tucking her into the corner of his arm as he handed her the toy.

"Breakfast coming up."

Dean watched her pick her way back out of the room, Rosie's breathless running commentary on her new toy filling his ears. Had there been a look of relief in her eyes as she'd turned away?


Going into the kitchen, Ellie felt her chest loosen slightly. What was wrong with her that she couldn't enjoy her family's pleasure in this day, she thought irritably, pulling out pans and bowls from the cupboards, checking the state of the turkey in the sink, then rummaging through the drawers for spoons and the beater. It was ridiculous to feel the same fear, every year, a crawling anxiety that she would wake up to an empty, silent house. Even the years spent living with Vivian hadn't tempered the feelings, despite her aunt's attempts to make the day festive for her niece and ward. It was a pd, she acknowledged reluctantly, one that she didn't seem able to break.

She cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them and pouring them into the hot pan, then laid out bacon on the broiler. The batter for pancakes was next, her hands moving automatically through the familiar tasks, her mind circling around the same thoughts. Losing Kasha had been a terrible blow, but the murders of Fionnula and Iain had been worse, in their way, taking Katherine and Seb's only child from them. Her grief surged out in odd moments, ambushing her with a relentless determination.

The surrogate family she'd surrounded herself with had been decimated and she guessed that was making it harder, not easier, to let go of the fears of her childhood. Her lip curled up derisively as she remembered a conversation with Dean about letting go of people, loving and grieving and mourning them, but letting them go. She was good on the advice, so long as she didn't have to take it herself, she thought, chopping the butter savagely in the bowl.

Kasha. Yure, two years earlier. Penemue. Fionnula, Iain, Monique and Hiroko. A huge wave of despair rose over her and fell, her chest tight, her throat swollen with it. The emotion drowned out everything else, and she leaned against the counter, her forehead against her arm, not fighting it, trying to allow it room to wash over and through her. She waited for it to recede. That she was feeling such a wave, so overpowering she could hardly move, told her clearly that she hadn't processed everything as well as she'd thought.

"Ellie?"

Dean's voice was filled with worry and she looked up, straightening quickly as she met his eyes. So much for hiding things from him, she thought, as his eyes darkened.

"It's okay. Just a low-blood sugar moment." She cut her gaze from him to the pile of fluffy scrambled eggs in the pan and pulled it from the heat. The bacon needed to come out as well.

"Bull." He crossed the kitchen and took the pan from her, setting it down. "Why didn't you tell me you were still feeling this way?"

She looked past him, to the doorway as John came in, Rosie behind him.

"Is breakfast ready yet?"

"Not now, okay?" she murmured to Dean, turning away to get tongs for the bacon.

He exhaled noisily, turning and nodding to John, going back around the bench to pick up Rosie.

"Almost," he said to John. "Eggs and bacon are ready. Let's get the table set, okay?"

He led them back out of the kitchen, turning to look at Ellie as he pulled the door closed, his expression promising that the discussion wasn't over.

Ellie let out her breath and picked up the pan, sliding the eggs onto a warm plate, taking the bacon from the broiler and arranging it on another warmed plate. She carried both to the dining room, setting them on the sideboard and hurrying back to the kitchen. Batter into the hot flat pan cooked almost instantly, and the stack of pancakes rose quickly. Dean took the plate from her without a word.

She picked up the bottle of orange juice, and the coffee pot and carried them out to the dining room, setting them down on the table and getting glasses and cups from the dresser. The high, piping voices of the children filled the room, and she encouraged their talk, needing the time to let her feelings settle down, to come up with a reasonable excuse for what he'd seen.

In between the discussions with John about the feasibility of riding his bike inside the house, and with Rosie on where construction of the doll's house should take place, in the living room or up in her bedroom, Ellie felt his gaze on her, along his confusion and growing suspicions.

When Rosie dragged him back to the living room, Ellie picked up the plates with a small sigh of relief, taking them to the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, wiping down the table and cleaning up the bench, getting out what she'd need for the Christmas dinner. A glance at the clock told her she'd have an hour or so before she had to start preparations, and she was standing in the hall, vacillating over whether to return to the living room or take five minutes for herself when the doorbell rang.

Sam and Trish stood on the porch, Sam weighed down with bags, Trish with four-week old Adrienne in her arms, Marc and Laura peering excitedly around her legs. Saved by the bell, Ellie thought, smiling and opening the door widely for them.

"Dean and the kids are in the living room," she said, taking their coats and scarves, Sam's kiss on her cheek, and Trish's one-armed hug. "I have to warn you, it's chaos in there."

"You should see ours." Trish made a rueful face. "Why do you think we always come over here for dinner?"

Ellie smiled as she opened the hall closet, then followed them into the living room, avoiding Dean's gaze as everyone found a place to sit, and she perched on the sofa arm beside Trish.

"How're you doing?"

Trish looked down at her youngest daughter and laughed softly. "Oh, we're up at nights, and we're both so tired that it feels like every day is about a week long, but you know, that doesn't last forever."

"You want a break, just let me know."

"Thanks, I will. I don't stand on ceremony anymore." She looked at the twins, Laura crawling under the tree to retrieve presents, Marc and John huddled together in deep discussion. "Do you need a hand with anything?"

"No, no, all under control." Ellie laughed, watching Laura open her gift. "You just relax and enjoy the madness."

She slid a sideways glance at Dean and Sam. They were watching the children, in the midst of a conversation, and she took the opportunity to slide off the arm and return to the kitchen. One of the advantages of offering to host the day; she did get large chunks of time doing the utterly mundane, instead of having to be social.

Chopping, mixing, seasoning, cooking, stirring, tasting, more chopping…the tasks occupied her hands and took up time. Stuffing, blending, cooking, rolling out and filling, pressing down and dusting with fine sugar. The turkey went into one oven, the trays of vegetables and pies into another, she set the timers then carried the dishes to the sink, rinsing them and unloading, then reloading the dishwasher.

"You lied to me. Why?" Dean's voice behind her made her jump.

Ellie shut the door and twisted the knob, turning around slowly. He was right there, less than a foot away.

"This is your favourite day, you love Christmas, especially now," she said making a vague gesture at the room at large. "I wasn't going to screw that up for you."

"I can't enjoy this if you're unhappy," he said, brows drawing together.

She nodded. "My point, exactly."

"Dammit, that's not what I meant." He stepped closer, his hands slipping up her arms. "I don't want you to be hurting, by yourself, while I'm thinking that everything's fine. I don't want that kind of lie between us."

"It's a pd, Dean, I can't break it or push through it or do anything about it. It's not helped by the losses this year, or the things that happened and that I haven't…gone through yet." She looked up at him, curling her hands against his chest. "I'm fine. I'm getting through it, alright? I might not be as happy today as everyone else, but it's not as bad as you think. It's okay. I'm okay."

"It's not okay." He shook his head. "It's not okay that you didn't tell me. It's not okay you lied to me about it."

The doorbell rang again, and he let his hands drop from her arms, turning away to get it.

Ellie drew in a deep breath. He was right, of course. It didn't help the situation. She looked up as the murmur of voices in the hallway grew louder, her heart stuttering in surprise as she saw the old man come around the corner and through the door. She didn't realise she was moving until she was in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" She threw her arms around him without thinking, felt his close tightly around her.

"I can see that more surprise visits are in order." Father Monserrat's voice was a deep burr above her. He stepped back a little as she let him go, looking down into her face. "I was in New York last week, and I had a layover in Seattle on the way home. I thought I'd see how you were." He lifted his hands, cupping her face gently. "I'm sorry I didn't see you after…Rome. Ellie, I'm sorry about Kasha, and about Fionnula and Iain."

"Katherine missed you," she said, shaking her head. "I was so glad to hear you were all right."

"Tsk, what kind of a Benedictine do you take me for, that I can't outfight a few demons?"

The rebuke surprised a smile out of her, and as she met Dean's eyes over Father Monserrat's shoulder, she saw his expression relax.

He'd done this, she realised. Called the monk and told him to get out here. For her. She looked back at Father Monserrat's face, her eyes going over his features. It had been a huge relief to hear that he'd survived the attack.

"I have something for you, just a token of the holiday." He pulled a small box from his pocket, handing it to her. She opened the box, her breath catching at the necklace that lay inside. It was constructed of linked medallions, a slightly larger flat, round pendant in the centre, a shining black metal worked with silver into an intricate designs on each medallion. She lifted it out, looking at him.

"Is this…?"

He nodded. "I believe so. It was in the vaults, with other things from the same era."

He took it from her, undoing the clasp and moving around behind her to slip it around her neck. She lifted her hair up, letting it drop when he moved back, her fingertips running over the smooth discs.

"What is it?" Dean stepped closer, bending his head to study the sigil on the pendant.

"It's…um…a warding pendant," Ellie said. "Specifically against vampires and werewolves."

"Yeah?" He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. His was expression mixed; part pain, part relief, part something she couldn't quite get.

"The legend is that it belonged to a great vampire hunter, of the ninth century," Father Monserrat said, his tone light. "Her name was Lucretia Ollivari, and she was said to have killed over ten thousand vampires, never being bitten or turned herself."

"And this protected her?" He touched the pendant, his eyes remaining on Ellie's. "Sounds like something we need around here."

"I thought so too." Father Monserrat smiled. "Is there anywhere I can wash up, Dean? It was a long drive."

"Yeah." He turned back to the priest and walked out with him, down the hall. "Just through there."

Ellie turned back to the bench, filling the pots with water and setting them on the stove, washing the vegetables and getting them ready. She checked the turkey and the pies, and wiped her hands, looking around when Father Monserrat returned.

"So." He looked at her. "What is this about family?"


Dean leaned on the wall, just outside the kitchen doorway, listening for a moment. He hadn't been sure about calling the monk, not because she wouldn't want to see him, but because it was a long shot as to whether she'd let even him into her fears.

There were still many pieces of the puzzle missing, or unexplained, or not fitting into what he knew for sure, the puzzle of this woman he loved. He knew about her past. She'd told him about it, about how she'd felt, what had happened, how it had shaped her, but he didn't know how to get through to her, how to help her the way she had helped him. Admitting that it was a pd was a big step, he knew, but it didn't help him. Couldn't help her. She knew more about the mind's defence mechanisms than he ever would and she hadn't been able to break through it.

He walked back to the living room, sitting down beside Sam, and watching the kids playing with their Christmas presents, feeling his brother's gaze on him.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah." He looked at Sam and shrugged. "Father Monserrat dropped by, he's catching up with Ellie."

Sam's brow creased slightly. "That's a good thing, right?"

Dean smiled. "Yeah, it's a good thing."

Rubbing his fingertips over his forehead, he realised wryly that he understood Ellie's lies to him now. Sometime, he might tell Sam the whole story, but not now, not on this day, with their kids playing in front of them, and the eggnog warming him, and more snow falling outside the windows, the fire blazing and the tree shining in its corner. This almost what he wanted, almost the greeting card picture he had in his mind; almost but not quite.

He leaned back against the sofa, listening absently to Sam's theory of the Rugaru mutation, based on what Frank had come up on the possible pathology. A virus of some kind, Sam thought. It was interesting, kind of, in a scientific, nerdy sort of way.

A part of his mind was straining to hear something, anything, from the kitchen. Aware that he wanted to be there, wanted to know what was going on, wanted to be there in case she needed him. He let out a long breath.

When Father Monserrat's head appeared around the corner of the doorway, he was on his feet and moving across the room before he'd realised it, leaving Sam sitting there with his mouth open in mid-sentence.

He passed the monk and walked into the kitchen, looking at Ellie. She stood on the other side of the bench, adding greens to the pots of boiling water, looking up at him as he walked around to her.

Her face was dry, her eyes clear, but the lids were swollen, the sight making him swallow.

"Hey." She dropped the last of the beans into the water and turned to him, her arms slipping around his waist as his curved around her.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm alright." She looked up at him, smiling. The smile wasn't quite reaching her eyes.

He ducked his head, his cheek against hers. "That the truth?"

He felt her ribs lift and fall deeply against his arms. "Yes, it's the truth."

"Ellie," he whispered against her ear, wanting to know, needing to know what had happened, how she felt, what was going on with her.

"Later." Her voice was little more than a whisper too, filled with emotion. She leaned back slightly to look at him. "I can't right now, is that okay?"

He nodded slowly, straightening up. It wasn't, not really. But he could see that she was only holding onto her composure by a thread and they still had the rest of the day to get through.

The doorbell rang, and he let her go, leaning forward to kiss her lightly, then turning away to go and answer it. His gaze met Father Monserrat's in passing and the old man gave him a small nod and a reassuring smile. Dean wasn't sure why the sight brought relief, but it did. Because he was a priest, he wondered? Or because he knew that the man cared for Ellie like a father?


The dining table had been extended to its furthest length, and it was loaded with food and plates, candles and napkins and glasses, the room thick with the rich aromas of roast turkey, roasted and steamed vegetables, gravy and biscuits and more distantly, the sweet scents of the pies cooling in the kitchen.

In the steady golden light of the candles on the table, and the brighter light of the lamps around the walls, the room seemed a sanctuary of normalcy, of warmth and friendship, family and love. Dean looked around the table, at Sam, sitting on his left, and Trish, Marc and Laura sitting next to them, opposite John and Rosie who sat close to Ellie; beyond the children, Garth and Tamsin, Trent and Katherine facing each other across the table, and Baraquiel and Talya seated to either side of Father Monserrat, the monk at the table's end, deeply engaged in conversation with the tall Watcher.

He thought back to the Thanksgiving over six years ago; another table filled with people, filled with ordinary conversation and a family he'd desperately tried to be a part of. He recalled his disappointment…the apartness, the otherness, he'd felt in himself, the setting all correct but the story not his.

This was his story, filled with his people. He watched Ellie as she inclined her head to hear Rosie's small voice under the soft rumble of the conversation that filled the room, watched as she smiled and reached across the table for the bowl of peas, ladling a spoonful onto Rosie's plate, and passing the bowl to John who could scoop his own. He watched her lift her head, laughing at something that Trish said, something he missed, and feel his eyes on her, turning to look at him, the sadness gone from her face, her hand reaching under the corner of the table for his.

"You know, Frank found something in Nebraska for us?" Sam said, drawing his attention back to his brother.

"Something like what?" he asked warily. Frank was finding too many damned cases. Beneath the table, Ellie's fingers laced with his.

"Some kind of weather witch, he said." Sam lifted his fork, taking a mouthful.

Dean looked back at Ellie, one eyebrow raised. "Weather witch?"

She lifted a shoulder in an acknowledging shrug. "Rare, but not unknown."

"I've got the file at home, I'll bring it over tomorrow," Sam said.

"No, you won't. Tomorrow's a day of rest. We'll look at it on Monday," Dean contradicted firmly.

Sam threw a glance at Ellie, then nodded. "Sure. Okay, Monday."

"Where is Frank, by the way?" Ellie asked him. "The Airstream's gone."

"I don't know where he went, but he drove out early this morning." Garth looked up the table to them. "Said he'd be back after New Year's."

"Frank's own vacation?"

"Frank doesn't take vacations." Trent looked over at him sourly. "He went down to Mexico to see a contact about getting some new gadgets."

"This something we want to know much about?" Dean's face screwed up.

"No."

"Thought not." Dean nodded to Trent and loaded his fork.


Dean leaned back on the sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His gaze moved absently around the clean living room, hearing the soft noises from the kitchen as Ellie finished up in there. John and Rosie were bathed and soothed and tucked in bed, their guests gone, except for the padre who was staying a couple of days.

Father Monserrat swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, looking at it through the light appreciatively. He swallowed a mouthful and looked at Dean.

"You will keep doing this? Hunting?"

"Yeah, I think so." He lifted his glass. "It's what we're good at."

"And it doesn't worry you, with a family, hostages to fortune?" Francis leaned back in the armchair, his expression curious and thoughtful.

"Of course it does." Dean leaned forward. "Worries the crap out of me. But you know what? It's a lot better than living without them."

The monk nodded thoughtfully. "She thinks so too."

"What happened? Before?"

Francis smiled ruefully. "She should probably tell you that herself."

"Yeah, but I want to hear it from you, too," Dean said.

"Nothing so world-shaking, Dean." Francis looked at him. "Getting everything you dream of, everything you wanted, with an underlying feeling that it might possibly not be real, not forever. I think you've probably felt that too. I know I have."

Dean's brows drew together. "Why would she think it wasn't real?"

"Largely because of her childhood. A lot of fantasy mixed in with reality there, a blurring of the lines between them. And the attack, of course."

"What changed?"

"To be honest, I don't know." The monk looked at his glass. "We were talking about her family, and she was telling me about a Christmas morning, and she stopped, quite suddenly. A moment later she started to cry."

"And?" Dean's chest constricted at the image.

"And I comforted her, and she calmed down, and it was only a few minutes later that I came out and you saw her."

He frowned. "That's it?"

"Yes. Well, she might explain what happened in more detail to you." Francis smiled at him.

Dean sat back, finishing the whiskey in his glass. He hoped she would tell him. She didn't always.


Ellie walked through the quiet house, turning off the lights and checking the protection. She felt slightly on edge, her nerves buzzing a little and she walked very lightly, her bare feet making no sound at all on the hardwood floor.

Climbing the stairs, she thought Dean would be awake, waiting for her, needing to know how she was. And that…him…needing that…was the explanation.

It had come to her in the middle of recounting to Father Monserrat the worst memory of her childhood, before the attack, so obvious she couldn't work out how she'd missed it.

Of course, she hadn't believed in needing, not until she'd seen it in herself. Even then, it had been years before she'd stopped denying what she'd seen as a weakness, and had accepted it. Needing was something her parents had done. It wasn't something for her. That had been engraved in her bones, in her soul. It had been an unwelcomed shock to discover she needed him the same way she needed air to breathe.

Opening the bedroom door, she slipped through and closed it behind her. In the semi-darkness, the snow still illuminating the night with its reflectivity, she could see the edges of his body, and hear in the stillness of the night, the sound of his breathing, a little faster since she'd come in.

She walked around the bed, pulling off her clothes and dropping them onto the chair by the window, shivering slightly as she pulled back the covers and slid onto the bed.

He moved across the space between them, and her eyes closed as she felt the warmth of his skin against the coolness of hers, his arms around her, his lips on her temple, her cheek.

She shifted, half-turning onto her back, barely able to see the details of his face in the dim light. She could feel the thrum in his body, where it touched hers, his arousal. She knew it was married with anxiety because she felt the same way, as if they were teetering on the brink of some abyss where the slightest false step would mean the end. He was afraid, she thought, afraid to ask what had happened, what she felt, but at the same time, he wanted to know, wanted to ask, needed to know.

She lifted her hand, her fingers tracing the shape of his brow, temple, cheekbone, curving under the jaw.

"The pd came from holding back what I was feeling for you," she said, keeping her voice low.

"What do you mean?" His brows drew together.

"I was…I need you." She looked into his eyes, unable to read the expression in them, not sure if he could see hers. "I need you so much that it's frightening."

He waited, but she could hear his breath, a little ragged in his throat.

"You know my story, you know what happened," she said, looking for the right words to explain. "I needed them but they didn't need me, at all."

"Ellie…" he breathed, and she put a finger against his lips.

"Some part of me couldn't risk it, couldn't risk letting you know how much I needed you…and it got caught up with that memory, that Christmas morning, got wrapped in it until I couldn't see past the Christmas part, couldn't see why it made me so anxious." She moved her hand to his chest, over his heart, feeling the steady thump under her fingers. "I don't think I ever acknowledged it, not really, but it was getting worse, not better. I'm sorry I lied to you about it."

He shook his head slightly, and she nodded, accepting the tacit acknowledgement.

"It always seemed like a weakness, you know? It had warped what my parents had, had made their relationship incapable of growing." She closed her eyes briefly. "I knew—after Seattle—I knew, knew the extent of it. Nothing has ever scared me more, before or since and I thought that if you knew…knew how deeply I felt it…you'd see the weakness too, and you'd stop caring."

He released the breath he'd been holding, in a long, slow exhale against her shoulder. "Then it's a weakness we share, because I feel that way too."

"I didn't really realise that until tonight," she admitted.

He made a small sound, somewhere in his throat. "You kidding me?"

"I knew you loved me." She sighed. "But not…"

He was silent for a while, and she wondered what he was thinking, what was going through his mind.

"Ellie, you're gonna have to bear with me here 'cause explaining this…"

"I know. You don't have to."

"Yeah, but I want to," he said slowly. "This crap happens because we don't get it out, right?"

Not talking about the deepest things. Perhaps he was right. She nodded.

"Right." He rolled onto his side and pulled in a deep breath. "Loving you…and…wanting you…and needing you…are all a part of the same thing for me," he said. "I can't separate them out. Before I knew what they were, what I was feeling for you, they were all still there, so strong half the time I felt like I was going out of my mind."

He shifted a little closer to her. "You got no idea how confused I was, after New York, not knowing what those feelings meant, not understanding why I couldn't stop thinking about you. Some part of me knew how much I needed you; I just didn't know why back then." His expression darkened as some memory returned. "After Raphael…I just about did go crazy."

She felt the shiver run through him, prompted by the memory. He looked at her, his eye shadowy, his voice thick suddenly with emotion.

"I need you, Ellie. So much I can't even find the right words to tell you. And, yeah, it scares me."

"Me too."

"But we're not like your folks." He slid closer. "Are we?"

She smiled. "No."

They lived for more than each other and the love she felt for him kept expanding. She thought it was the same for him.

Slipping her arms around him, she rested her cheek against his. "You don't need to tell me. Just show me."


Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe
And to love you