Chapter 14: Confidences

"Hey, Neal, you okay?" Dean asked, repeating the question.

When he didn't answer, he strode over and shook his shoulder. "Snap out of it!"

Neal turned his head to face him and swallowed. His face was pale and sweaty. He had the same spooked expression Sam got when he'd had a vision.

"What did you see?" Sam demanded.

Neal pushed a shaky hand through his hair. "That same figure in blue ice I saw when Lutar attacked me. She must have made a bigger impression than I realized." He made a forced smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out. She's gone now."

Dean exchanged looks with Sam. Which one of them should give him the bad news?

"Don't be too quick to dismiss what you saw," Sam cautioned. Good, he should be the one to explain. Being empathetic was Sam's specialty, not Dean's. "You remember those visions I told you about?"

Dean looked at his brother with surprise. It had taken months before Sam confided in him, his brother, the one who'd taken care of him since he was a baby. Sam had only known Neal for a few months. He clamped down on the frustration. It was a sign of progress that Sam was willing to discuss it.

Sam asked Neal to describe the figure and compare it with what he saw when Lutar had his hooks into him. The images appeared identical.

"It was probably just a flashback," Neal said, trying to dismiss it. Dean didn't blame him. Who'd want to think he was possessed by an ice queen, maybe Astrena herself?

"Yeah, that could be it," Sam agreed, "but there could be something else going on. We know pure-bloods are created by Astrena. That was likely who you saw. You're an artist. Supposedly she feeds off them. This could be the way she establishes a link."

"If it happens again, don't keep it bottled up inside," Dean said, sparing a glance at Sam. Like some dumbasses I know.

#

Neal returned to his room for a quick shower before leaving for the hospital. Crashing Peter's Mustang on the way to see Angela was off the table.

Was it really a flashback? He should know. He'd experienced enough of them. ever since he'd been kidnapped as a child, he'd been predisposed to them. The past few weeks he'd had nightmares about a virtual reality world. The therapist who worked with him warned that the earlier bouts meant he'd be more susceptible.

But this didn't seem like any of the others. He'd never felt such a sense of hatred and well, evil, for lack of a better word. His chest still hurt from where her hair had touched him.

He went into the bathroom and stripped off his shirt. His chest was marked with red spots about a half-inch in diameter. He pressed one gingerly. It was sore to the touch, but the skin wasn't broken. Psychosomatic symptoms? Leftover gift from Lutar? He used the bathroom mirror to check his back, and it also had a few marks. But even as he stared at them, they began to fade. Within a couple of minutes, they vanished.

He returned to the bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. What was going on? Up to now, he'd been skeptical there actually was a goddess Astrena. Had Lutar somehow planted a vision of her inside his head?

With an effort, he shoved aside all thoughts of her. Angela was counting on him. Dean had said pure-bloods could pull mind control tricks. That's what it must have been. He'd banished the fake memories planted by the Mansfelds. He'd do the same thing with these.

#

Berkeley Medical Center was in the town of Martinsburg, a twenty-minute drive from Shepherdstown. When he arrived at Angela's floor, he found Michael standing outside her room. He'd been texting updates throughout the afternoon. In the last one, Michael was still waiting for test results. By the smile on his face, he must have gotten his answer.

"They're negative!" he said, his voice a rough whisper. He looked like he wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

With that, the blackest of the dark clouds hanging over Neal vanished. Sexual molestation could be crossed off.

"The doctor assured me she hadn't had sex in at least twenty-four hours." Michael chuckled sheepishly. "With the fight we had last night, there was no chance of that between us. I guess I should be grateful. It simplified the diagnosis."

"How much does Angela remember?"

"She recalls wanting to go see Lutar, but she can't figure out why. As for the days before . . . she remembers everything. How she acted. What she said." Michael lowered his voice still further. "She feels wretched about what happened. I've been telling her it was the drug's fault."

Neal promised to do the same.

A white-haired doctor came out of her room. He had a comforting, grandfatherly air about him which was exactly what Angela needed. Dr. Masius explained that the effects of the barbiturate she'd been given had worn off. They wanted to keep her overnight for observation, but she should be able to go home tomorrow morning.

When he and Michael entered the room, Angela was sitting upright in bed. He gave bonus points to the hospital for providing her with a hospital gown in pistachio green with tropical flowers.

Her smile was as bright as the colors in her gown when she saw them. "My heroes!"

After a flurry of hugs, she ordered Neal to pull up a chair for what she called her interrogation. Michael perched on the edge of the bed beside her, keeping his arm around her.

"Have you spoken with Mom?" was the question on the top of her list.

"Not yet. Peter advised holding off for a few hours before ringing the panic alarm. We planned to call her this evening."

"Thank you, Peter," she said, letting out her breath in a whoosh of air. "I don't think there's any reason for her to know about this, do you?"

"That's your call," Neal said. After all the times he'd hidden injuries from his relatives, he was the last one to give her advice.

She nodded gratefully. "I don't want Mom or any of my other relatives to know."

Spoken like a true Caffrey.

"Mom was worried about my safety in New York City," Angela continued. "If she knew what happened here, she'd want me to move back in with her."

Michael squeezed her shoulder. "You got me as your protector. I'll make sure Paige gets the message you're in safe hands."

She pulled his face toward her for a kiss which left no doubts about her current state of bliss. Neal could report to Mozzie that his Cupid services wouldn't be required.

"The police came by a half-hour ago," Michael said after they came up for air. "They questioned me about those bottles you found in Lutar's room."

"Angela, had you ever seen them?" Neal asked.

"Only once. It was during a dulcimer workshop. I saw him take a small purple bottle out of his pocket, but I didn't notice what he did with it." Her face grew anxious. "I wish I knew how long he'd been drugging me."

"It couldn't have been very long," Neal assured her. "When you called me a week ago you sounded like your usual Funny Bunny self."

She smiled gratefully. "Don't worry, I'll be back. I wish I had a magic potion to make me forget how I treated Michael and how I behaved toward you." She looked up at Michael. "The words I used—"

He kissed her. "That magic potion must have worked. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Did Lutar ask you to go to him?" Neal asked, regretting he had to bring it up.

"I don't think so," she admitted in a small voice. "It just popped into my head. Last night, Michael and I were watching Lost in Translation on TV." She turned to face Michael. "You looked so miserable. I thought moving in with Lutar would be the perfect solution. When I think back, I'm appalled. How could I have possibly considered—"

Michael placed his hand over her mouth. "I know that was the drug talking."

She nodded. "I left around four o'clock in the morning after lying awake most of the night. I went into the bathroom to give Lutar a call. I remember being surprised he wasn't asleep. He came and picked me up." She turned to Neal. "As I told the doctor, Lutar didn't come on to me. We kissed but it went no further. We had a drink—that must have been when he gave me the barbiturate. I became so sleepy, I barely remember him taking me to the guest bedroom."

Angela was worried about her class but the kids hadn't suffered. Michael planned to stay in Shepherdstown with her the following week and would help finish the props. After the performance, they'd return to New York together.

He and Michael steered the conversation onto the musical production. Angela quickly launched into her plans for the future. She wanted to create similar programs in disadvantaged neighborhoods. Her ambition was to write children's musicals featuring animal characters as a way of bridging cultural differences. Angela could dream big. She was already asking them to volunteer their help. She also had her eyes on Henry's boyfriend Eric who was a skilled carpenter.

How could they refuse her anything? Angela had no idea how close she'd come to being cast as Mina, and Neal vowed she'd never find out.

He called Peter from the hospital with the good news about Angela. When Peter asked for details, he suggested meeting in Peter's room where they could speak in privacy.

It wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to. Most of the time he could predict Peter's reaction, but this wasn't one of them. He grabbed a couple of coffees from the courtesy bar on the way up, although Peter might require something stiffer once he heard.

Peter's room was equipped with a small couch. No need for a fire in the fireplace, but it was a cozy place to chat. The quilted counterpane and Early American furnishings made the room seem inviting, especially after the Gothic horror they'd experienced. It was the kind of atmosphere Angela needed too. Michael had booked a room for them to stay in over the weekend.

After asking him about Angela, Peter updated him on the case. As expected, Max Ganesh would be in charge of the operation. Peter's account to Max of what had occurred was somewhat incomplete but there were no lies. They had gone to the castle to question Lutar about Angela. Lutar had left and his whereabouts were unknown.

"Sam's made a full recovery," Neal reported. "We came back to find him making up for lost meals. We're going to celebrate tonight at the Town Run Brewing Company. It's your kind of place—brews, comfort food."

"—but not yours."

Neal shrugged. "They have a pool table. Dean may challenge me to a grudge match." His words trailed off as he reconsidered. This might not be the best time. Better to wait till Peter had several beers under his belt. There'd be less chance of him freaking out.

Would Peter slam the brakes on the upcoming con? But there was that annoying conscience tapping him on the shoulder, reminding him of the promise he'd made. No more secrets for anything work-related. And he had to be honest. This could have an impact.

"You said Angela's fine, so you can't be worried about her," Peter prompted. "How about you? Anything I should know?"

"Yeah, I had a second . . . I don't know what to call it. Attack? Vision? Flashback?" He described what had occurred in the Winchesters' room. "I haven't had a recurrence. Those red splotches I saw haven't returned."

He studied Peter for his reaction, and as expected, he looked like he needed an antacid. Peter already had so much stuff to deal with, and now he'd added another one to the stack.

Peter set down his coffee mug, his mouth tightening. "Dean thinks Lutar might have been the conduit for Astrena to target you. Has Angela had any visions?"

"I asked her about any hallucinations or weird dreams when I questioned her about the side effects of the drug. She hasn't had any. How about you? Did you have any visions when Lutar attacked you?"

He nodded. "Perhaps his personal version of Hell. I felt like I was being scorched on the surface of the sun."

"That sounds similar to my experience."

"With one big difference. There was no blue figure, no ice queen in mine. The second event could have been a flashback—"

"Exactly," Neal said, pouncing on his words. "If it happens again, I could discuss it with Doc Jacob."

Peter frowned. "You didn't let me finish. Your therapist won't be much help if it's Astrena, and a flashback wouldn't cause those red splotches you saw."

"If Astrena is interested in me, she'll soon realize my art isn't up to her standard, and she'll give up on me."

"That's one possibility. She could also decide you're the artist of her dreams."

He winced at Peter stating what he already feared. "It took months for the Connecticut artist to show symptoms. I feel exceptionally healthy. So even if she has linked to me, it could be years before anything happens. I can't live my life sitting around waiting for another vision. Let's not blow this out of proportion." He knew he was talking as much to himself as to Peter. He couldn't let himself relive the terror of that encounter with Lutar.

#

Neal appeared determined to not let thoughts about Astrena cast a damper on what was supposed to be a celebration party. Peter was hardly in a party mood after hearing his report. But for Neal's sake, he did his best to comply. He could have easily hidden that second vision or dismissed it as a random fluke, but he hadn't. That alone should be worth a toast.

The hangout Neal found for their final night was a lively place even on a Thursday night. It defied labels. Bar didn't feel right. Perhaps frat house basement. Their innkeeper had confirmed it had a good kitchen. The decor might best be called industrial grunge. Video machines. Pool tables. A small stage indicated live performances.

"I noticed a karaoke machine," Neal said with a nod to the stage. "Peter, I'm informed by highly reputable witnesses that you and Dean put on a mean performance in South Jersey. Sam and I missed it. Any chance of a do-over?"

"Not when there are chorizo sliders in front of me," Peter protested, keeping his tone light. If Neal could bury his fears, for one evening he was determined to do the same. They both needed a timeout.

As if to prove he wasn't wasting away, Neal loaded the table with wings and ribs. Even the salad came with grilled chicken. Sam was especially appreciative. His appetite had returned with a vengeance.

"How about if I order a round of waffle fries?" Neal offered, checking the menu. "They come loaded with Cheddar, sour cream, and bacon."

"Hell, I'll sing for that," Dean said. "Where's my guitar?"

Sam snorted. "Since when have you needed one?" He turned to them. "Dean can rock an air guitar, sometimes even in our car." He went on to explain that Dean liked to belt out songs when they were driving along the highway. Peter noticed how the corners of Neal's mouth twitched at the news. Sam's words were being stored in his memory vault for future use.

After a few brews and sliders, Peter's mood lightened. They toasted Angela's return to sanity, Michael's return to blissful happiness, and even tossed in one for Lutar being out of the picture.

"Where are you off to next?" Neal asked Sam.

"We're heading your way. Chloe wants us to stop off in New York."

"A day or two of R&R will do us both good before heading for the next job," Dean said and added with a grin, "Particularly since Maia's coming down."

Sam's face brightened. "She is?"

Dean nodded. "Chloe told me this evening when I called her. Peony—that's the woman who owns the B&B—is extending the friends and family discount to Maia, too, so I guess you won't have to sleep in the car."

Peter hadn't heard of Peony, but the others clued him in. She ran an inn in a brownstone near Columbia University and was also head of a Wicca coven. Her sister Wisteria was in Chloe's New Haven coven. It made Peter wonder if covens had become the new sororities. Even more surprising was that Neal intended to ask Chloe about potions to protect him from Astrena.

At first, Peter thought he was joking, but he insisted he wasn't. And Peter had to concede he had a good reason to give her a second chance. Thanks to Chloe's anti-vamp essence, Lutar hadn't smelled Neal in the house. Peter might need to reappraise how much of a menace Chloe was to society. If Neal was being haunted by Astrena, he didn't have a lot of good options.

Billiards were a hot discussion topic over dinner. Dean wanted to even the score after Neal beat him in Buttonwood. Neal had become an expert in trick shots during the years of his misguided youth and offered to give a demonstration.

After the food was devastated, everyone joined in for a master class. Concerns about Astrena didn't appear to hamper his game. He reeled off one joke after another while displaying the dexterity of a virtuoso with the cue stick. But all that indicated was that his con artist skills were once more fully operational. Peter supposed he should be happy. Their trip to Shepherdstown was originally intended to test Neal's readiness. By that standard, it was a success.

When Peter headed to the bar to get another beer, Dean followed him.

"It's gonna take Sam a while to learn the machine-gun shot," Dean said, taking a seat at the counter, "and there's something I've been wanting to ask you."

"What's on your mind?" Peter asked, pulling over a bar stool. "Astrena?"

"Not so much her as Sam. Neal reminds me a little of him. They have this secret side they don't show to others. Neal hides it under a smartass exterior. Sam buries himself underneath the shell of a quiet nerd. Neither one lets walls down easily. I figured Neal simply liked giving off a man of mystery vibe. Now I know he was a thief. How'd he wind up working at the FBI?"

"Only a few people know about his former life," Peter cautioned. "It's a mark of his trust in you that he revealed it. Neal turned over a new leaf. He's putting his expertise to good use, and the team he works with values his contributions. But it wasn't easy to make the change. Those walls you mentioned took a long time to be dismantled. We've had our ups and downs in learning to trust each other."

"Not the way I see it," Dean countered. "He told you straight off about that second whacked-out vision he had." He snorted. "No way would Sam have told me. What's your secret, man?"

Neal was a role model for being open? That was a new one. "We both had to put sweat into the game. Recently we made a breakthrough, but only after some difficult moments."

"Then you understand where I'm coming from," Dean huffed. "Sam and me . . ." He paused to glance at his brother. "We're constantly on the road, working jobs. We spend far too much time together than can be healthy. But if something's troubling him, I'm the last person he'll talk to."

"Are you sure you're not overstating the problem?"

"Yep. Last year he started having premonitions, but it took months before I could get him to admit what was going on. You got any tips? 'Cause what I'm doing isn't working."

Peter paused to consider, reviewing their recent history. "I think what's helped us over the past month is that Neal recognized how destructive keeping secrets can be. If Sam's like Neal, he's doing it to protect you, and that makes it even tougher to fight. You have to prove to him that by not telling you he's harming both himself and you."

Dean didn't look convinced.

"Sam will come around. It's up to you to be patient and keep chipping away. I feel like ramming my head against the wall sometimes. Why do I have to always be the grown-up? You were forced to assume that role when you were still a kid yourself. That's a helluva long time to build up resentment and frustration."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Sam senses that, making it worse. He feels guilty for the responsibility that's been shoved on your shoulders. It doesn't make your job any easier but knowing the source of the problem can help."

Dean nodded, his eyes focused on his beer. Peter shuddered when he thought of the lives they must have led as kids with their dad off hunting monsters. How young had Dean been when he first went hunting? A lot of dark memories to be burdened with.

Was this a good time? Dean didn't have that chip on his shoulder that he so often displayed. Peter felt more in the zone with him than ever before. If he didn't speak up now, he might not have another chance.

"I'd like your help on something," Peter ventured, treading carefully.

Dean turned to eye him curiously. "On what? You got wind of another demon?"

"God, no. I've heard of too many already. Is Sam still having premonitions?"

"Not very often. Now when he gets them, they—at least the ones I hear about—are for upcoming attacks. Sam tells me 'cause he knows we need to haul ass to save someone."

"Do you know why he's getting them?"

"No," Dean admitted, "and it worries the hell out of me."

"But you continue to do your jobs, even with this hanging over your heads."

He shrugged. "We have no choice. That's the way it is. We focus on one creature at a time, knowing there's always more out there."

That wasn't a comforting thought. "Now Neal may have this Astrena—I don't know what to call it—link, curse? I don't have a clue about how to keep him safe. If we were dealing with ordinary criminals, I'd put the team on the case, and we'd work to catch them. Any suggestions on how to fight a goddess?"

He shrugged. "You fight fire with fire. It's the same with magic. That's where we come in, and you may not like hearing it, but Chloe too. Sometimes it's a special weapon, or a potion, or a spell, but there's always something."

"Every dragon has a weak spot?"

Dean chuckled. "That's one creature we haven't had to confront yet, but it's a good way to look at it."