A/N: After much hand-wringing and edits, here it is. All that's left is the epilogue, my friends.

the birth and death of the day

15.

As it turns out, dying feels an awful lot like falling.

"I wouldn't look if I were you," a woman's voice says. Caroline's head spins, and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly before opening them to meet those of a pale woman with a pretty face, her dark hair cut into a bob that is just shy of severe in its bluntness. "I mean, you can, if you want to," the woman continues, "but I wouldn't." She shrugs. "Most people don't like to see themselves that way." Her gaze moves to somewhere over Caroline's shoulder. "You probably don't want to see Dean like that, either."

They're standing outside of the Impala under a street lamp, the world shrouded in soft blue-gray light. Caroline looks down, and finds that her shirt and her stomach are both whole. She feels dizzy and unsteady on her own feet, her legs wobbly like a newborn colt.

"I'm Tessa," the woman offers, her head tilting slightly as she considers Caroline. She does not extend a hand in greeting. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."

The words are hardly comforting, given that she's pretty sure she's in some kind of ghost world. That, and the strange, fuzzy weightlessness in her limbs, means she's definitely dying, if not already dead. Caroline's brow furrows as she flips through the lore of various supernatural creatures Sam and Dean had drilled into her brain. She keeps her eyes locked on Tessa, who seems entirely unbothered as she waits for Caroline to speak—

"Reaper," Caroline realizes with sudden clarity, and Tessa rewards her with a warm smile that feels entirely out of place here.

"Afraid so."

She can't help it. She turns and leans forward to peer into the car window, catching a glimpse of herself.

She's instantly regretful.

The scene is horrifying.

Her body is sprawled across the backseat, her back resting in Castiel's lap until he frantically slides one arm under her knees and the other just under her shoulders to haul her, bridal style, out of the car. He is met by Dean, who is practically vibrating with barely contained fear and desperation. She can tell by the expression on his face that he is shouting at Cas, and the Mikaelson mansion is looming in the background, rising out of the pale grey fog like a monument to all that she would be leaving behind.

Caroline whirls back around, palms pressing into her eyes as though the pressure will make her forget, will make her unsee. "Fuck," she whispers, voice cracking on the hard constenats.

When she opens her eyes again, Tessa's face is sympathetic. "Sorry," she offers comfortingly. "If it helps, I don't like seeing him like that either. Good guy, your brother."

"You know him?"

Tessa's smile is rueful. "Tried to reap him once. Keyword being tried, mind you. The brothers Winchester have this weird habit of not staying dead. Lucky for them, highly inconvenient for me." She reaches out to touch Caroline's shoulder gently. "Are you ready to go?"

Caroline jerks backward at the contact. "Um, no? If I go with you, don't I end up in one of exactly two places?" She motions behind her. "If I leave, doesn't that mean that...it's over?" Tears gather in her lashes, threatening to spill over. "Lights out?"

"Who's to say?" Tessa shrugs. "I don't know what waits for you. But I do know that if you stay...well, then." She considers Caroline, as though evaluating just how much hard truth she can handle in her current state. "You're familiar with vengeful spirits?"

Ice threads the highway of her veins at the thought. "Seriously?"

Tessa shrugs again. "Well, you never know. Maybe you won't slowly lose your mind after the deaths of all the people you're choosing to stay behind for. Everybody's different." She considers Caroline thoughtfully. "But you'd be the first."

Well, that's hardly comforting.

She can feel Tessa's gaze on her, an air of breezy casualness to her expression that is contradicted by the sharpness that lurks in the corners of her eyes. "What do you say?" she asks, holding her hand out. "Want to go into the light?"

Caroline hesitates. She wants so badly to turn around again, to cast another glance over her shoulder for another look at Dean, but—

"I can't leave him," she says finally, her arms wrapping around her midsection. "Everybody's left already, I—I can't do it, too."

Tessa's chin drops slightly. "Caroline," she says with a heavy sigh. "Death...is a part of life. Everyone who was ever born will die too. Including Dean."

"Not vampires," Caroline counters. "And especially not the Originals—the Mikaelsons."

Tessa snorts, dislike evident on her face. "Yeah, I'm sure that family will survive the heat death of the universe like the little cockroaches they are." Her voice softens. "But what will you do when Dean dies, and his spirit moves on? You'll be stuck here, and sure, maybe it will be okay for a while. There'll be Dean's children, his children's children to watch over. But then what?"

She circles Caroline as she muses, "You'll watch as your friends get married—your spirit will be around for that, and you'll watch as they have children, and so on and so forth. Maybe you'll even tell yourself that you're watching over them, like some bastardized version of a guardian angel. But then what?" Her hands spread in an exaggerated shrug. "What are you going to do in this realm by yourself? Caught between two worlds?"

It isn't until she feels the weight of a tear dripping off of her face that Caroline realizes she is crying. "Maybe I'll just haunt Klaus," she mumbles with a humorless chuckle. Tessa doesn't laugh with her. "You know, you just described all the reasons I didn't want to be a vampire," she continues scratchily, reaching up to wipe her face.

Tessa's face is warm. "I know," she says simply, and she holds out her hand again. "Shall we?"

This time, she doesn't fight the urge to cast a last look over her shoulder. But Dean is gone, vanished into the soft grey mists.

Caroline takes Tessa's hand.

… … …

She wakes up at home, her cheek plastered to a couch pillow.

Or at least, some version of home—it smells like her house, and the noises behind her are deeply familiar: the sounds of the kitchen cabinets opening and shutting, pots jostling against each other, and the crackle of the stove.

Slowly, with no small amount of fear, her fingers pull upwards on the hem of her shirt.

Nothing. There isn't so much as a scratch on her. She lets her shirt fall back down, and examines her surroundings.

It's her living room, that much is for certain. But it's not her living room now—the blankets are all ones Caroline hasn't seen in years, the TV is their old tube TV, and the only photo on the mantle is from the day Caroline was born. Not a Winchester—or Bill Forbes, for that matter—in sight.

"How's my baby?" Liz Forbes' voice asks, and Caroline freezes, unable to move, unable to do anything but watch as her mother—her mother—walks into the living room with a small plastic bowl of soup. There are dancing Disney princesses on the sides, and the handle of the spoon extends down from Simba's roaring mouth. Caroline recognizes it immediately as her own from when she was a toddler, and her brow furrows as the pieces slowly click into place.

The memory tugs at the far recesses of her mind.

She'd been barely three, and she'd caught some bug that all small kids tend to pass back and forth amongst each other. Caroline hazily remembers that it had been not long after her dad had left, and it had felt like misery on top of misery to be forced to stay at home with a babysitter rather than go to her preschool and play with her friends.

But her mom had stayed home with her instead, making her her favorite chicken and stars soup and watching Power Rangers with her.

"Oh, honey," Liz says, her hand coming up to rest against Caroline's forehead. Caroline lets her eyes drift shut, trying desperately to hold on to how her mother's palm feels. "You're still warm." She sits down and pulls Caroline into her arms. Caroline inhales deeply and she doesn't care if this is just a memory, she wants to stay here forever—

The scene vanishes. She is suddenly standing in an empty field, and she hears, "Didja bring 'em, Dean?"

Her heart twists. She knows that voice, she knows that voice—

Thirteen year old Sam bounds up next to her, followed swiftly by teenage Dean jingling the Impala's car keys in the air. "Course I brought 'em, Sammy." A palm drops on to her shoulder. "Psyched for the show, Care?"

She stares up at him, seven years old and full of awe. "Fourth of July," she whispers, her voice cracking on the last syllable. Her limbs move of their own accord, propelling her forward towards the trunk of the Impala; her voice says, "I want to light one!"

And she remembers this, in stark clarity. As though it were yesterday.

"Can't letcha do that, Care," teenage Dean says breezily, maneuvering his Zippo lighter away from her grasping hands. "Sammy, line 'em up!" Sam mock salutes, lining up no less than thirteen fireworks in a row.

The flick of a lighter, the brief scent of lighter fluid, and the high pitched shriek of rockets taking off then—

The sky catches fire. Caroline tilts her face towards it, letting the heat from the fireworks warm her skin as the memory warms her heart.

But she is yanked away.

Again, the scene shifts, morphing into the quad at Mystic Falls High and Caroline actually cries out when her eyes open. "Take me back!" she shouts at the empty air, but the quad remains silent.

A throat clears behind her and every muscle in Caroline's body tenses before she whirls around, fists clenched.

The last person she expects to see is her kindergarten teacher.

"Ms.—Ms. Tara?" she sputters in shock. "What the actual fuck?"

Ms. Tara looks the exact same as she had thirteen years ago, her dark hair still long and wavy, threaded with silvery streaks and held back from her face with a headband. She has the same warm smile and sweet, motherly air that Caroline hazily remembers. "Hello, Caroline," she greets quietly, and though she looks just like the Ms. Tara of Caroline's memory, something is not quite right about her.

"What the fuck was that?" she demands angrily, thrusting a pointer finger behind her before an icy thought whispers down her spine. "Am I...in Hell?" Another beat then, "Where's Tessa?"

"Tessa's job is complete. She is no longer needed," Ms. Tara replies easily. "Why would you be in Hell?"

Caroline swallows hard. "Just—just answer the question."

Ms. Tara tilts her head thoughtfully. "No. This isn't Hell."

She snorts. "So this—" she gestures at the empty, and frankly slightly creepy, Mystic High quad. "This is Heaven?"

"As below, so above," Ms. Tara quips. "As many different souls exist, so does Heaven, Caroline. This is your version."

And oh, that stings. Being a kid with Sam again, with her mother again, is one thing, but the idea that her subconscious brain's idea of Paradise is the same town that she never managed to get herself out of in life—well. That just fucking rankles.

"Be gentle on yourself. You were only eighteen," Ms. Tara chides. Caroline's spine prickles at the implication.

"Don't read my thoughts," she snaps before mumbling irritably, "Pretty uncreative for Heaven. You'd think I'd at least give myself wings. Or a unicorn."

Ms. Tara smiles at that, her face as kind as Caroline remembers.

It's unsettling.

"So does that make you the Dumbledore to my Harry?" she asks finally. "Am I supposed to greet Death like an old friend?"

Ms. Tara laughs appreciatively. "It is entirely up to you how you greet Death," she says before her face grows serious. "I'm glad you have kept your sense of humor, Caroline, especially in light of everything you have been through. But I am not Death."

The words are comforting on their face, but after further examination— "Wait, are you…God?" Her fists clench and unclench as she tries to stave off rising panic. "Oh my god, I'm really dead, aren't I?" The panic she has been fighting since seeing Tessa begins to crest in her stomach, threatening to pull her under its rising tide. "Some low-level pencil pushing dick killed me? Or wait—" the rational part of her brain takes over and she shakes her head, trying to gather her thoughts—they're a mess, she's a mess— "Or this is all just my, like, brain trying to comfort me before I bite it, right? You, Tessa, this whole thing is my brain stem sending out its final pulses, right?"

A bitter laugh escapes her; Ms. Tara says nothing, a silent observer as she spirals. "So, you're either God, or, like, the last gasp of my neurons firing off before they shut down forever." She inhales deeply, though her lungs have yet to protest at how little she's breathing. "You have to be in my head. Why would God look like my kindergarten teacher?"

Ms. Tara is watching her with a carefully blank expression. "You chose this form," she points out gently. "Most people, when they come to this place, want to be comforted."

It's not surprising, but the confirmation still floods her with despair.

"You could stay, if you'd like," Not-Ms. Tara offers with a kind smile. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and she gestures behind her at the eerily empty quad. "Your mother is here."

Oh, she can so not think about that right now, can't think about how badly she wishes she could feel Liz Forbes' arms around her again. What she would give to have that back.

If she presses on that particular bruise, the temptation to stay might just win out.

Caroline's heart stutters; good to know it's still beating, at least. "Is Sam here?" she whispers, almost terrified of the answer.

Slowly, slowly, Ms. Tara shakes her head. Her smile is gone. "No."

Caroline swallows again, her throat tight and her mouth dry. "What—what was that back there?"

"A memory." The barely there lines around Ms. Tara's eyes crinkle. "That's what Heaven is, Caroline. All of your best memories, in one place." She gestures around. "And a place where you may have found peace."

Peace. In Mystic Falls. It almost makes her laugh.

But—

"Could I—could I take Sam's place? If you're God, you can make that happen, right?" Her voice pitches upwards at the end, the desperation palpable. "You could bring him back, back to Dean." Hope and fear rise in her chest, combating each other at every turn. She is terrified of Hell, but for Sam, for her first big brother, she will do it. She steels herself, nails biting into her palms as she clenches her fists. "You could send me to Hell and bring him back."

But Ms. Tara's smile fades. "I could."

The implication is clear. "But you won't."

"Things are ever as they are supposed to be."

Cryptic and unhelpful. "Can you get Sam back?"

Her former teacher's face is sad, and something about it makes Caroline's nerves alight with anger. "I cannot," she says mournfully. "I'm sorry, but I cannot bring him back."

The anger crests into a crescendo. "I shouldn't be surprised," Caroline snaps. "Thanks for all your help during the Apocalypse, by the way. Loved taking that shitshow on all by our mortal selves."

Ms. Tara—God, she guesses—looks acutely uncomfortable, and this is definitely the weirdest thing that has ever happened to her, bar none. Including the time Katherine killed her.

Which—

"Wait. Why didn't I come here before?" she demands. "I've died before and I don't remember any of this. I don't remember you, or meeting any Reapers, or coming here."

"Who is to say you didn't?" Ms. Tara asks cryptically. "Who is to say you will remember this time?"

Caroline stares at her in mounting frustration. It's not the smartest thing she'll ever do, scolding God, but she can't help the torrent of bitterness that flows out of her mouth. "Yeah well. I can't stay. I have people who need me, and unlike some, I won't abandon them. You see, I know a thing or two about loyalty. Besides," and she's quieter now, some of the fire within her waning, "I promised Castiel I'd teach him how to drive."

At Castiel's name, Ms. Tara's smile fades a bit. "That is entirely your choice," she says. "I can, of course, send you back, if you wish."

"What's the catch?" Caroline demands suspiciously. "You send me back, but one of my friends has to die? You send me back, but I'm a ghost? Come on, nothing's ever free with you people."

"No catch," Ms. Tara promises. "You will be as you were."

"Human?"

"As human as you like."

Caroline groans. "Do you have to be so cryptic? Is that, like, part of the whole God deal?" She narrows her eyes. "No wonder everyone in the Bible gets so frustrated with you, you won't give a straight answer!"

For a brief moment, the figure in front of her is silent, her gaze watchful; and Caroline wonders if she's gone too far, if she's just earned herself a smiting. But then Ms. Tara smiles in what seems to be genuine amusement.

"If you'd like to return as human, you can return as human. If you'd like to return as a vampire, that is entirely up to you. It is your choice."

It's on the tip of her tongue to ask the question that's been on her mind for over a year. "Do...do vampires get to come back here?" Caroline gestures around at the quad. "If they die, I mean. If—if I died, as a vampire, would I come here? Would I go to Heaven?"

"I cannot tell you."

Of course not. Anger, exasperation, and grief all bubble up within her, spilling over and out. "Why?" she shouts back at Ms. Tara, giving into her frustration as her voice tears at her throat. "Who makes these rules if not you? Aren't you God? Who's gonna snitch on you?! Who would they snitch to?"

"I do not interfere," Ms. Tara reminds her, and she looks genuinely sorrowful.

"That's bullshit," Caroline hisses, stabbing her pointer finger in Ms. Tara's direction. "That's a copout, and you fucking know it."

"I assure you that it isn't. Caroline, if you knew all the answers to your questions, would you still make the same choices?" Ms. Tara's eyes narrow on her, and Caroline shrinks backwards before she catches herself. "Would you?"

Her mouth is dry, and she doesn't know. She doesn't know. If she had the guarantee of an eventual reunion with Dean, with her dad, with her mom, would she stay human? Or would she allow Klaus to turn her, and spend a few centuries wandering the earth with him until she tired of it?

She doesn't know the answer.

"I cannot tell you because you must, must make decisions for yourself." Ms. Tara's eyes are suddenly ancient, carrying constellations and galaxies within their depths. "You were given the gift of free will, and to tell you all of the things you wish to know would rob you of that gift."

A small, self-deprecating smile lingers at Ms. Tara's mouth, and Caroline is sure that even if she somehow lives forever, this moment right here will never be usurped as the most insane thing to ever happen to her. She's watching God laugh at herself—himself? Itself? Her head starts to hurt.

"Even I am not so cruel as that," Ms. Tara says. "Now," and like that, the conversation is clearly over, "human, then?"

Caroline stares at her before nodding once. "Yeah. Thanks." She injects as much sarcasm as she can into the word, and she sees one corner of Ms. Tara's mouth ticks upwards before the light around her spins, then goes out.

… … …

The first thing she notices is liquid, warm and thick, on her tongue, in her throat. She coughs a little, then tries to swallow. It tastes coppery.

The second thing she notices is the sound of shouting.

Caroline blinks her eyes open and tries to sit up.

It's a taller task than she had initially grasped. Her head spins, her vision swims, and she winces, her hand going out to grasp onto something. Someone.

"Easy there," Stefan says gently through the noise, and it must be his hand cradling the back of her head. "Steady, Care."

Someone is holding her hand, and they squeeze tightly at the sound of Stefan's voice. She turns her head and sees that it's Elena, a tight, worried look on her face. Caroline squeezes her hand back, but the worry doesn't fade from her friend's face.

The shouting ceases almost immediately then, and the quiet is somehow worse. It echoes in her ears like the ring of a bell.

"What happened?" she asks, instinctively wiping her mouth on her sleeve. It comes back bloody and everything is rushing back to her all at once, overloading her senses. Her heartrate kicks up; she can hear it pounding a nervous tattoo in her ears.

She had been stabbed.

She had died.

Her hand flies to her side, though logically she knows that the wound is gone. But she needs to see it for herself, needs to feel the wholeness of her skin where the knife had sunk in. Her sweatshirt has dried to a deep, dark red, and her finger slides through the hold the knife had made. Her heart sinks. Sam's gift, ruined; and it's as though another small piece of him slips through her fingers.

Castiel's face appears in front of her, his brow furrowed. "I thought the demons were on our side?" she says to him weakly, still clutching tightly at her side as though her fingers are still holding the wound together, as though she'll bleed out if she removes them.

"Most of them were," he says quietly, "for the Apocalypse." His blue eyes meet hers and they are troubled. "Did the demon say anything when it—" Cas trails off and gestures towards where her knuckles have gone white from her tight clutching of her ruined sweatshirt.

Caroline nods once, acutely aware that all the eyes of the room are on her. "'He shall yet rise'," she recites, fighting off a shiver as she watches Castiel's face closely. "That's what he said. Then he was gone." She hesitates before adding, "I didn't recognize him, for what it's worth. Don't think he was a local."

Dean looms over Castiel's shoulder. "I'm gonna rip his lungs out," he announces, face thunderous. Confusion flashes across Castiel's face, though he doesn't break Caroline's gaze.

"It was a demon," he says firmly. "And it has likely abandoned its host, so I do not think it is susceptible to pulmonary removal now."

"It's a figure of speech," Dean snaps irritably, pacing the small space in front of her that isn't blocked by a coffee table.

"Oh." Cas tilts his head as though taking mental notes. "I was unfamiliar with the reference." His eyes search Caroline's and she wonders what he sees there. "What did you see? While you were dead?"

The temperature in the room seems to fall several degrees. Dean's hands drop to his hips and he looks down, suddenly fascinated by the hardwood flooring that runs through—wait, where the hell even is she? Caroline looks up, sees a stunning, extravagant, expensive chandelier and looks back down.

Mikaelsons.

So she had been seeing reality as it played out, back in the pale blue world between worlds.

"I, uh—" It's easier to look at Castiel than literally anyone else in this room, which currently contains far more people than she particularly wants to tell about her version of the afterlife. Her eyes slip over towards Dean, then back to Castiel. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Klaus, whose face is carefully composed; the only outward sign of his leashed temper is the tension in his crossed forearms.

She looks away, focusing on Castiel.

"I met Tessa," she says finally. It's a dodge, but she figures she's allowed to keep some things to herself for now.

Whatever Cas was expecting her to say, that wasn't it. Disappointment flares across his face, but Dean is suddenly squatting in front of her, his hands coming forward to grasp hers. She lets go of Elena's hand immediately, but doesn't loosen her grip on her sweatshirt.

"Tessa the reaper?" he demands.

Caroline nods. " Yeah. She's uh. Nice?" She offers him a weak half-smile that he does not return. "She likes you."

Dean shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, shifting his weight back onto the balls of his feet as though he has no idea what to do with this information. "So you got reaped?"

She wants to tell him more, wants to tell him about Heaven and bitch about how boring it seemed, but she really doesn't want to tell anyone else in the room and she's pretty sure she can't fit all of it into her expression. So she shrugs one shoulder and says softly, "Yeah. She—she said that if she didn't do it, I'd be like, stuck there. And I'd become a..." her voice trails off, her eyes dropping to settle on where she's clutching his hand in her own.

"A vengeful spirit," Dean supplies for her, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck wearily. She waits for him to ask where she went after that, but instead, his eyes narrow at her and then he's pulling her up to stand. "We're going home," he informs the room flatly, and to her surprise, nobody makes a move to stop them.

… … …

The bottom drops out as soon as they arrive home.

"We're leaving," Dean announces as he tosses the Impala's car keys onto the kitchen counter. Caroline stops in her tracks, frozen to the spot until Bobby clears his throat from the doorway. Flushing, she moves out of the way and turns to where Dean is now pacing the length of the living room, his hand moving over his chin.

"Okay," she says slowly, her heart pounding. Her finger slides through the hole on her sweatshirt; she should probably change clothes but somehow, the idea of taking it off makes her anxious, as though Ms. Tara-as-God might change her mind and take it all back. "And we are going…where, exactly?"

"Dunno yet. Somewhere safe."

She stares at him, unsure if she's missed something. "Yeah, that's implied. But, like…where is safe, Dean? Pretty sure they have demons in, like, Mongolia or whatever—"

"I said I don't know, Caroline!" Dean shouts at her, and the sheer shock of his raised voice has her frozen again. The sound of it seems to echo off the walls, ricocheting back towards them.

They stare at each other from opposite ends of the room. She doesn't think either of them breathe.

"Now I know John Winchester didn't raise you to yell at your sister, boy," says Bobby's voice sternly from somewhere behind Dean. "And I don't have the time to whoop your ass for it, but best believe I would if I did."

Dean groans, and their stalemate is broken. "Sorry," he mumbles; she nods wordlessly, and they're moving on. "But you gotta admit, we can't just stay here. Half of the netherworld knows where we fucking live, so what's the point of all the cloaking sigils and hiding spells if they can just knock on our goddamn door?"

"Hasn't stopped you from driving the same, not exactly inconspicuous, car for like, a billion years," she points out practically. "How many demons do you think saw you coming just from the Impala? Is it coming with us to Mongolia?" Her face lights up with exaggerated brightness. "Ooh, I bet Damon would buy it from you, he's a big classic car guy. He'd probably take good care of—"

"You leave my baby out of this," Dean cuts in, looking pained at the thought.

She continues as though he hadn't spoken. "And what about the house?" She waves a hand wildly towards the walls. "This is our house, in case you forgot. I grew up here, you grew up here—" her voice cracks, but she pushes through, her hand clutching at the hem of her shirt, "Sam grew up here, and my mom lived here, and I don't want to leave it!"

"Yeah, well I don't want to either, Care, but some asshole literally knocked on the front door and fucking stabbed the only family I've got left." He braces himself over the countertop. "You got a better idea?"

And she does, but it tastes like ash in her mouth. "I could move in with my dad," she suggests softly. It's not a great idea—she isn't thrilled about the idea of putting Bill Forbes in unnecessary danger, but she likes the idea of leaving town even less.

Dean flinches as though she had shouted the words. "No, that's not an option," he says shortly. "Your dad would've taken you straight to the hospital, and you'd've been DOA. And besides," he fixes her with a look, "we stick together."

Bobby clears his throat. "You might need to come to my place. Clear out of this town for a while, let the heat die down."

Caroline is shaking her head before he's done speaking. "I can't, school will start back up soon—"

"Fuck school," Dean snaps and she winces.

"But Dean, college—"

"You have to be alive to go to college. Get Stefan or Elena to compel your principal to let you do some remote Independent Study or some shit."

There is a soft flutter of wings, and Dean turns his attention away from her to where she assumes Castiel is now standing behind her. "What'd you find out?"

Instead of answering, Castiel comes to stand next to where she sits on the barstool. His expression is grim. "Demon," he confirms, "and he wasn't acting alone." He turns to her, his face turning sympathetic. "I am sorry," he says softly, "but I would argue in favor of leaving."

Her stomach drops into her shoes. "Really?"

Castiel nods, his hand coming up to clasp her shoulder. "I am sorry," he repeats, "but it is for the best, I think."

Dean claps his hands together once before pointing at her. "One duffel," he orders, steel in his voice. "Pack only what you need." He runs a hand over his hair, his eyes narrowed; she can practically see the wheels turning in his mind. "We're leaving tonight."

Panic courses through her—she can't just leave, especially not without any warning; there's no telling what her friends will do, what Klaus will do.

"Wait, wait, slow down," she pleads, following Dean as he turns and walks down the hall. She grabs his elbow and tugs, forcing him to stop and look at her. "I can't just—I need to talk to Elena to get her to compel the principal, and I have to tell my dad—"

"Yeah? When's he scheduled to come back from his Caribbean vacation?" Dean shoots back, pulling his arm free and continuing on his way down the hall. "Your phone works, call Elena. But don't tell her where you're going."

"How can I tell her where I'm going when I don't know where I'm going?" she cries out from behind him, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Dean! You have to give me until tomorrow!"

He stops, and Caroline watches helplessly as his shoulders tense, then drop, as though all of the fight has gone out of him. "Fine," he says without turning. "Cas!"

There's movement at her side and Caroline doesn't need to look to know Castiel is there. "I'll stay with her," Castiel confirms; Caroline shoots him a sidelong glance.

"I don't need a babysitter," she says flatly, and ahead of her, Dean snorts.

"Seems like you do," he retorts before disappearing into his room, the door shutting behind him. He doesn't slam it, but the soft snick of the handle reverberates inside of her ribs as though he had.

… … …

After an hour of bitterly packing under Castiel's watchful eye, she comes out of her room to brush her teeth only to find Dean sitting in the hallway, an enormous book open on his lap and his legs stretched out in front of him. He isn't even looking at the book, just staring at the empty space in front of him, face devoid of any emotion.

"That one looks like it's molding," she comments flatly, not bothering to announce her presence. She's still mad at him, after all.

At the sound of her voice, he jerks as though snapping out of a trance and looks down before snorting.

"Because it is," he says, shutting it with a thud and eying her from his spot on the floor. He pats the vacant spot next to him, all of his previous fiery energy dampened. "Sit a second, Care."

After a moment of brief hesitation, she settles in next to him; once she's still, Dean releases a sigh so heavy that his shoulders sag toward the end. One of his hands comes up to rub at the back of his neck.

"What was it like for you?" he asks quietly. She stares at him for a long moment and he clarifies, "Heaven. What was it like for you?"

She blinks in surprise. "You know about that?"

He shrugs. "Died a few times," he points out sardonically. "Me and Sam both, actually. Together. Figured it's where you went."

Something sharp slices through her and Caroline flinches. "You—you can't do that again," she says, her voice wobbling. "I need you to stay here."

"I know," he says, and it doesn't escape her that he doesn't actually promise her anything. He reaches out to take her hand in his. "But what was it like for you? What did you see?"

It's suddenly difficult to breathe; her throat feels like it's closing in on itself. She closes her eyes and reaches to grip his hand tightly as she inhales slowly, letting the air expand into every corner of her lungs and holding it there before exhaling. "Mom," she says and his fingers twitch around hers. "I saw Mom, from when I was really little and she stayed home with me while I was sick." She hesitates before adding, "And...I saw you and Sam. From that Fourth of July when we shot off fireworks and nearly burned down the O'Leary farm."

When she sneaks a glance over at him, there is a small, affectionate smile playing on his face. "We saw that one too," he tells her, and she squeezes his hand. "Did…" he trails off and lets his head drop back to rest against the wall behind their backs. "Did you meet anyone?"

She has a brief internal war over how to answer. He's clearly looking for something specific—meet instead of see or run into implies someone new, someone she didn't know before, but she doesn't think he's talking about meeting God in the form of a favored teacher.

"Maybe," she finally says. "Who did you have in mind?"

It's strange to be dancing around words with Dean, but she doesn't know who he's asking about, and she isn't all that sure she wants to unload her encounter with capital G God onto him. My poor brother, she thinks, you're already carrying so much.

And a not-so-small part of her is afraid of what Dean will do with the confirmation that God exists. Sam had been the devout one, so faithful and sure of a higher power. She can't help but wonder if Dean, once he had exhausted all the crossroads he could find, would try to strike a deal with a less demonic power.

"A guy named Ash? Or a chick, Pamela? Did either of them find you?"

Slowly, she shakes her head. "No. Can't say they did."

Dean nods silently, and he looks almost disappointed. He doesn't elaborate on who exactly Ash and Pamela were, and Caroline makes a note to ask Bobby later.

"Care," he says, and his knee starts jumping slightly, like he can't contain his suddenly anxious energy. "Don't—don't do that shit again."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "Answer the door?"

He doesn't laugh, but she didn't expect him to. "You...you were dead, Care. Stefan tried to give you his blood to heal you, and you just—you just didn't fucking move, and he said he couldn't hear your heartbeat." Dean looks directly at her, his face pale. "You were dead," he repeats emphatically, and his fingers are gripping hers so tightly that she feels the bones rub together. But she doesn't pull away.

"I know," she whispers, unable to tear her gaze from him. "I'm sorry." And it's stupid, apologizing for dying when all she did was answer a knock at the door, but she hates this—hates knowing that even for a moment, Dean had lost every single one of his family. "I'm so sorry."

He shoots her an irritated look. "You opened a door," he reminds her crossly. "You didn't exactly waltz into the lap of danger or some shit."

Caroline shrugs and they sit in silence until her criss-crossed legs begin to ache in protest.

"I'm going to bed," she tells him, pushing herself up on her palms to stand. "Try to get some sleep, okay?"

"You're one to talk," he retorts, but his tone is light. "Tossing and turning all night until you sneak out." He raises his eyebrows at her. "Feel like sharing where you've been going?"

And of course he's noticed. She groans internally but says with all the primness she can muster, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean looks like he wants to argue but instead he shakes his head and stands as well. "If Klaus turns you, I'm killing him," he says flatly. "I don't care if he's King Hybrid, or whatever, and I don't care if you're sneaking out to literally just sit for portrait sessions with him." He pins her with a look. "You die, I kill him."

"I don't think it works like that with Originals," she says softly. "Or Stefan and Damon would have tried it already."

He snorts at their names. "Those two clowns wouldn't know how to solve a problem if it slapped them both across their smug ass faces."

It's a bit of an unfair assessment, but she doesn't belabor the point. "It doesn't really matter," she reminds him, "seeing as how we're leaving tomorrow." She can't keep the bitterness from leaking out of her voice.

There is a brief moment of silence. "Care," Dean says finally, his tone giving her pause, "you know that with any other dude, I'd be all for you getting your feminist liberation on, or whatever."

Oh god. "Please don't continue," she begs, her face heating. "Please."

"He's too dangerous," Dean says flatly as she silently pleads with the universe to just swallow her whole. "You have to know that if you continue this, with him, the only way it ends is with you vamping out again. And that's the best case scenario. He might decide he's bored and just flat out kill you."

Her face feels like it's on fire. "I really don't think—"

"Just make sure you do think," Dean cuts in, and he's never reminded her more of John Winchester. "I can't force you to listen to me, but you're not an idiot. He's not a rehab project." His eyes narrow. "Don't invite his ass into this house either. The goal is to be able to come back to it."

"No, I haven't, I won't," she assures him hurriedly, taking tiny steps towards her door. "Not a fixer upper, don't die, don't invite him in. I got it." She nods emphatically as she grips her doorknob and pulls, probably harder than is strictly necessary.

"It's not a joke, Care," he calls after her irritably as she lets the door swing shut behind her. "And keep packing!"

When she steps inside her room, her window is open and the curtains are swaying slightly in the wind; but one glance tells her that it's empty.

With a heavy sigh, she shuts it and draws the curtains.

… … …

The nightmares are back, and they have evolved.

Terrible as it may be, it had been a saving grace that only Sam's bloodied face had appeared, wrapped in hellfire. Now she sees her mother's face, Dean's face, Elena's face, Bonnie's face—the faces of all the people she loves, the faces of her people, drowning in red flames, in agony—

Caroline wakes abruptly, with tears on her face and covered in sweat, her breath coming in short bursts. Her heart feels like it's about to pound out of her chest.

Drawing in tight, ragged gulps of air, she sits up and turns on her nightstand.

"Holy fuck!"

Gabriel leers at her from her desk chair; the soft light from her bedside lamp illuminates the shadow of his wings, folded carefully behind him. "I mean," he says lasciviously, his eyes raking over her purposefully. "We could. If you wanted to."

She scowls at him, her hand moving from where it had clasped at her chest in shock up to push sweaty hair off of her forehead. "Pass," she says. "What're you doing here? Besides being a major creep."

"Heard you died," he says cheerfully, leaning forward in her chair. "But look at you, all not-dead. It's very helpful, actually. So." He wiggles an eyebrow at her. "How did Dad look?"

Caroline blinks before getting out of bed, thankful that she hadn't kicked off her sleep shorts in the midst of her nightmares.

"She looked like my kindergarten teacher," she says waspishly, arching one eyebrow at him.

He scoffs and waves a dismissive hand.

"Gender," he says with a snort, "is a social construct." He shakes his head. "Humans. Always thinking in binary. Good and evil, black and white, like there's not a third, fourth, or fifth option. You know, it's a shame you can't speak Enochian. So much more nuance."

She scowls at him. "Whatever."

Gabriel hops up from her desk chair and paces at the foot of her bed. "So?" he repeats. "How did Dad look?"

There is something about his face—a hardness to his expression that Caroline isn't sure she's seen there before—that makes her hesitate before carefully choosing her words. "God looked—I dunno. Like my kindergarten teacher." She shrugs, a little helplessly. "I've never, you know, seen God before, so I don't have, like, a baseline."

His lips twist in what looks like a faint attempt at a smile. "True enough," he allows before sitting back down, and she sees the hesitation lingering in his eyes. It's an unfamiliar look on him. "Did—did he ask about me?"

A crack forms in Caroline's heart. Oh, she knows the emotions he seems to be keeping at bay: hurt, betrayal, rejection, loneliness, and that soft, biting edge of hope despite all the others. How many nights had she walked alone with only those feelings for companionship?

Briefly, she debates lying to him, considers telling him what he wants to hear.

But those nights when she had been so sure that Sam and Dean were never coming home, when she had convinced herself that her mother worked late to avoid being around her; the nights that she had curled up with only Damon's teeth marks for company, she had only wanted something real to hold on to.

So she gives to Gabriel what she had wanted for herself.

"No," she says gently, moving so that she's standing next to him. One tentative hand comes to rest on his shoulder; it twitches at her touch. "I'm really sorry."

For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, just draws in a long, deep breath. She knows the sound well.

"Yeah, well," he says, shrugging her hand off; she lets it fall back to her side. His tone is considerably lighter, but there is a tension in his shoulders that gives him away. "That's what I get for having expectations."

He's gone in a soft whoosh, leaving her standing in front of an empty chair. She stays still for a minute, staring down at it, before sighing and sitting herself.

Between the nightmares and this impromptu visit, sleep, she figures sleep won't be easy coming. Instead, Caorline opens her laptop and stares at her last bookmarked page.

It's a deep, vibrant red with one bold, white blocked word across the middle of the page:

Stanford.

… … …

It was silly of her, she supposes, to think she could predict Klaus.

The sun is peeking over the treetops and Gabriel has long left, but there Klaus stands, arms crossed, looking down into the tiny potted plants she has lining her windowsill. She closes her laptop and chews her lip, anticipation zipping across her skin before she stands to open the window. The tiny green tendrils of her plants flutter in the slight breeze that begins to fill the room.

The only evidence of his carefully leashed temper is the strain in his forearms, and if she didn't know him so well by now, she would not have noticed it. Caroline swallows hard, an uneasy feeling swooping low in her stomach as she carefully makes sure that her hands don't approach the unseen force barring him from entry.

"Hi," she says softly.

His jaw tightens, and she fights the urge to heave a sigh. "I'm fine, promise," she says instead, her voice carefully light. He doesn't move, and she feels herself begin to babble, her mouth running off and leaving her brain behind, unable to stop the flood of words.

"I'm fine," she repeats, "Seriously," and she wants so badly to take his fingers and press them to the skin of her side, to show him that she is here and whole and safe.

But she doesn't—can't—and the only sign that he even heard her is the way a muscle jumps in his tightly crossed forearms. She inches closer to her window. "Really," she continues, her voice somehow gentling further, as though he's a fawn that might spook, "no worse for the wear. I've been through, like way worse, honestly, and probably not even that long ago, like the time I, you know, actually died—"

His hand slams so hard into the outer siding of her window that large wood splinters fly into the air. Caroline flinches and stops in her tracks, not daring to take another step toward him. She half expects Dean to come running in, a stake clenched in his fist. When he doesn't—buoyed, she assumes, by her assurances that Klaus hasn't been invited inside—she releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"You were actually dead," he says, his jaw still clenched so tightly that the words seem pried from him with pliers. "I could hear the void where your heartbeat used to be, Caroline. You. Were. Dead." Every syllable is clipped and his eyes are that horrible gold. It takes all her self control to not back away from him. "I bloody well told you once, didn't I, what would happen if you died."

It isn't a question, so she says nothing, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

"You," he spits out, "are not allowed to fucking die."

It's when she feels wetness on her cheeks that she realizes she's crying. The tears have slipped out without her noticing, as though the events of the last twenty-four hours have well and truly caught up with her. Her hand moves unconsciously to her side, to the skin that has been knitted back together. You were dead.

Caroline doesn't know what to say to him. How is she supposed to plead her case, her humanity's case, when he's like this, so full of fear and anger and desperation? She is tired. Tired of having this same fight with him, tired of trying to convince him to meet her halfway, tired of justifying why she doesn't want a millennia without everyone she loves.

She doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything. Instead, she presses her hand to her forehead and inhales raggedly before walking over to her closet and going inside of it, the door remaining open just a crack behind her. She can't be near him when he's like this, with the flames of his anger threatening to burn her.

"Let me in, Caroline."

That she can find the words for. "No," she says flatly from inside her closet, peeling off her sleep clothes and watching as they drop to the floor before inspecting her side. There isn't even a scar, just smooth unblemished skin. The external evidence of the trauma is vanished and gone, as though it never happened.

She pulls on a long sleeved shirt and leggings before sighing and letting her forehead drop to the wood of her closet door. Her eyes flutter shut for just a moment.

From her window, his tone has shifted to honeyed and coaxing. "Sweetheart, let me in."

Her eyes open to narrow at the wood grain before she leaves the quiet safety of her closet and directs her glare towards him.

"No," she repeats. She meets his eyes, still shaded in gold and crosses her arms protectively over her chest.

Another impasse, and he switches tactics.

"I'll kill him," Klaus says casually, and she blinks in confusion before comprehension dawns at just exactly who he is. All the blood drains from her face and before she can restrain herself, she takes two tiny, quick steps towards him, her hands fisting as though she could do anything to stop him.

"You can't," she whispers, hope like a frail bird fluttering against her ribcage. He said he loved her, he told her he would try to be better, and she had fallen asleep in his arms every night for a week while he kept her nightmares at bay—

His face is carefully blank but his eyes are blazing. "I will."

The threat hits like a physical blow; Caroline flinches backwards as though it had been. "I would never forgive you," she hisses at him, and the urge to commit violence against him is so strong that she tastes metal in her mouth. "Ever. Do you understand me?"

"You know nothing of forever," he snaps out through gritted teeth.

"I know life without Dean!" she shouts at him. "Been there, done that! And I know myself, you—you—" She can't finish her insult, can't find a word that expresses just how much she hates him for this. "Forever is a long time," she reminds him icily instead, "and I would hate you for all of it."

Nothing changes in his expression. "At least you would be there."

If she could eviscerate him with a look, he would be turned to ash. "Not with you," she says flatly, and the words ring true. "Come near Dean, and we're—this is over. It's over." Her mind races, desperately searching his words for a lie, for a bluff; but it's as though her brain is full of static. She can't think beyond his threat, and panic, like a wave, begins to crest within her.

The walls of the room are closing in on her, and she can't believe she had ever been so—so stupid—

Klaus is silent, his eyes hot on her, and this time, she lets herself take that step back, away from him. "I warned you," he says finally, voice cold and face hard.

He turns as though he's leaving and she cries out, "Klaus, don't—"

With a whirl, he's back facing her, his expression no longer blank. He's enraged again, his face twisted and reminiscent of the night he had sacrificed Elena to break his curse. His hand comes forward as though he wants to grab for her, only to be rebuffed by the invisible barrier keeping him out. "I told you—"

But whatever he is about to say is cut off by her door slamming open and the sound of a shotgun being cocked.

"Get the fuck back, Romeo," Dean snaps. There's a flutter, then warm fingers at her wrist.

"I am sorry," Castiel says softly, but he isn't looking at her. His gaze is focused solely on Dean.

Dean, who is currently pointing a sawed-off at what is probably one of the most powerful beings left on the planet—-

The rage has vanished from Klaus's face, replaced by that horrible sardonic grin that she hates. Caroline tugs against Castiel's grip, wanting desperately to put herself in between Klaus and Dean; but his fingers are like manacles. He doesn't budge.

Klaus looks down at the shotgun disdainfully. "This is the second time you've threatened me with insufficient weaponry," he notes casually, as though he were discussing the weather—

"What?" Caroline cries out in shock, but they both ignore her.

"Yeah well," Dean snipes back, "I don't miss."

"Enough of this," Castiel barks out, and he flares, blindingly bright, as a high-pitched squeal reverberates through the room. Caroline's hands clasp her ears and she shuts her eyes tightly, pressing her face into the crook of her arm. She hears a faint snarl that sounds like Klaus, then silence, blessed silence.

She keeps her face hidden until she hears Dean say brusquely, "All clear, Care. You can look now."

When she drops her arm, Klaus is gone, as she'd thought, and Dean looks grim. Before he can say anything, she shakes her head and holds one hand up. "Don't, seriously," she warns, her voice watery.

Dean just looks at her, and she wonders if she looks as tired as he does.

She's so tired.

… … …

Morning comes only several hours later and there is no hiding that she spent the majority of her night crying. The eyes reflected back at her in the mirror are red and puffy, and it feels like she's blinking over sandpaper.

Dean is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it's Bobby standing over the oven burners, making what smells suspiciously like French toast.

"Heard this is your favorite," he says casually, scooping up a thick slice onto a plate and sliding it over to her. He sends her a look that reminds her inexplicably of her dad. "Figured you needed a win."

Caroline nods slowly, pulling the plate closer and inhaling deeply. "Smells amazing," she offers before picking up her fork and digging in with vigor. Bobby watches her for a moment, culinary satisfaction evident on his face.

"My mom used to make this for me," she tells him in between bites. "When she—when she had time."

"Heard that too," he replies, rubbing his beard thoughtfully as they settle into a comfortable silence.

Once she's finished, she helps him clean up, then sets about making herself a cup of tea. Her hand hesitates in the cabinet before grabbing a second mug.

"You okay, kid?" Bobby asks her as Caroline busies herself with the teapot. It's muscle memory: flip the lid, turn on the sink, fill to the waterline, settle on the stove, and flip on the range. She's done it a thousand times, will do it a thousand more, and the routine settles her nerves as she considers how best to approach this.

Bobby is about as cuddly as a snapping turtle, but Caroline's pretty sure it's precisely for that reason that she feels the pull to start spilling her metaphorical guts to him. He reminds her of a cross between John and Sam, a strange sort of prickly warmth emanating from him.

"Dean wants to break Sam out," she begins softly, her knee bouncing from her excess anxious energy.

"No shit," Bobby snorts, waving a dismissive hand. "Those boys never did know what to do without each other." He sighs with no small amount of affection, shaking his head. "Idjits."

She's asked him before, but some part of her needs to hear it again, needs to know just exactly how uphill the climb they're facing is. "Do you think it's even possible?"

Bobby sighs heavily, removing his baseball cap to run a hand over his thinning hair. "Like I said, if you'd asked me a year ago, I woulda said shit, no, it's not possible. Hell, yesterday I woulda said no. But," he shoots her a pointed look, "until yesterday, I'd never seen someone come back from the dead without involving a crossroads demon, so who knows what's possible and what's not?" He shakes his head as though trying to clear it. "Entire world's gone upside down and batshit insane in less time than it'll take that kettle to reach a boil. I'm half expecting Nessie to show up in Loch fuckin' Ness."

She widens her eyes. "Wait," she says slowly, drawing out each word, "Nessie's not real?"

The look Bobby shoots her has her clarifying almost immediately. "I'm joking. God."

The kettle starts to whistle.

"I'll tell you this much," Bobby says, watching as she pours them each a mug, sprinkling a tiny amount of dried vervain on top. "Me and Sam scoured every source I could get my hands on trying to figure out how to pull Dean outta the pit. Came up empty every time. But," he shrugs, and accepts the mug she holds out. "Didn't have an angel hanging around then, neither. If anyone knows how to pull off a Hell rescue, it'd be Castiel. But like I said before—ain't got an abundance of garrisons running around at our disposal either."

Caroline nods; she'd figured as much. They take long sips of the hot tea in unison, Caroline staring at the tile pattern on the kitchen floor.

"You got something else you wanna ask me," Bobby says after a moment and she starts out of her reverie.

"Oh," she mumbles. "Yeah. Well—not ask, not really." She hesitates, unsure of where to start or how candid she can actually afford to be with Bobby.

But maybe she's telegraphing her thoughts on her face, or maybe Bobby can just read her that well because before she can begin, he says, "You thinkin' about offering to change back, ain'tcha?"

She blinks at him in astonishment. "How'd you know?"

He shrugs. "I know Winchesters."

"Technically, I'm not—"

"I know who you are, kid." He pins her with a look. "What's your reasoning? I'm all ears."

She gives a tiny shrug. "Something Gabriel said. He said he could reverse it, if I asked, and I—I dunno. I've been so sure, you know?" Caroline chews at her bottom lip. "But I never wanted Elena to die. She deserves to live—and I do, too, I know," she adds before he can say anything. "But...I dunno, it feels different somehow." She pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It feels like I took this from her."

Bobby shoots her a good-natured scowl. "First off, you did nothin' of the sort," he says adamantly. "That deal was Sam's and Sam's alone, so you can take that burden off your shoulders."

Caroline opens her mouth to protest, but shuts it at his hard look.

"Second off," he goes on, "You do deserve to live. But you also deserve to live on your own terms."

It's something she already knows, but there's something about hearing it said out loud by a relatively neutral party that gives it more weight.

"I was a victim," she surprises herself by saying softly, her eyes going down to watch the steam curl off the surface of her tea. "For a long time. Not like—not like wah, poor me, I'm a victim but like. Someone—someone hurt me, on purpose. They victimized me." She peeks at Bobby; his face is carefully blank as though giving her the space to figure it out for herself.

"Anyway," she continues, turning back to the counter to take a small spoon from a drawer and stir her tea with it, watching as the remaining vervain swirls and dissolves. "I—don't tell Dean any of this, okay? I mean it."

Bobby snorts. "That boy doesn't need any more on his plate, believe you me," he says darkly. "I'll be keepin' my mouth shut."

Reassured, Caroline nods. "Some...stuff happened, with me and this guy. It wasn't great, like—it was actually really bad and I don't ever want to feel like that again, you know?" She stares into her tea before summoning all her courage. "I think I would have really—I dunno, liked seems like a bad word to use but I think it fits. I think I would have liked being a vampire, if not for—" she waves a hand at the air around them. "Dean." Her face crumples a bit. "Mom and Sam."

"Ah," says Bobby softly, leaning back against the counter and studying her. "I see."

She exhales heavily, her head dropping forward slightly as though by simply giving the words life, she is lighter. "It felt…nice," she admits quietly. "Feeling like I could pull my own weight. And with this whole—thing," she gestures aimlessly, "I can't help but feel like I'm...distracting Dean. That he has to protect me instead of fighting, instead of going out there and helping people." She hesitates, then tacks on quietly, "Instead of saving Sam."

Her shoulders sag forward and she drops her forehead into her hand. "I'm not even useless," she says flatly, and Damon's words float back to her—useless, shallow, stupid. "I'm worse than useless, I'm a liability." She doesn't give voice to the remaining fears: that one day, she'll be the death of Dean, that he'll be looking over at her instead of front of him and—

Bobby fixes her with a stern look. "You listen to me," he says shortly, "You ain't useless or a liability." He points down the hall. "You're just about all that's keeping that boy together right now—protectin' you and gettin' Sam outta the pit." Caroline opens her mouth to argue and he glares at her, effectively cutting her off. "Nah, I don't wanna hear it. Maybe you ain't immortal or got that super strength now, but you're smart, just as smart as Sam ever was."

"But Bobby—"

"None of that 'but Bobby' crap," he interrupts brusquely. "You're the only one who gets to make decisions for you. You wanna give Dean a vote, then that's your right; but it ain't required." He scowls. "Don't let him con you into thinkin' otherwise either."

She sighs, blowing her hair out of her face with the force of her exhale. "But then it's like—what's the point of running from Klaus? If I just end up turned all the same?"

He snorts. "You're running from demons, and don't forget it. And besides, it's what I just said, ain't it? Livin' on your own terms and all. If your own brother's got no right to tell you how to live, he sure as shit don't either."

Caroline smiles weakly. "It's a lot harder for demons to kill you if you're a vampire," she points out quietly.

"Sure is." Bobby eyes her thoughtfully. "But you gotta be damn sure about it, kid. There's no coming back a second time."

"I know," she says softly, eyes unfocusing as she gazes down at the tile floor.

Oh, how she knows.

… … …

The seed of a plan has been slowly taking shape in the back of her mind since Klaus's disastrous visit, and it bursts into bright, colorful bloom after her conversation with Bobby. Dean won't like it, but part of her heart hardens at the thought. She wasn't exactly on board when either of her brothers had sent themselves to Hell, so she figures what goes around comes around.

And besides, the plan's got Winchester written all over it. She's pretty sure somewhere past the blue world between worlds, John Winchester is giving her one of those rare, approving smiles.

She cons Castiel into going with her to the mansion one last time before they leave.

"I don't like this," he says for what must be the eight hundredth time; and for the eight hundredth time, she sighs heavily and says practically, "I need to smooth things over with him, otherwise he might burn down the entire town and no one needs that either."

"You're running from him," Castiel says flatly, blue eyes narrow on her.

Caroline shakes her head and points at him. "We're running from demons, not him," she corrects firmly, echoing Bobby's words from just earlier that morning. "Running from Klaus is a great way to make a bad situation worse." Her nose wrinkles. "Just ask Katherine Pierce."

"Caroline—"

"I met God," she interrupts, leaning back in her seat and focusing her gaze on the steering wheel. "When I was—you know." She gestures uselessly. "I met God."

When Castiel is silent for longer than several seconds, she risks a glance over at him.

He's frozen, staring at her in disbelief, and it makes her mouth take off.

"He—she? I'm still not like super clear on that, but it was easily the weirdest thing to ever happen to me, and that's a really long list, okay? And like, she was—"

"Caroline," Castiel says hoarsely, "please stop talking."

Her mouth snaps shut and she watches with more than a little concern as something plays out over his face.

The emotions that unravel in his eyes tug at her heart—envy, devastation, disbelief, and loss, until Castiel finally exhales heavily and looks back at her. "What did he say to you?"

Caroline bites her lip. She hasn't told anyone about Ms. Tara's offer to stay, in large part because of the shame that burrows its way through her stomach when she thinks about just how badly she had wanted to. Telling Castiel is a risk, but she thinks of all people, he may be the one who comes closest to understanding.

"The offer was made," she says finally.

Recognition flares in his eyes and he reaches for her hand. "You did not have to stay here," he says quietly. "Though I am glad you did."

She sighs heavily. "I wanted to," she whispers, squeezing his fingers between hers. "So badly. Don't—please don't tell Dean." She swallows hard around the glass shards digging into her throat. "It would hurt him."

"He does not need to know." Castiel hesitates before adding solemnly, "He would not understand."

"No," she whispers, "he wouldn't." But Castiel, Castiel does and the words pour from her as though a spigot deep inside of her has turned on. "She said my mom was there, but when I asked her where vampires go when they die, she wouldn't tell me." She gives a watery laugh. "She said it would take away my free will."

"Caroline," Castiel says quietly, "you put too much pressure on yourself. Do not forget that humans don't know the answer to that either."

The weight of his words bears down on her, and she lets her head fall to rest against the car window. "I asked to switch places with Sam," she confesses, letting go of his hand so that she can twist the car keys around her fingers. "She wouldn't do it."

"That does not make your offer any less brave."

It's suddenly hard to breathe. "Of course I couldn't stay, Cas," she jokes weakly, "you still don't know how to drive."

His startled laugh knocks the chill off her skin.

If only for a moment.

… … …

Castiel hovers as she knocks, eschewing the wildly ornate door knocker for the simple rap of her knuckles on the door.

It is Rebekah who answers, her eyes sweeping over the pair of them with more than a little disdain. "I wouldn't," she says casually, leaning against the frame and crossing her arms. "He's most upset with you."

Caroline rolls her eyes. "Look, Rebekah—"

"For the record," Rebekah interrupts smoothly, "I would like it known that I have tried to talk sense into him." Caroline jerks in surprise, but Rebekah ignores it in favor of examining her nails. "Nik needs to learn that not everything is for him."

"Actually—"

Rebekah sighs. "You're backing down, aren't you?" Her eyes, so similar to Klaus's, skim over Caroline with chagrin. "And just when I was beginning to like you. Ah well, no matter." She steps aside so that they can come in. "I'm sure he'll be down momentarily. And Caroline," Rebekah leans forward, eyes hard, "whatever your plan is, it had better be well thought out."

With that, she vanishes.

"She is not wrong," Castiel says quietly. "Your plan, whatever it is, needs to be executed perfectly."

"Preaching to the choir, Cas."

Klaus doesn't make them wait for long.

"Tell your pet to wait in the car, sweetheart," he commands, sweeping into the room with all the arrogance she remembers from his first appearance in Mystic Falls. He makes his way over to his bar and pours himself a drink. "Unless you want to see which of us is faster."

"Unacceptable," Castiel says immediately. He turns to her, a beseeching expression on his face. "I will not wait in the car."

She rubs her forehead as the tiny ache behind her eyes grows. "Cas—"

His eyes darken in disbelief and even worse, disappointment; he turns from her back to Klaus. "I will not," he says flatly.

"Then I'm afraid we are at an impasse."

"Jesus Christ," Caroline snaps out, her hand wrapping around Castiel's arm, "you're both completely insufferable." She tugs, pulling Castiel to the side with her, fully aware that Klaus can hear her. "Look, could you just like— I dunno, stand over by the door? You've got a time advantage anyway."

Cas glowers at her, then at Klaus. "Fine," he rumbles, and she sees the shadowy wings stretching back behind him. "I will wait by the door."

"Those don't make nearly the impression you think they do, mate," Klaus comments blithely before taking a healthy swallow of his drink. Caroline shoots him her meanest glare, but he simply shrugs and holds a glass out for her. She begrudgingly takes it but does not drink, the tip of one finger running carefully around the rim.

"Klaus," she begins carefully, "you can't freak out like that again, not on me. Not if you— not if this whole love thing—" she waves her glass around, "is real. You—healthy relationships don't have that."

"Is that what this is? A relationship?" He snorts derisively and that smirk that she hates plays around his mouth. "Terribly one-sided, seems to me."

"It could have been one, if you hadn't—" she cuts herself off with a shake of her head. The speech she had planned, had practiced in her mirror after her talk with Bobby, has fractured in her mind, leaving her grasping for pieces of it. "Klaus, we—you told me, in the forest, that my brother had nothing to fear from you, and I—I believed you." She takes a step towards him, but stops when Castiel clears his throat warningly.

Klaus's eyes are dark as he watches her. "Your mistake, love."

It sends a crack straight through her heart. "Seems like I've made more of those than I thought," she retorts, her hand tightening on the glass.

That lands on him, his face shedding its calm, blank expression; but she doesn't wait for him to reply. "I want to make a deal," she continues, setting her glass down gingerly on a table near her hip. She shoots Castiel a warning look. "And none of this better make its way back to Dean, Cas."

Castiel's face is hard but he nods once and, reassured, she turns her attention back on Klaus. She holds up two fingers. "I want two things," she says. "One—years. Years to live my life as a human, on my own terms, wherever I want, doing whatever I want."

He tilts his head, studying her. "How many?"

"Don't know yet."

There is a pause, as though he is considering, before he says slowly, "In exchange for what?"

"You can turn me after. Well, not you—" his eyes flash and she waves a hand quickly. "Maybe Stefan, or Elena, or hell, even Rebekah. But not you." Her jaw sets tightly. "No sirebonding. That's non-negotiable." In the back of her mind, she remembers Gabriel's offer and slots it away for future consideration. She'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. "And I won't hate you for it. For my turning. Hell," she shrugs with an ease she doesn't feel, "maybe we'll go to Paris after."

Klaus turns his empty glass in his hands thoughtfully before setting it down. "No more than ten," he counters, arching an eyebrow at her. "I'm not a man known for my patience, sweetheart. The second?"

That's not ideal, but it's not a no, and she seizes it with both hands. It's not like she expected him to just willingly capitulate anyway. "You can't hurt anyone I care about. Not any of them, not ever again, no exceptions. And no loopholes—you can't send, like, Kol to do it for you or something. You asking someone to do it still counts as you."

He opens his mouth and she shakes her head, cutting him off before the agreement she sees forming on his tongue can take flight. "You have to really think about it, Klaus. I care about a lot of people you don't like that much, and forever is a very long time." She ticks them off on her fingers. "Including but not limited to: Dean. Sam, when we get him back. Elena. Bonnie. Matt. Stefan." Caroline watches as his jaw clenches before adding the one she knows will needle at him the most. "Tyler."

His hand twitches, as though he's battling the urge to reach for her. "You drive a hard bargain, Caroline."

"Yeah, well," she says with a flippancy that sounds just as forced as it feels, "I think I'm worth it to you."

That makes him smile, just a little. "Indeed," he muses, more to himself than to her, she's pretty sure. He straightens and looks directly at her. "You have a deal."

Something deep and elemental flares in some long buried instinct. Too easy.

"How do I know I can believe you now?" she demands suspiciously. "What good is your word?"

Something twists in his face before he says sardonically, "I suppose you'll just have to trust me."

"I did," she says flatly. "Then you came to my house and threatened to kill me and my brother."

"Turn you, love, not kill. There is a difference."

"Whatever," she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. "The question stands. Why should I believe you now?"

"I suppose you shouldn't," he says silkily, "but you don't have a choice."

"Convince me," she suggests acidly.

His eyes are nearly black as they focus in on her; it sends her heartbeat accelerating. "I suggest you look away, angel," he says without breaking eye contact with her. He moves fast, faster than her eyes can process, coming to a stop in front of her and gripping her tightly. She feels the hard surface of a wall behind her and blinks, seeing Castiel glaring at Klaus from the corner of her eye. A blinding white light begins to emanate from him.

"Chill, Cas," she says quickly, not looking away from Klaus. She has a pretty good idea of what he's doing, and when his lips touch hers, her suspicions are confirmed.

It's the kind of kiss that, in another life, had made her knees go weak.

In this one, Caroline kisses him back, letting herself pretend, for just a moment, that this is anything other than the sealing of a deal, of her fate. That she is a normal girl, with a normal boy who is kissing her simply because he loves her. She imagines that Klaus is Niklaus, as Elijah had once said he could be, and her fingers grip the fabric of his shirt where it skims his sides, as though she could turn him into that version of himself through sheer willpower.

"By the way," she says when he pulls away, opening her eyes and fighting the urge to touch her swollen lips, "we're leaving."

His face is millimeters from hers, and this close up, she has a front row seat to every emotion that passes across his face. Anger burns into a cold fury, and he says icily, "Are you."

It isn't a question. "Waiting for the heat to die down," she tells him honestly, "where it's safe. Safer than here, anyway, where like, half of Hell knows our home address."

The fingers that still grip her arms tighten incrementally. "And where is safe, sweetheart?"

"Can't tell you. The less people that know, the better."

From the look in his eyes, she can tell he doesn't like it. But he already agreed to her terms, and slowly, as he realizes the same, his hands fall away.

There are several seconds where all Caroline hears is the ticking of the clock and her own breathing; then, he says suddenly, "If you're serious about leaving, I have conditions that will require meeting."

Her head falls back against the wall as her eyes roll heavenward in frustration. "Of course you do," she mutters irritably. "I'm listening."

"None of your friends—" he draws the word out mockingly, "—are to know your whereabouts."

"Dean already beat you to that one," she informs him, crossing her arms and eying him. "What else?"

Klaus looks at her evenly before calling out a name she doesn't recognize. A hybrid appears on the other side of the room. "Vials," he snaps, and the hybrid vanishes, only to reappear seconds later with—

"Why do you have empty medical—you know what, I don't actually wanna know." Caroline watches with morbid fascination as he bites into his own wrist, the blood trickling into the fistful of vials the hybrid had brought to him.

Once five have been filled, he hands them to her. "I expect to be informed if these run out," he warns and she rolls her eyes.

"Aye aye, captain," she grumbles sarcastically, sliding the tightly sealed vials into her bag. He continues as though she hadn't spoken.

"You are to notify me, or Bekah, if your situation becomes dangerous and you require extraction."

"Extraction, what is this, a freaking spy movie—"

"Caroline." His voice is stern, and it silences her. "Do you understand?"

She scowls at him. "Yeah, yeah. I understand."

Klaus stills, his face impassive. Slowly, his hand comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "You are to stay safe," he says quietly, eyes dark and insistent on hers. "Or I will make the world burn."

"I know," she says softly, and she can almost forget that Castiel is there as his thumb strokes the line of her cheekbone. "But you shouldn't."

The alarm she had set on her phone begins to trill loudly, and the moment is ruined.

She clears her throat and swipes the alarm off before handing the phone to him. "Your number," she says, and her cheeks inexplicably heat. "In case I need extraction." She puts as much disdainful emphasis on the word as she can muster; the air around them lightens and she catches a glimpse of his dimples.

It's not quite a milestone, but she pretends it is anyway.

From the doorway, Castiel gives a not-so-subtle cough and her grip on her phone tightens.

"I'll, um—I'll keep you posted," she says, wincing at how casual it sounds. "You know, if I need help or anything."

By the look on his face, the contrast in her tone from just moments ago isn't lost on him either. But he simply looks at her, as though he is memorizing her features, and nods.

… … …

Somehow, it's harder than she had initially anticipated to say goodbye to the house.

"You're being ridiculous," Dean calls from the front hall as Caroline blinks back the tears that threaten to fall, her fingers tracing over the walls.

"Shut up," she shoots back over one shoulder, pausing at Sam's closed door. There isn't any external evidence of who it had once belonged to, but Caroline still can't bring herself to turn the knob and enter.

She thinks she isn't the only one—Bobby, not Dean, had collected all of the books they needed from Sam's room and deposited them into the back of the Impala.

The plan, as far as she understands it, is to split up: Bobby driving the Impala on a cross-country wild goose chase— "Gonna see some old friends in Mexico," he says impishly—while she and Dean take his truck to Lawrence, Kansas. From there, they'll meet up with Ellen and Jo, swap Bobby's truck for their car, and meet back in Sioux Falls.

It's convoluted and she doesn't entirely understand all the doubling back; but Dean had poured over maps all morning while chugging black coffees, so she's pretty sure if she questions anything, he'll snap on her.

"Care," Dean says, and he's right next to her now, "we gotta go. We need to get on the road before—"

"I know," she interrupts, her hand falling back to her side and clenching. She turns from Sam's door and peeks into her room one last time.

It looks as it ever has— the bed, neatly made; her clothes folded and put away; her books shelved alphabetically by the last name. As she stands there, a wave of nostalgia threatens to sweep over her, and she knows that if she allows it, it will wash her out to sea and she will be adrift.

So she tamps down on it, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw.

They're getting Sam back.

The rest will come.

"I'm ready," she says.

… … …

fin

A/N: Find me on Twitter (sunnydaisy6) or on Tumblr (little-miss-sunny-daisy).