Disclaimer: Not mine. Title is from Explosions in the Sky.

A/N: Brought to you by Prince's 'Purple Rain' and the Bastille cover of 'Dreams.'

This fic turned 2 a few days ago! Thanks for sticking with it and sticking with me even though there's been nothing but radio silence for forever. I can't tell you how many times I opened up this chapter, wrote a sentence then deleted it in frustration. It's been in the works for a long time, so I hope it doesn't disappoint.

PS—the M rating is very, very earned in this chapter, so tread carefully if that's not your thing (if we're being honest, there was a lot of blushing and stammering and general awkwardness to be had while I was writing).

Enjoy, and thanks for hanging out with me while I play with these characters.

the birth and death of the day

12.

"Um," Caroline says slowly, staring down disdainfully at the glass in front of her, "Does this have champagne in it? Because that's the only way I drink orange juice." She sounds like a little snot even to her own ears but she figures if she's ever been entitled to a pass, it's now.

"Just drink it," Bobby says tiredly and frustration completely unrelated to the pulpy crap she's wrinkling her nose at surges through her.

"Why?" she demands, crossing her arms and staring down her nose at the glass. "Because Dean thinks Pestilence is going to let a little Vitamin E get in the way of some Contagion-like swine flu slash SARS love child? Yeah, okay sure. But here in reality—"

"Look, kid," Bobby cuts in, saying 'kid' the way one might say you little shit, "humor your brother and drink your damn juice."

Feeling properly chastised, she does.

Once she's finished the glass, she wipes her mouth and says carefully, "Do you know where Dean and Cas went?"

Bobby doesn't so much as glance up from the eggs he's scrambling. "Yep."

She waits but he doesn't elaborate. "So…do you know when they'll be back?"

"Nope." All that follows is the sound of the eggbeater scraping against the pan.

Caroline glares daggers at his flannel-covered back. "Are you going to tell me anything?"

Bobby finally faces her, only to dump scrambled eggs onto her plate. "Eat your eggs."

She stares at him in open disbelief; he turns, completely unaffected. "Wow," she says, picking up her fork and stabbing at her breakfast as though it personally offended her. "You're worse than Dean, and that's saying something."

Bobby considers her thoughtfully. "Let me tell you something," he says finally and Caroline leans forward expectantly on both elbows. "Those two moron brothers of yours are like my own. If I thought Dean was in any kind of danger, I woulda dragged his ass back here quicker than you can say let's make a deal." He points at her. "Now eat your eggs."

Realizing her mouth has dropped open slightly, Caroline closes it and stares at Bobby. "So," she says slowly, "how have I never heard of you?"

Bobby shrugs. "Guess John and your mama didn't think you needed to know about me."

The word mama is a sucker punch to the gut; it nearly knocks the wind out of her lungs. "Oh," she eventually manages. "You—you knew my mom?"

He eyes her like he's seriously questioning her intelligence. " 'Course I did," he says shortly.

Suddenly desperate for him to continue, Caroline jumps up from her seat, abandoning her eggs to follow him around the kitchen. "How long did she know? About John and Sam and Dean and—"

"She knew." Bobby's voice is sharp. "Ain't that enough, kid?"

"No!" Caroline cries, her voice cracking. It surprises her enough that she stops short in the hallway.

Bobby sighs and meets her eyes; she seizes the moment for the invitation that it is. "Where were you when Dean died?" she demands.

It comes out more accusingly than she meant, but as the question rings between them, she finds herself growing more and more irate. "He died and you—you love him like your own so where were you?" Bobby doesn't answer her immediately and her voice rises in pitch. "Sam came back, devastated!"

"Believe you me, kid," Bobby says heavily, "I know."

Caroline whirls on him. "Oh, you know? How the hell would you know? You weren't here!" As soon as she says the words, she claps her hand over her mouth; Bobby won't look at her and her stomach coils with guilt. "I'm sorry," she whispers, but Bobby shakes his head and holds up his hand.

"Don't be," he says quietly. "We tried to bring him back, and when it didn't work, I sent Sam home." His eyes meet hers and when she sees his are shiny, she feels her own grow wet. He runs his hand over his beard, seeming to search for the right words. "Grief is a funny thing."

It's not the most astute of statements, but Caroline finds herself nodding. "They're lucky to have you," she tells him and means it, all of her earlier anger having burned itself out.

Bobby shakes his head. "Nah. I'm lucky to have them." His eyes narrow at her. "Now go finish your eggs."

… … …

Matt's notes on the Whore of Babylon aren't exactly notes—more like scribbles of possible theories and tons of question marks.

She can totally relate.

"I had a dream," he tells her after she throws her third page of paper at the wall in frustration.

"Congratulations," she mutters irritably.

"No, Care, like—like a Michael dream."

Her head snaps up so fast that her neck muscles protest. Stupid slow human reflexes. "And you're just brining this up now why?" She waves her hand before he can answer. "Never mind, spit it out already."

"Don't get too excited," he warns. "It was like…I was standing on this hill, and there was nothing around for miles. Then this hole in the ground opened up—this huge hole, couldn't see the bottom at all. I—Michael was afraid of it." Matt shrugs. "Uh…yeah. That was it."

"Seriously? That's it? How do you even know that was a Michael dream?"

Matt fixes her with a look. "I know," he says darkly.

She doesn't push the issue.

… … …

Crowley is…not at all what she expected.

First off, his name itself had made her think of some sleazy con guy in a bad suit with slicked hair, which is totally the opposite of who she sees in front of her—unless his hair gel is just that good. Second, he's totally charming in a way that makes Caroline understand perfectly how he could talk someone into trading their soul for ten years even without the possibility of all their wildest dreams coming true.

He even tries it on her, despite Dean's glaring and blustering. "Are you sure, sweetheart?" he says, his voice raspy and his eyes never wavering from her face. "Never wanted to be a princess or a ballet dancer?"

Caroline crosses her arms and glares at him, refusing to be swayed by his lilting Scottish accent. "First of all, you're being sexist as hell—I wanted to be President, not a princess." It's the tiniest of white lies—she had wanted to be both, but this pretender to the throne doesn't need to know that. "And second of all, it doesn't really matter if there's no more human race. Duh."

Her tart response doesn't seem to put Crowley off in the slightest. "Charming," he says with an easy smile and Dean's scowl deepens.

"What is it with you and psychopaths?" he asks under his breath and she shrugs. Shaking his head, Dean says in a louder voice, "Can we get down to business now?"

"Of course," Crowley says pleasantly, making himself at home in a recliner. "Where would you like to start?" Before Dean can begin, Crowley continues, "With your good-as-dead brother? Or how about with your recently brought back to life sister? Or with the literal angel on your shoulder, hmm?"

Castiel's brows pinch together and he says irritably, "I am hardly small enough to perch on Dean's shoulder."

Crowley stares at him for a beat before shaking his head and turning his attention back to Dean, who scowls. "The Whore."

"Not my type," Crowley drawls.

"The Whore, as in capital W, as in Whore comma of Babylon. Not a whore," Dean snaps and the two have a small standoff before Caroline quietly clears her throat.

"I know to what you're referring," Crowley says, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "I'm waiting for the point, though perhaps I ought not to since you seem to not have one."

Dean is on his feet before any of them can react—well, before Caroline can react. In the time it takes for her eyes to dart from Dean to Crowley and back, Castiel has inserted himself in between the two flaring tempers. "Enough," he growls. Dean scowls at Crowley over Cas's shoulder but backs down.

Crowley smirks at him. "Good boy," he says derisively and before Dean can get his back up again, Caroline intervenes.

"If you're just going to wave your dick around, you can quit wasting our time and leave," she snaps at Crowley, her voice pure ice.

The look on Dean's face tells her very clearly that if the literal wannabe King of Hell weren't sitting on her mother's sofa, she'd be washing her mouth out with soap. Caroline arches an eyebrow at him because how is dick worse than fuck? What kind of weird male logic?

"I like you," Crowley says, wagging an approving finger in her direction.

"Seems to be a thing with Team Suck," Dean mutters under his breath. Caroline ignores him and to her pleasant surprise, so does Crowley.

"The Whore of Babylon," she prods.

Crowley snaps his hands together like an old timey magician preparing a trick. "Yes, the Whore. Got a Bible?"

"We're not fuckin' amateurs," Dean grouses as Caroline retrieves it from the bookcase. Crowley casts a look his way that says just what he thinks of that before turning his attention back to Caroline.

"Revelations 17:5 and 6, sweetheart," he advises; Caroline flips through the gold edged pages to the very back of the book. "Aloud, if you please." He winks at her and she rolls her eyes before beginning to read.

" 'And upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations—' okay, I'm sorry, but can you Spark Notes this? Not sure if you noticed but we don't exactly have a ton of time."

"Read. It." Crowley's voice has lost all pretention of charm. Caroline swallows.

" '—Abominations of the Earth. And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus—' "

"That's enough," Crowley cuts in. Caroline immediately shuts the Bible and drops it onto the coffee table, her hands shaking. "The Whore has only one job, and one job only." Caroline stares at the floor as he speaks. "Drag as many humans to capital H Hell with her."

"Meaning?" Dean demands.

"Meaning, you ignorant child," Crowley snaps, "that we only have days left."

… … … …

She excuses herself from the pissing contest posing as a research session after that. There are stacks of Sam's books piled in her room and as soon as her door shuts, she settles into a cross-legged seated position with one tome in her lap.

The margins are riddled with cramped notes that she immediately recognizes as Sam's. The letters decrease in size as they march down the edge of the page, a habit Caroline can relate too—if only she had a dollar for every time Elena had sighed in frustration over her biology notes.

Her fingers trace over the ink. Sam had taught her how to write in cursive when she was nine, Dean having dubbed it "too My Little Pony" and Liz too busy avoiding an ever increasingly John-less house. She could never get the s right, no matter how many times Sam had covered her hand with his and led her fingers through the motion. They had sat at the kitchen table night after night, her pencil clamped so tightly between her fingers she nearly snapped it in half, Sam writing down sentences from the books he had to read for English for her to transcribe into cursive.

The third grade teacher at Mystic Falls Elementary had commented off-handedly that her handwriting seemed awfully boyish. At nine, Caroline glowed at being compared to her brothers, but by twelve, she had added hearts to her i's and curls to the tails of her g's and y's. Sam had rolled his eyes and made a comment about bubbly girly handwriting that sounded more like Dean than him.

He'd left a year later.

A flutter at the window snaps her out of the memory and while her senses now aren't nearly as sharp as her vampire ones, her human instincts send the hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. A prickle snakes down her back.

"You're staring really loudly," Caroline comments to the air without looking up. Papers of varying degrees of age are strewn across the floor in a semi-circle around her, colored tabs neatly lining the edges. Sam will absolutely bitch about sticky notes on his ancient texts when he gets back—when, Caroline assures herself stubbornly. When is her mantra, repeated over and over in the back of her mind until the word loses all meaning.

Any other outcome is just unacceptable.

"And your thoughts are deafening," Klaus shoots back, leaning against the edge of her open window, his inability to enter affecting his cool posture not in the slightest. "I could hear them from across town."

Caroline places another sheet of paper in the pile next to her right hip. "Eavesdropper," she accuses mildly. Her brain is barely tracking this conversation, doing the bare minimum of processing the words and spitting back Caroline-like replies.

He notices. "You're distracted."

"Congratulations on noticing the obvious. Give the man a prize."

"Man," Klaus echoes and she can't discern the tone of his voice.

Instead of responding (because that is a giant ass can of worms she absolutely does not have time for), she sorts another paper into a pile, setting it down so the edges line up perfectly with the rest of the stack. Each of the paper piles is an exact three inches from the one next to it, the sticky notes color-coded; Sam's books are alphabetized and lined up against one wall. Her room is a study in perfect neatness—even her bed, made with military precision with not a wrinkle to be found in the sheets.

"Don't unravel, Caroline," he says softly.

Her laugh sounds brittle and harsh even to her own ears. "I'd say it's a little late for that."

"I wouldn't."

"Because you know everything there is to know, right? Pesky omniscience and all." She punctuates her sarcasm with a snort and a not nearly satisfying enough stapling of several notes together. "God, you're arrogant."

"Comes with being God," he retorts easily. It catches her so off guard that she laughs, surprising herself. When she looks back up at Klaus, his expression is a mix of surprise and—strangely enough—softness. Hmm.

Caroline can't think about that right now. "There's a demon downstairs," she blurts out. All of the gentleness in his face vanishes in an instant and there's the Klaus she knows and—ah, well.

"So you allow demons in your home while I remain barred," he muses, his voice quiet and thoughtful. Caroline isn't fooled. He's a sheathed dagger, steel and iron hidden under the guise of softness.

"Don't pitch a fit." She unfolds her legs from their pretzel position and stands slowly, the muscles in her thighs and hips protesting their long immobility. One of her hipbones pops as she shifts—she can't remember the last time that happened—and Klaus goes still, the proverbial predator sensing prey. She tenses.

"So," she says lamely. "Um—how are things?"

Blue eyes flick back to her face before narrowing. "Have you hurt yourself?"

Okay, that she was so not expecting. "Uh, no?" She does a quick mental inventory of all the aches and pains she's currently feeling—sore leg muscles from sitting cross-legged for hours, a twinge in her back from hunching over Sam's chicken scratch handwriting, a slightly stuffy nose from the dust gathered in between the pages of his ancient books, the still-sharp bite of the tattoo—all par for the course. "No," she repeats with more sureness, raising one hand to tug habitually at her ponytail. "I'm fine. Why?"

He's zeroed in on her chest and Caroline's entire face burns bright red as she snaps her fingers up to her eye level and self-consciously tugs at her shirt collar. "Dude, my eyes are up here. Jeez."

"You're bandaged." He makes it sound as though both an affront and an accusation.

Oooh, right. "At ease, soldier. S'just a tattoo."

"You hardly seem the type."

"Because you know me so well."

The atmosphere between them cools significantly and Caroline could kick herself. "Sorry," she mumbles, looking down and sighing. "Weird day."

Made weirder by the fact that she just apologized to Klaus for possibly hurting his feelings. His feelings!

She gives herself a mental slap. Focus, Forbes.

"It's an anti-possession tattoo," she explains, bracing her hands on her sides. "Just in case the whole world goes to shit. Er—more than it already has."

The look he gives her is unreadable but she thinks he might be the slightest bit amused. They settle into a somewhat peaceful quiet—for them, anyway, Caroline muses—and it occurs to her that he's still leaning against the side of the house,

"You still can't come in," she tells him with a half smile.

A single eyebrow arches at her. "I thought I was forgiven."

"Forgiven, sure," she acknowledges. "But I haven't forgotten, and there's a difference."

"You don't trust me."

"Honestly? Not really." Caroline shrugs, becoming fascinated with the hem of her shirt. "You're really good with the apologizing, but so far, not great with the follow through."

Klaus is silent so long that she looks up to make sure he didn't leave.

He's still there, with his fingers pressed up against the magical wall and a pensive look on his face. "So what you're saying, then, love," he says slowly, "is that until I've lived up to my word—"

"What I'm saying is that actions speak, and a hell of a lot louder than words." Caroline chews at her lip hesitantly. "So until proven otherwise…you can't come in."

… … …

"Wake up, Care." Strong hands grip her shoulders and gently push.

"No," she mumbles, burrowing her face deeper into the pillow. "Don't wanna."

"No one understands like I do, believe me," Dean drawls, "but this is important. Get up, Care-bear."

"Five more minutes," she barters even as her mind starts to slowly sharpen. Her legs stir restlessly and Dean pokes her shoulder.

"Kitchen in ten, got it?"

"Aye, aye, captain," she mutters under her breath, struggling to push herself up on her elbows. Had she always been so achy in the mornings?

"Wear something comfortable," Dean adds before shutting the door. Caroline blinks sleep out of her eyes before realization dawns.

"Great," she grumbles, trying not to trip over her own feet as she stumbles over to her dresser to pull out workout clothes.

She ends up fantastically face planting trying to shove one foot into her leggings; Dean snorts into his coffee when he sees her disheveled appearance.

Caroline gives him the finger.

… … …

"So why are we here, sensei?" she asks, carefully picking her way through the woods after Dean. "More training?"

He shoots a shit-eating grin over his shoulder at her. "Look at you, being all psychic and shit."

She rolls her eyes at his back. "Training in what? I can throw a punch, I'm a good enough shot—"

Dean stops short and she nearly plows into his back. "Sword fighting," he announces.

"I think they call it fencing now."

He shoots her an arch look. "Fencing, baby sister, is dudes with pillows strapped to them and beehives on their heads. Sword fighting is something entirely different."

"Oh, do tell," Caroline drawls, crossing her arms over her chest.

There's a fluttering behind her and Castiel says gravely, "Hello Dean, Caroline."

Dean points to Castiel, who has two long swords in his hands. "Sword fighting is gonna save your life."

As it turns out, Dean won't let her actually use the swords Castiel has brought—"How hard could it be?" Caroline quips brightly. "Stick 'em with the pointy end—"which apparently did her no favors in attempting to get her hands on real swords instead of the flimsy, wobbly makeshift swords Dean pulls out of the Impala trunk.

He won't even let her use the baby swords to begin with—"Use your fists," he orders; Caroline grits her teeth and thinks, with pleasure.

After two hours, she's landed only approximately three hits and none of them are anywhere near kill shots—she's clipped both of Dean's shoulders and managed to get one impressive shot dangerously close to his groin. Which doesn't count because "trying to knee me is not practicing sword fighting, Caroline" but whatever. Semantics.

"You really think God's army is gonna use swords instead of like…" Caroline makes a sweeping hand gesture. "Whoosh-y magic?"

Dean snorts and Castiel looks mildly amused at her highly technical term. "I think we should be prepared for everything and anything," Dean says, exchanging an unreadable look with Castiel.

Caroline sits up straighter. "Who knew you're such a Boy Scout?"

He winks at her. "You should see my sheet knot. It's a thing of beauty."

She frowns, positive that there's some dirty hidden meaning there, but her musing is interrupted by Castiel.

"The Host may use…" he pauses briefly. "Whoosh-y magic, but there is great potential that the Host will not be the only ones fighting."

Dean doesn't look surprised by this information, but Caroline's mouth drops into a tiny O. She's not the one who's been angel torturing and she shoots Dean a disgruntled look before turning back to Castiel. "What's that mean?" she demands.

"The majority of demons do not want to see Lucifer released from the cage," Castiel explains somberly. "But there are a few loyal servants who work with the Host to secure his freedom."

Caroline stares at him. "Well that's just freaking awesome news."

"I fail to see what's so awesome about it," Castiel says, returning her stare with a disapproving frown.

She and Dean both ignore him. "I don't want you fighting," Dean tells her seriously, "but I know you won't listen to me, and I'll be damned if you rush head first into a death trap." He tosses a fake, flimsy sword her way. "Put your dukes up, kid."

… … …

She spends an hour fake-sword sparring with Dean before he agrees to let her handle one of the bigger, deadlier weapons. The lessons are almost identical to when he taught her how to shoot—don't point it at anyone unless you intend to use it, this is a weapon not a toy…and so on and so forth.

He makes her spend forty-five minutes getting used to the feel of the heavy steel in her hand before he lets her thrust (at open air, with him safely standing several feet behind her).

"I can't remember if I told you," she says once they break for the night. The sun is slowly disappearing behind the trees and neither of them wants to be out in the middle of the woods once night falls. "But Matt had a dream."

Dean scoffs. "What, does the QB want a cookie for his normal REM activity?"

Despite the fact that he basically echoed her own response to Matt, Caroline shoots him a chastising glance. "A Michael dream, Dean. He said that he was standing on a hill, staring down at this like…giant hole in the ground and that Michael was afraid." She studies his face. "Any idea what that means?"

Dean shrugs and avoids her eyes. "Could mean anything."

Caroline stares at him. "You're lying," she breathes in accusation and guilt flashes across Dean's face—just for a second, but she grew up around those expressions and knows every single one. "You are! Oh my God what do you know that I don't?"

"That's a leading question if I ever heard one," he mutters and she smacks his bicep with a little more force than playfulness calls for.

"Quit stalling. What does Matt's dream mean?"

Dean rubs his jaw and stares at the ground for several minutes before answering. "It's the final battle," he answers finally. "The big kahuna. Armageddon."

At her incredulous expression, he explains slowly, "Armageddon's a place, Care. Not just a freaking awesome Ben Affleck movie." He gives her a grin that feels way too forced. "Michael's scared shitless of it, and Matt's brain is probably reliving how he feels."

"Why is Michael scared shitless of it?" she asks quietly, her heart starting to pick up speed.

He shrugs. "If he's gonna die, that's where it'll be."

"Sam's not going to die," she says immediately. "He's not."

"No way," Dean agrees and her eyes narrow.

"You're not either."

Dean heaves a heavy sigh and starts packing up the equipment. "This is starting to feel like a mystery spot," he says wearily and the reference goes over her head.

"Dean—"

The rustling of leaves cuts her off; they both tense and turn towards the sound of the intruding noise.

"Am I interrupting?" Klaus asks, hands folded behind his back and face the picture of innocence.

"When are you not, Count Chocula?" Dean snaps back. Caroline tenses, eyes darting from Klaus to Dean and back again. "Conversations, lives—butting in is what you do best. Besides, ya know, murder."

"Dean," Caroline chides but Klaus gives a small shake of his head.

"Speak now or forever hold your peace," Dean says irritably, crossing his arms and wearing John Winchester's best angry face.

Klaus's glance briefly slides towards Caroline, who shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. She's not sure what Klaus's gameplan is here, but she'll be shocked if it ends any other way than Dean punching either Klaus or a tree.

"I'm proving something," Klaus eventually says and Caroline's heartbeat speeds up. "As the man of your family, you have the right to know that I've found myself in the unfortunate position of falling for your sister."

Dean's face pales and Caroline nearly stops breathing. "What?" she whispers at the same time that Dean growls out, "Not a chance in hell, asshole!"

Klaus's eyes meet Caroline's. "Surely you knew," he says softly. "After everything."

"Caroline." Dean's voice is steel. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Caroline swallows, tearing her eyes from Klaus's. "Um," she begins haltingly, "We, uh—"

Apparently she doesn't have to continue—thank God because she has no idea where she was going with that—because Dean's eyes bug in a way that would be comical under any other circumstance. "You're—I can't—Jesus!" he sputters and Caroline's heart sinks. He's looking at her like—like betrayal.

"Dean," she whisper, her eyes wide as he starts tossing swords into the Impala. She shoots Klaus a we'll talk about this later, buddy look and rushes after Dean.

He can't be too mad because he lets the Impala idle while her trembling hands fiddle with the door handle.

"Dean," she repeats once safely inside the car. "Come on, Dean, use your words."

The expression he gives her hits her right where she lives—it's not angry or upset, but disappointed and there was a reason Liz Forbes telling her daughter that she was disappointed in her was the only punishment she ever needed. Caroline feels approximately three inches tall.

"Dean," Caroline pleads, grabbing his arm. His hands are so tight around the steering wheel she's afraid he might snap it off.

Instead of answering, Dean reaches for the stereo and starts fast forwarding through the tape in the tape player.

"Seriously?" Caroline says under breath, turning to stare out of the window at the trees whipping by.

He stops punching at the cassette player and the chorus of 'Riders on the Storm' echo through the car. Caroline knows her brother well enough to zip it and wait for him to yoga-breathe his way through whatever killing rage he's fighting.

There's a killer on the road, Jim Morrison warbles and Caroline snorts quietly. How very on the nose.

The sound of the Doors is the only noise in the car until the houses on their street come into view.

"He's gonna break you, Caroline," Dean predicts flatly, his muscle tense under her fingers. Caroline stares resolutely at the eerily quiet neighborhood. "He's gonna fuckin' destroy you."

It's the sheer desperation in his voice that makes her turn back to face him. She bites her lip. "I don't think he will." She whispers because she doesn't know if she even believes herself. She wouldn't bet even a single cow on it, much less the farm, that's for sure.

The Impala pulls into the driveway and Dean jerks the brake; neither of them move to leave the car. "I can't lose you too," he tells her, knuckles white. "You're all I've got left, Care."

Hot tears prick at her eyelashes. "I'm not going anywhere," she promises hoarsely, one of her hands wrapping around his; and they sit in the car like that for a long time.

Later, after Dean's headed to his room for bed—Caroline figures he'll be up for at least three more hours pouring over molding books—she unlocks her window and stares out into the dark, chewing at her lip.

She has to talk to Klaus.

… … …

"I seriously can't believe you told him," Caroline says to the deceptively empty woods.

As expected, Klaus appears at her side, his face inscrutable. "Is it so hard to understand?" he asks quietly. He reaches forward and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you truly think so little of yourself?"

It hits a tad bit too close to home and she jerks away from his touch. "No," she retorts. "It's not that. I just—if he wasn't gunning for your ass, he is now."

He's watching her very carefully. "Your brother is in no danger from me."

She rolls her eyes. "You say that now, but what about when—"

"Caroline."

"Look, I like you, okay, I do, and I don't want Dean—"

"Caroline," he says, surging forward and taking her face in his hands. "Weren't you listening, love?"

"Duh, I was standing right there," she snots back and why is she being so mean to him? She forces herself to take a deep breath. "You think you're in love with me."

He looks disappointed and she's two for two on the night. A new record.

"Okay, listen," she rushes on, ignoring the voice in the back of her head telling her it's time to shut up, "It's just the typical bad boy, good girl TV trope, okay? Not, like, actual love."

For the first time that night, anger flashes across Klaus's face. "I think I've lived long enough to know what love feels like, sweetheart."

She shakes her head and starts to argue—

Klaus covers her mouth with his, effectively cutting her off.

It's hardly tender, and she thinks that she must have pissed him off more than she realized because this isn't so much a kiss as it is a claiming. He bites her lower lip and when she inhales a sharp, shocked breath, he coaxes her mouth further open, tongue sliding against hers.

Gasping for air, she pulls back slightly; their faces are still mere inches apart. "Klaus," she murmurs, blindly grasping for control of the situation, "We should talk about this—"

Klaus snorts. "We've talked quite enough, I think," he decrees before capturing her mouth again.

Indecision battles within her—"This could be so bad," she whispers to him, her cheek sliding over his—before she decides that she no longer cares. The world's probably ending, he loves her and she—well.

Caroline takes control and he lets her.

She kisses him.

Her fingers walk down his sides before reaching their destination, pulling his freaking Henley —"Typical," she breathes into his mouth, and he makes an amused sound—up over his head, her hands going for his belt.

"Caroline," Klaus warns, his voice a rumble in her ear as she kisses her way down past the stupid hipster cords. All he's missing is the green tea Frappuccino and book of obscure poetry. She stops briefly to lightly cup her palm against the rigidness straining against his jeans and when his hips automatically press into her hand, she hides her coy smirk in the straining muscles of his neck. He exhales into the air above her shoulder and she runs her thumb down him one more time before continuing her journey south.

Elena always called the patch of hair beneath a guy's bellybutton a happy trail and Klaus's tickles her nose. She laughs a little and Klaus stills as though any sudden movement might send her running.

"Caroline," he repeats, more insistently this time. "Get up, love."

She shakes her head, her curls brushing against his lower stomach muscles and making them tighten. It's empowering, seeing the effect she has on him and she decides she wants to see more.

So she does.

She makes short work of the belt and her hands dive for the button of his jeans, her wicked streak coming fully alive. The waistband of his underwear gives away that he's a boxers guy—definitely not a surprise, Caroline decides. A grin dances around her mouth as she pushes his jeans down and he stops breathing (not that he needs to). Pausing for a brief, savoring moment, Caroline sneaks a glance at him from beneath her eyelashes—he's staring down at her in the way men are supposed to stare up at God.

Her fingers hook beneath the elastic of his boxers and she pulls them down in one smooth motion before he can object—not that she seriously thinks he will. Her breath dances across him, now completely bare to her, and she's pretty sure the time for protesting is long gone. Feeling exceptionally daring, Caroline kisses the tip of him; he makes a pained noise and she becomes aware of his fingers settling into her hair.

Instead of getting right down to it—she's always been anticipation sort of girl—Caroline runs her tongue up and down the length of him. He shudders and when she finally relents and takes him in her mouth, his fingers tighten against her scalp.

Caroline's been around the block a few times before—not in, like, a slutty way, not that there's anything wrong with that, she assures the gods of feminism—but she's only been with guys she loved, minus Damon (and she blames that on temporary insanity; it totally wasn't love's fault). Still, she has a few tricks up her sleeve and she utilizes them liberally. She gently sucks and grazes her teeth against him, just to hear him sigh and watch the way his eyes slowly shut as though his lids are made of lead.

She builds a steady rhythm, her thumbs tracing the hard line of his lower abdomen, her middle and ring fingers skating the edges of his hips. He doesn't tell her he's coming, but every man has his tell—even hybrids. His thrusts become faster, less controlled and she holds steady.

When he's done, the silence of the forest is broken by the sound of his panting. He untangles his hands from her hair and runs a finger gently down her cheekbone. With an almost clumsy jerkiness that Caroline saves in her heart, he reaches down to pull both boxers and jeans back up on his hips in one swift, practiced motion. Once fully clothed, Klaus lowers himself to sit by her on the ground.

The woods are quiet save for the sway of the leaves in the wind, but even the false calm soothes her fraying nerves. The bark of the tree she's sitting against digs into her back and it's just enough discomfort to keep her brain from succumbing to the pleasant fog that has begun to swirl around it.

Caroline stretches her legs out in front of her and says drowsily, "This is nice."

Klaus hums in her ear, fingers trailing up and down her arm.

The breeze picks up and a warm feeling of contentment swirls deep in her tummy—followed almost immediately by guilt. No one's allowed to be happy in times like this, least of all her, with everything that she has riding on successfully averting what seems so inevitable.

Caroline stands up so quickly that her eyes spot, the blood rushing from her head. Klaus's hand is tight around her elbow.

Once the light-headedness pass, she says anxiously, "Matt dreamed about Armageddon."

Klaus is nonplussed. "And?"

"And apparently a giant-ass crater opened up in the ground and Michael's terrified of it. Kind of a big deal."

He cocks his head and studies her.

It makes her fidget.

"You know," he murmurs, moving closer and speaking into her hair; his lips brush against the shell of her ear. "You could give a man a complex."

It's hard to think with him this close, but her fingers tighten in his shirt, refusing to let him move away. "Come again?"

He laughs. "I plan to," he says with a leer and she gapes at him in not quite faux shock before biting back a laugh. Walked right into that one, Forbes.

His fingertips are slipping beneath her shirt, trailing up her skin and tracing her spine. "You, using this to distract yourself from the goings on of your current reality." He catches her earlobe between his (human) teeth and she bites her lip to hold the shivers at bay. Her own fingers curl around his hips and his exhale ruffles her hair. Caroline isn't sure his mild accusation is entirely fair, but there's enough truth to it that she doesn't argue.

"Yeah, well," she breathes as his mouth moves down her neck; a slight flutter of fear spikes through her bloodstream when he pauses in his journey. She can see the vein in her neck throbbing in her mind's eye. "I don't hear you complaining."

He's still bent over her throat and she knows instinctively—both human and remnants of vampire—that his lips are hovering just over her carotid artery. "Klaus," she whispers, the speed of her heartbeat spiking. Don't, she says silently, moving her fingers so that they slide underneath his Henley and brush against skin. I'm trusting you here, she thinks and after several more fear-tinged moments, he moves his head and says, "Hardly, sweetheart."

The sound of a snapping twig sends Caroline into shocked stillness, her fingers retreating from beneath his shirt. Klaus sighs and steps away, his hands dropping back to his sides. "Well then," he says somewhat bitingly, "I suppose this is where we say goodnight."

Caroline bites her lip, relief and disappointment at war within her.

He gives her a sardonic bow. "Until the next time you find yourself in need of diversion," he mocks and before she can consider the consequences, she hears herself say, "Wait."

To her great surprised, he stills. Taking his hand, she holds it gingerly between both of hers. "Your place," she says firmly. "Not mine."

He looks at her as though he has never seen her before, his eyes wide in an expression Caroline wouldn't have thought Klaus capable of. He recovers quickly and before she can blink—or change her mind—he transports them across town.

… … …

A hybrid stands guard on either side of the Mikaelson front door, glaring menacingly at her as Klaus leads her up the walkway. They nod at him and send a second deadly scowl her way. When she's sure that Klaus's back is turned, she sticks her tongue out at them.

Her small moment of laughter is stopped short when she bumps into Klaus, who is motionless in his own front hall. Caroline nearly asks what the holdup is when she hears—

"What is that doing here?" Rebekah asks snidely.

Ah. So that's why Klaus's posture has gone from relaxed and slightly gonna get laid peppy to tightly coiled spring in the blink of an eye. He moves ever so slightly to his left and Caroline realizes that he's blocking her completely from his sister's line of sight.

Caroline's not too inclined to move out from behind him.

"Run along, Bekah," Klaus says, sounding utterly bored with the proceedings in front of him, though the stiff line of his back tells a different story. "Don't you have a human to play with?"

Caroline can practically hear the sneer as Rebekah shoots back, "As if you're one to talk, brother." She breezes past them, hissing at Caroline, who refuses to stumble backwards (though her innate human clumsiness is trying its best to force her).

After Rebekah has vanished through the front door, Caroline turns to Klaus. "She's right," she reminds him. His face remains perfectly blank, so she gently pokes his shoulder. "Human."

He scoffs and doesn't answer before turning.

She doesn't immediately follow, instead tilting her head thoughtfully and watching as he walks away, limbs long and graceful.

"You know," she says softly, not bother to raise her voice for him to hear, "I'm not changing back."

"So you say."

"Well duh, so I say. I'm the one who gets to decide."

The air around her whooshes and he's a hair's breadth away from her, but his presence isn't intimidating like it has been before. He looks almost…stricken.

"What am I supposed to do without you?" he asks softly.

The question packs a punch that makes her nearly physically reel back but she holds steady. "What did you do for the first thousand years before me?" She doesn't wait for his answer. "That's what you'll do for the next thousand."

Caroline doesn't point out that they don't actually know each other all that well, and certainly not like she knows Elena or even Stefan. She wonders briefly if he even knows her favorite color.

A long finger traces her jawline. "Caroline."

She blinks out of her reverie. "Yellow," she says.

He cocks his head to one side, inviting her to continue.

"My favorite color. It's yellow." He still doesn't say anything and she shrugs lamely. "Seems like something you should maybe, I dunno, be aware of or something."

Something flashes in the blue depths of his eyes. His hands fasten themselves around her waist and in the time it takes her to inhale his scent, they're in his bedroom, her back against the wall. He kisses her, slanting his mouth over hers, a kiss far sweeter than she would have expected from him. She kisses him for minutes, for hours, for a lifetime, until she can't breathe.

Klaus pulls back slightly, letting her catch her

There's a look on his face that Caroline can't remember having ever seen before. It makes her breath catch and her heart trip over a beat. "Klaus," she whispers, her hand going up to cup his face; his stubble scratches her palm. "You won't break me."

He gives a small, husky laugh in her ear. "Unfortunately for you, that is explicitly untrue." But still his fingers trail up her sides before gripping handfuls of her shirt and sliding it over her head.

"Maybe it is," she murmurs as his lips trace a line down the column of her throat; there's a faint lick of fear in the back of her mind before she forgets entirely why she was ever afraid of him. Which, she admits dazedly to herself, isn't possibly the smartest thing she's ever done considering who he is and what she herself has become. Her next words are lost in a haze of feeling—but maybe I don't care.

"You're thinking too hard, Caroline," he rasps into the fine bones of her ribcage, his breath making her fight the shivers. Her fingers tighten on his shoulders.

"Maybe I wouldn't be able to think if someone would get on with the show," she retorts. The tartness of her tone disappears when she sucks in a mouthful of air in response to his fingers sliding themselves beneath the line of her underwear. He laughs again, his mouth still making a seductive march down her body.

To her great disappointment, he completely ignores her breasts, leaving her bra on and herself extremely frustrated. "Klaus," she complains, drawing his name out into a whine as he noses her belly button; she can feel him grin against the edge of her hipbone. "Klaus, that's not nice."

The grin turns wolfish and warmth slowly spreads through the bottom of her stomach as she realizes the position they're suddenly in—him, on his knees in front of her, fingers strumming the line of what she wishes were sexier panties instead of these-were-all-that-were-clean-because-hello-the-world-is-ending boy shorts.

But then the boy shorts are gone—please not ripped, she pleads silently with whatever deity may be listening because they're one of her favorite pairs. The look Klaus gives her is less teasing and playful and more—well, smoldering. Like he wants to eat her alive, and the thought sends goose bumps skating down her arms.

Oh God, his mouth—his tongue traces her and she supposes this is payback for the forest because her knees go weak, all of the heat in her body rushing to the exact place where his tongue is touching her.

He finds that spot and Caroline pushes her hips closer in encouragement, but all he does is gently trace around it, circling with that magical, beautiful, blessed tongue.

Stars dot her vision and her fingers desperately hunt along the wall for something, anything to hold on to, but there are no crevices or dents to grasp in the smooth sheet rock. One hand instead grips his hair, the fingers clutching so tightly there must be pain, but Klaus says nothing. Her other hand is fisted over her mouth, half-heartedly trying to keep herself quiet; but Klaus pulls away and she cries, "Seriously?!" before she can clap the hand back to its former place.

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh before hitching her leg up over his shoulder. Caroline has an instant to thank the universe and Klaus's good planning for his enormous empty house before she can't keep the noises in the back of her throat muted any longer. "Oh God," she moans, no longer caring that she's feeding Klaus's ego beast.

After the white-hot sparks fade and she can open her eyes again, he's nosing at her hair, his arms around her waist. Good thing, too—her legs are jelly. When she tries to take a step towards him, her knees buckle and her hands grasp at his arms to keep herself from falling into an actual puddle of gooey mush.

"Your face'll stick that way if you're not careful," she grumbles, scowling good-naturedly at the smug look of satisfaction on his face. "Oh wait, it already has."

Klaus laughs, a real laugh, and her heart warms to it. Oh Forbes, you are so sunk.

"The fun is just beginning, sweetheart," he says and she presses her ear into his chest, pretending the beat of his heart is real.

… … …

Caroline kisses his cheek to wake him before she pulls her shirt over her head. Her fingers brush over her hair and she winces at the feeling of tangles.

"You're getting dressed," Klaus mumbles disapprovingly into his pillow. One hand reaches out from under the covers, long fingers circling her wrist to stop her. "A travesty. Come back here." He tugs.

Caroline offers him a tiny smile and leans down to kiss him again, this time lingering at his mouth. "I'm just going outside for a minute," she promises, her nose rubbing against his before she finds her jeans. "Fresh air, sunshine—I'll be right back."

His grip relaxes but he kisses her more deeply as though in a last ditch effort to keep her in his bed. "Be right back," she says again, pulling away and slipping out of the door.

The air is warmer than normal for this time of year, the bite of autumn held at bay—probably for reasons Caroline doesn't particularly want to think about. Instead she closes her eyes as she walks, letting herself really feel the sunshine caressing her face. She hasn't felt this light, this weightless in ages, like she's walking on air—

"Figured out your post Apocalypse plans, beautiful girl?"

She crashes back down to earth with a grit of her teeth. "Loki."

Loki—or Gabriel, whatever his identity crisis has him calling himself today, flashes her a wide grin. "Wanna have a drink?"

A fantastic spread appears in front of the patch of grass he's sitting on. Bottles of wine pop up from nowhere and he brandishes two glasses from thin air. "Sit," he says.

Caroline crosses her arms and looks down her nose at him. "No, thanks."

Gabriel—her minds seems to have decided which one it believes him to be—actually pouts. It makes her want to kick dirt in his face, which, while admittedly one of her more childish urges, seems highly satisfying in her imagination. Where, she begrudgingly tells herself, it will one thousand percent stay.

"Come on, just one drink!" he prods, his face suddenly somber and his eyes ancient; Caroline's fingers tighten on her elbows. She sits down but doesn't accept the glass of red wine he immediately thrusts her way.

"I don't trust you," she says instead.

He looks delighted by her candor. "I know. You think I have it out for you, your brothers, your species, etcetera, etcetera, to infinity and beyond." Gabriel waves his hand as though swatting a particularly annoying fly. "I don't."

Caroline gives an indelicate snort. "Oh, so I'm just supposed to believe you?" she challenges, managing to infuse just enough haughtiness into her voice to make his jaw visibly set. "You're a few gazillion years old, and I'm assuming you've loved your brothers your whole life, so why in the hell should I take your word for it that you convinced Sam to take on Michael for the goodness of the human race?" Gabriel tilts his head at her but says nothing so she continues, voice rising in octave as she works herself up, "For all we know, you could be the ace up Michael's sleeve—"

"Michael doesn't play cards," Gabriel offers helpfully; she has to clench her fist to keep from smacking the shit out of him.

"What the fuck ever," she snarls. "Regardless of the goddamn metaphor, your ultimate endgame is anyone's guess—bat for your brothers' team and sacrifice mine for the win or legit be on humanity's side—either way, you put Sam on the altar with that psychotic asshole and I'm not going to sing your praises just because you seem to think I should!"

The last words don't pack quite as much punch as she would have liked—she ran out of breath near the end of her tirade and tries to quietly gasp the air back into her lungs without Gabriel noticing.

Which he, of course, does, flashing a smirk her way. "Nice speech. Missing something, though."

"Oh yeah?" She sneers the words, packs as much Klaus into her tone as possible. "And what's that?"

Gabriel shrugs and takes a sip of wine, swishing it around in his mouth for a bit before answering. His face, she thinks grimly, is seriously begging for punch.

"Sam."

Her entire body coils, muscles tightening and pulling taut under her skin. All of her earlier relaxation has completely vanished; she's a spring just waiting for release.

"The whole thing was Sam's idea."

She calls bullshit immediately. "You're a liar. Sam would never—"

"Would never what? He would never trade himself for Dean? Or for you, for that matter?" Gabriel shoots her a pitying look. "If you really think that, you didn't know your brother at all."

When her only response is a tight glare, he continues lightly, "I mean, it's not like the Winchester boys are known for taking each other's places in front of the firing squad or anything. You gonna drink that or buy it dinner?"

Caroline doesn't protest as he takes her untouched glass of wine and downs it in one gulp. "He's going to die, isn't he." It's not a question and perhaps the directness of it is what makes Gabriel look up and take notice.

"Aw, hey," he hedges, "I'm just an archangel, I don't know the future."

She shakes her head. "There's no other outcome to this," she says flatly. The sunshine feels too hot on her face. "Sam dies, or Dean dies, or we all die. That's the hand we were dealt."

"Man, what is it with you and card game metaphors," Gabriel mutters irritably before sighing. "Look, Caroline. Sam knew what he was getting into. I didn't pretty up the facts for him or lie to him about the odds. Think of it this way—" he reaches over and affectionately pats her knee; she automatically jerks away. "Sam did what he did to give you and Dean a chance. Without that…you'd be shit outta luck, sweetheart."

… … …

She doesn't make the same mistake twice—before making a beeline out of the Mikaelson house, she shook Klaus awake again to tell him she needs to go home. His small smile at the sight of her had dimmed slightly but he had waved her on, saying something about needing to talk to Rebekah.

Caroline had nodded, not really listening, and then headed straight to the Falls. Not, she tells herself fiercely, in hopes of seeing Joshua. She really just needed to clear her head and let her thoughts get as loud as they need to be.

"I need a plan," she says aloud to no one. Something, anything to keep Sam and Dean safe. There can't be any other outcome, no other way this story ends.

She paces restlessly across the empty clearing at the top of the Falls, racking her brain in desperation.

Dean traded his soul for Sam, Sam traded himself for Dean—what's stopping Michael from using her to hurt them?

Nothing.

Nothing.

"That's it," Caroline announces to the air, in slight awe that she didn't think of it before. She can trade herself. There's no way Michael won't accept that—the opportunity to devastate both Winchesters? She'd bet her entire savings—admittedly not much—that psycho archangel would jump at the chance.

She exhales shakily. It doesn't make everything okay, this plan—but maybe, just maybe, she'll get lucky.

There is rustling behind her and Caroline can't help but groan in irritation.

"Can't a girl brood in peace?" she snips waspishly at the intruder. Her human sense don't tell her who exactly has snuck up on her but if she had to bet money, she'd guess Dean, Klaus, or Castiel—and in that order.

Crowley's lightly accented voice nearly makes her topple over into the Falls. "I would have wagered all Winchesters had perfected the art of brooding in public."

She's not really sure how to take that, but she's pretty sure there's no maliciousness behind it so she says, "Dean's the best at it, but don't tell Sam." Her voice lowers as though Sam might overhear and she confides, "Sam's got the best bitch face in at least two counties."

Crowley stares at her as though she's a puzzle that doesn't match its box but doesn't say anything. They stand in surprisingly companionable silence, the birds chirping brightly overhead and the water rushing from the Falls down to the rocks below the only noises to be heard.

To both of their surprises, Caroline says softly, "Sam taught me how to swim in that creek." She doesn't wait for a response; doesn't stop to think why she's recounting this memory to Crowley of all people. She just continues. "Bonnie and Elena, their parents taught them how to do everything—swim, ride bikes, all that important stuff." Her fingers start to absently twirl the ends of her twin braids. "Sam taught me how to swim in that river—" she points down and Crowley's eyes follow her finger, "—and Dean let go of my two-wheel bike without telling me until I had made it down the driveway."

Silence settles between them again until— "Why do you want to be the King of Hell?" she asks curiously.

Crowley half-shrugs. "It's simple enough—I have too many demons out for my blood, sweetheart." He shoots her a devilish smile. "I'm nothing if not self-serving."

Caroline nods as though she understands—maybe she does, a little. After all, she would cheerfully throw herself on the altar if it meant Sam and Dean both walked away from this. "I think," she posits carefully, "we're all a little selfish sometimes."

His smile vanishes and he leans forward, the air around them suddenly snapping with power. The hair on her arms stands straight up and she has to force her muscles tense to keep from taking a step back.

"You should know, Caroline," Crowley says, his eyes the pure black of his kind, "one of them will die. It's an inevitability."

It's as though ice has been dumped over her head. "Excuse me?"

"There is no scenario in which both Winchesters walk away from this Apocalypse. The sooner you prepare yourself for that reality, the better."

Her head swims. "You're wrong," she argues faintly, thinking about her new failsafe. "You don't know—I can take Sam's place, you know that crazy dick Michael would freaking love that. He's all about torturing them—"

Crowley actually snorts at her proposal, all earlier friendliness gone without a trace. In its place, all that is left is cruel grimness. "You? You're not even a blood Winchester—but if you truly believe Michael will go for that, then who knows? You might just be, seeing as how that has all the earmarks of a classic Winchester plan—thoughtlessly rushed and doomed to fail."

That snaps her out of her frozen shock. "They've beaten better than you," she retorts fiercely, feeling her face warm with anger.

"Be that as it may," Crowley allows. "Your brothers are walking definitions of winning the battle but losing the war."

A blink and he's gone.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Caroline shouts at the empty air, her breaths coming in shaky bursts. "Seriously, what the fuck?!" She kicks a clump of dirt off the edge of the hill she's standing on and it plummets down to the bottom of the Falls. "So that's it?" she cries at the sky. "You're just going to let them die?"

There's no answer. No answer, no failsafe, no backup plan, no Break Glass in Case of Fire.

And for the first time in a long while, hopelessness settles within her.

… … …

Three days pass and Caroline allows herself to think that maybe Crowley was just screwing with her head—maybe he was just being a dick, which Dean says is like, right up his psycho alley.

Then the fourth day comes.

Insistent pounding on their front door makes Caroline drop her spoon into the bowl in her lap, her blood freezing in her veins. "Dean."

Matt bursts in, blue eyes blazing and darting around the room; Bonnie enters swiftly behind him, the door slamming shut and locking with a loud snick. They both turn to Dean and Caroline; behind her, Caroline hears Castiel pointedly clear his throat.

When she looks over at Dean, her brother's face is drawn and grim. "Showtime," he says.

Armageddon.

… … …

tbc.

A/N: There is no way that this chapter could have been written without encouragement and prodding from the always lovely and amazing labonsoirfemme. She also proofread, held my hand and let me talk her ear off. If you're a Game of Thrones fan, do yourself a favor and go check out her amazing work.

Reviews are lovely if you have the time.

As always, I'm on tumblr as little-miss-sunny-daisy. You can find me there or PM me here!