A/N: Happy Halloween! I have returned! Admittedly, updates are still going to be fairly spread apart at the moment (2 weeks-ish), but I've worked through most of my plotting issues and lack of motivation. Also, BrokenShardss made an absolutely fantastic GIF-set inspired by Sync and Ramble On. I've included the Tumblr link on the AO3 version of this chapter (same title, same pen name), so hop on over and check it out!

February 3rd, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 4:25 p.m.

"Sam?" The voice on the end of the line bubbled with sunshine. A faint blaring sounded in the background as someone began tuning an orchestra. First, the whispered reedy whine of the oboe – and then the flutes above it, the clarinets nestled beside it, and the low hum of the strings beneath.

"Hey, Lily." Although he knew his brother was safely out of the bunker picking up groceries and putting gas in the Impala, Sam risked a cautious look at his locked bedroom door before continuing. "You at the theatre?" he asked over the tuba currently drowning out the other sounds.

"Yeah. Tech rehearsal starts in an hour. Opening night's next week. You and Dean still – ?"

"Oh, we're still." If he was being honest with himself, the prospect of a road trip to Cleveland with his incredibly cantankerous sibling was pretty much the last thing that Sam wanted to do these days. But an evening at a musical to support their friend was the only olive branch they had between them at the moment. "Thanks for the tickets, by the way."

"You know me," teased the actress. "Anything for a pretty face."

Sam laughed a little uncomfortably. He had never been a hundred percent sure how serious Becka and Lily meant their flirtation. He countered with, "You mean me, or Dean?"

"Both," she replied without hesitation. "So what's the sitch, Sampson?"

"Sam," he corrected her automatically. "Can I – can I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Depends on the favor," said Lily.

He had set himself up for that one. "Fair enough. Anyways, thing is, something's . . . something's wrong with Dean."

To the woman's credit, she did not immediately fire back with a sarcastic, "Again?" or worse yet, "Still?" Instead, she took clipping steps away from the orchestra, the sound of scales fading to be replaced by her heels echoing on a hard floor and into his ear. "What's going on?" she asked once the music was merely a muted hum. Half of the sunshine and all the flirtation had disappeared from her tone.

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "He's been off lately – more than usual," he added before she could say anything else. "I mean, something's been wrong with my brother ever since last February. He – it was like he went away when Faith died. Kinda like what happened when we lost Dad. Only this time he didn't snap out of it. To be honest, I'm still not sure if I've ever gotten my brother back. For two people who weren't a thing – "

"They were a thing," Lily interrupted him firmly. "Let's call a spade a spade. It was a weirdly undefined thing, to be sure, but they were a thing. Just so you know, she was practically as bad when he died. A bit better with the Purgatory stuff, but Faith was still a mess with a capital 'M.' And I say that as someone who saw a lot of it up close."

The hunter exhaled. "Yeah. Point is, he's gotten even stranger since Christmas. It's . . . hard to describe. But he's off. Spends more time in his room, takes off on hunts on his own a lot more often. Sometimes we can be in the same room, and it's like he doesn't even know I'm there."

In a gentle voice, the blonde said, "And you're sure it's not due to the, uh, friction you two have been having lately?"

Another fair question. Sam swallowed. "I'm sure." He paused, uncertain how to address the fear that he had hardly been able to put into words inside his head. "I . . . This is going to sound out there, but I feel like . . . well, somehow or other this involves Faith. He's still grieving – or maybe he hasn't even started. He just can't let her go."

"Neither of them were very good at that, were they?" said Lily with a touch of nostalgia. Then, more decisively, "I'm in. Whatever you need. Beck will be, too. What did you have in mind?"

"Not much. I just . . . It would be good to have a fresh pair of eyes on him again. Eyes that aren't mine."

"You got it, Sam," she promised. "We'll get to the bottom of this. One way or another."

February 3rd, 2016, Cleveland, Ohio, 4:47 p.m.

"Hey. You got a sec?"

"Sure. Break time already?"

"Less director notes than we expected. But I've got some scene work in ten, so I won't be home until late. Anyway, got a call from Paul Bunyan this afternoon."

"Oh? They still coming?"

"Yep. I reserved more seats though. Need you to start up the Twilight bark."

"The what?"

"The bonfires. The semaphore towers. The Bat-Signal. We've got invitations to send out, and then we're going to need to start hitting people with the peer pressure."

"Je comprends. Who?"

"Mustache-free Magnum PI. Sid Vicious. Blue Steel. Maybe Star Lord. Just don't mention him to Magnum."

"Got it. Do we have to speak in code names?"

"There a problem, Lady Tesla?"

"You do remember that I don't do that kind of engineering, right? Little Miss Muffet?"

"Seriously, that's the best you've got? I'm devastated."

"I'll work on it."

"See you tonight?"

"If you get home before midnight, Barbra Streisand . . . Better?"

"Better."

February 13, 2016, Cleveland, Ohio, 5:00 p.m.

Maybe this had not been the best of ideas, Sam thought ruefully as the Impala cut to a silent halt outside the narrow brownstone townhouse where Lily and Becka still lived. The same townhouse where Faith had stayed, for a time. Becka had requested (demanded, really) that they come a few hours before the show to grab dinner. Lily would be in last minute rehearsals, but Becka's fiance - Jim? James? Jarvis? - would be there. For the life of him, Sam could not remember the man's name.

Dean had his reluctantly cheerful face on again, the younger Winchester noted while his brother unbuckled his seat belt in one quick jerking movement and slid out of the driver's seat in the next. The one when he was pretending to be in a decent mood, but it wouldn't take much provocation for that mood to slide sour in half an instant. The phrase 'hair trigger' was an understatement when it came to his brother's emotions these days.

Still, at least he had come. And although the drive from Kansas had been uncomfortable, the unspoken tension between them eased somewhat as the miles passed. Dean's driving had seemed a hair more paranoid than usual - he was constantly checking the rearview mirror to see if any cars were tailing them. After turning around to look over his shoulder a few times and not noticing any suspiciously recurring cars, Sam gave it a rest. If paranoia was what it took for Dean to cope with this trip, then Sam could endure that.

He followed his older brother up the walk to the maroon front door, the soles of his black loafers scuffing along the dirty concrete. Although it wasn't quite yet five, the sun had already begun to set, and the cloudy sky was tinged an unfriendly violet. The hunter stood off to his brother's left as the older man knocked once, sharp and loud, on the door.

"Coming!" came the muffled exclamation from somewhere on the other side of the wood.

The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards in the ghost of a smile. "So," he said quietly, nodding at the door, "you want to give this Jim kid the talk? Or you want me to do it?"

It was barely the olive branch he had hoped for - much more like an olive twig - but Sam would take it. "Which talk?" he mused, also in a soft tone. "The one about the monsters?"

"Nah." Dean shook his head. "The one where if he hurts her, we'll gut him."

"Pretty sure Lily's already given him that one."

"Yeah . . ." His brother's voice trailed away into silence, and then he added, "Or maybe Faith did. Becka was dating him then. Before."

There was no need for Sam to ask what his brother meant by 'before.' "Probably," he agreed with a smile of his own.

At that moment, the maroon door swung open abruptly, and a familiar brunette head poked out into the frosty evening air. "Evening, gents," said Becka with more than her usual pep. She had dressed up for the night at the theatre in tall black boots and a form-fitting kelly green dress that came to just above her knees. A solitaire diamond gleamed on her left ring finger. Her gray eyes darted from one Winchester to the other, taking in the fed suits visible beneath their heavy overcoats. "Well, well, well," she grinned. "Dean's even wearing a tie."

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes in what the others recognized as mock irritation. "You gonna let us in?" he asked shortly. "Or are we gonna spend all night freezing our asses off out here?"

Becka rolled her eyes right back at him. "Come complain to me when you start spending your nights patrolling along Lake Erie in subzero weather." Her grin widening, she pulled the front door all the way open and stepped aside to allow the hunters in from the cold.

They stamped the snow and mud off their shoes on the welcome mat and then crossed over the threshold. Sam shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on one of the wooden pegs set high on the left-hand wall. His brother did the same, tilting his head back and inhaling deeply through his nose.

"Is that . . ." He sniffed again. "Is that a pot roast?"

Becka nodded. Her gleaming smile reminded Sam of the eighteen-year-old who had once co-ambushed him outside of a college dive bar to give him the Slayer talk. It was the same grin that she wore whenever she and Lily devolved into blatantly checking him out, and only slightly less excited than her surprise Christmas dinner smile. It was infectious and good-natured with only the slightest hint of scheming. A sliver of foreboding crept up the hunter's spine.

"Figured you'd be hungry," the brunette Slayer was saying cheerfully as Dean moved past her down the hallway toward the living room and the kitchen beyond. "And I guess you could consider it a peace offering," she added in a much softer voice, now speaking to the hunter's back.

Sam's foreboding grew. "Beck," he hissed just above a whisper. "What have you done?"

Before she could answer, Dean came storming back down the carpeted hall, dragging a sandy-haired man behind him by the collar of his brown bomber jacket. He pushed the man in front of him with an abrupt shove, his eyebrows narrowing and his green eyes dark with anger.

"What the hell . . ." he growled, then cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. Dean began again, this time managing to cool his temper into something that more closely resembled irritation. "What the hell is Andrew doing here?"

The evening devolved after that, especially once the doorbell rang ten minutes later and three of the Winchesters' not-so-favorite people - two vampires and a scientist turned ancient god turned scientist again - walked in. Sam watched his brother gradually progress from roast-inspired enthusiasm to aggravation and finally to sullen resignation until Dean was sitting at a corner of the dining room table and downing mashed potatoes and gravy as if there would be no tomorrow.

At least - and this was to Sam's utter relief - Dean remained civil and actually spoke to people. Sam would take that. He would take any form of engagement from his brother. Trading sarcastic asides with Spike at Angel's expense and maintaining a surface level discussion about crime in Cleveland with Becka's lanky lawyer fiancé might not have been much, but they were miles above the terse exchanges that had characterized conversation in the bunker the past few weeks. After the first disastrous interaction, Dean ignored Andrew and his bomber jacket completely. All things considered, that was likely for the best.

When it came time to adjourn to the theater, Becka insisted on carpooling. Dean took that bit in his teeth and ran with it.

"Great," he said with a wide smile that did not reach the cold in his eyes. "You and James can ride with me, then. I've still got some questions for him."

"This the interrogation you were warning me about?" James asked his fiancée dryly as he cleared the final set of plates from the table. "The one that you said was going to be worse than your father's?"

Laughing, the engineer pushed her own chair back and began collecting water glasses, starting with Fred's. "That's because it will be," she grinned, and she set her free hand on the hunter's shoulder for a brief moment.

"Sign me up for this," said Spike, fiddling in the pockets of his omnipresent black duster for a pack of Camels. "Sampson, you can ride with ol' Captain Forehead here. I'm callin' shotgun."

Dean gave the cigarettes a dark sidelong glance. "Put 'em up, Sparky. No one smokes in my baby." He rose from the table and swaggered into the kitchen. "Come on, Jim," he said in a voice so cheerful it made Sam wince. That was Dean's good cop voice. Nothing good ever happened to the people his brother used that particular voice on. "Let's go warm up the car."

With a graceful shrug, James flicked off the sink faucet. "All right," he agreed. "Becka, love, you have the tickets?"

"They're at will-call," replied the brunette. She made a shooing gesture with her hands. "Go ahead. Spike and I'll be along in a minute."

"I'll be along now," corrected the vampire, and he joined the two men in the front hallway. His gleeful voice drifted back along the air to the kitchen. "No way I'm missing out on this."

Becka waited until the front door had closed solidly behind them before she turned to the four guests still seated at the dining room table. "Well?"

Swiveling in his seat, Sam sighed. "You could have warned me, you know," he pointed out with a nod of his head at the others. "About the welcoming party."

"I reminded her that Dean doesn't like surprises," Andrew cut in before Becka could reply. He fiddled with his dinner fork, twirling it over and around in his hands. "Unless they're strippers. It's canon."

"Stop." The hunter held up his hand. "Don't mention those books." He shuddered. "Just don't."

"Gotta say, I was expecting something much worse than this," mused Angel. He lifted his wine glass from the table and swirled the thick, dark red liquid inside, then took a long, slow sip. It was porcine, but pig would have to do for the moment. "He seems to be functioning fine. Not quite the disaster you described on the phone, Becka."

"Dean's not fine," snapped Sam without bothering to censor himself.

The vampire leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows, the goblet of blood still clasped in his hand. "I didn't say he was." He glanced briefly at the faces of the others: Andrew, who was following every word with rapt attention; Fred, with the slight frown of concentration that usually meant that she was listening to Illyria; Becka, tugging at the ruched waistline of her dress and looking uncertain for the first time all evening.

Angel exhaled, a habit he had never quite managed to kick in centuries of undeath. "Okay, so your brother's not fine. Honestly, no one in this room is fine - and they haven't been - not for a long time, anyway. Being 'fine' has never been a requirement for fighting the powers of darkness," he pointed out with more than a trace of irony.

"I get that," interjected the hunter. He gave Becka a sharp look. "Trust me - no one understands better than me just how not-fine Dean can be. But right now, that's not the issue. Something else is wrong. Something different. And I don't know what."

"I should go," the Slayer said quietly, retrieving her houndstooth peacoat from the back of the couch. "I need to go rescue James. Spike and Dean will eat him alive if I leave the three of them alone for long enough. Just one of those two would be bad. But together?" She shivered dramatically. Then, with a pleading glance to Sam, she finished, "We'll . . . we'll all talk later?"

7:30 p.m.

"You and little brother not getting along these days?" Spike wondered artlessly. They had just dropped Becka and a somewhat shell-shocked James off at the box office and were now parking the Impala in the behemoth concrete garage situated behind the Performing Arts Center. Despite the shadows of the parking garage, his vampiric sight was more than sufficient for him to maintain casual surveillance on the human sitting next to him. It was, after all, the prevailing reason for this transatlantic field trip.

The hunter glowered. It was a very impressive glower. Nearly as impressive as Angel's. "You noticed."

"Hard not to," commented the vampire. His eyes darted even further to the side, to better observe the stony countenance of the man behind the wheel. Still casual, he continued, "Bigfoot being a prat again?"

In the silence that followed, Spike could almost hear the man thinking, his mouth twisting into a grimace as he debated whether or not to answer the question. He waited for the hunter to find his words. There was no point in rushing him. The man would talk when he was ready.

"Sam's an asshat sometimes," admitted Dean after a long pause. He pulled into a narrow space between two minivans and popped open the car door, effectively ending that line of conversation. Squaring his shoulders against the chill wind whipping through the garage, he set out across two lines of parked cars for the elevator that would take them back down to the ground floor and the door into the Connor Palace theater.

Spike was forced to scuttle after him, catching up just as Dean jerked open the glass doors to the small red-carpeted foyer and the elevators with their gleaming steel doors.

As the vampire readjusted his duster, Dean asked in an emotionless voice, "So what did Lil and Beck promise to get you all down here?"

The blond feigned surprise. "No idea what you're talking about, mate."

"Right," scoffed the hunter, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. His green eyes were somewhere between snapping and sullen. "Cause, you know, you don't strike me as the musical theater type. Drew?" He pulled a face. "God, yes. Fred? Kinda. Angel? He might be an opera guy. Not Broadway."

Clearing his throat, Spike said, "He goes in for ballet, actually."

"No sh-t?" An expression that the vampire thought might have been amusement briefly flashed across Dean's face. "Huh. Yeah, I can see that. You, uh, you know much about this show? This Woods thing? Lily mentioned fairy tales."

The musical itself was a far safer topic than anything they had broached so far. The vampire nodded, deciding to run with it. "Something like that. Lily's doing Rapunzel?" he tested, curious to see what the response would be.

"Cinderella," Dean corrected him almost absentmindedly as he punched the button for the lobby. "If she made any more pumpkin metaphors, I was gonna have to block her number."

Spike lifted his scarred eyebrow. "Bit extreme?"

The hunter shrugged. "Not really. She was threatening to start in on squash next."

After taking a moment to imagine what horrors Lily could concoct where vegetables were concerned, Spike said, "That . . . doesn't sound good."

"Mmmph. And you don't want to know what she was saying about the zucchini. Trust me," Dean added as the elevator doors opened to the lobby and they were caught up in the colorful rush of theatre-goers.

8:15 p.m.

He's a very smart Prince.
He's a Prince who prepares.

Deep within the consciousness of Fred Burkle, Illyria allowed the words of the soprano's song to rush over her. It was a clever spectacle. She would give it at least that much. The words were clever, the music clever, and the rushing of the mortals to and fro on stage as the characters strove to fulfill their utterly mortal desires was quite in keeping with the desperate selfishness of most mud monkeys. It was all very fitting and surprisingly diverting.

This is more than just malice.
Better stop and take stock
While you're standing here stuck
On the steps of the palace

Equally diverting was the soap opera of turmoil in which the Burkle had found herself this evening. Illyria waited for the human to sweep her eyes to the side, and the ancient demon took in the row of concentrating faces in the scant light reflecting back from the stage. Andrew on her far left, then Spike next to him, then Angel, then the Burkle herself. Next came the Slayer's man friend, the Slayer, the Lucifer vessel, and finally the Michael sword on the end of the row.

Fred looked at the hunter for a little longer than was strictly necessary, and the Old One took advantage to survey the Michael sword. This was the first time that she had been in his company in over a year, and the change was startling. She had some slender ability in sensing the emotions of mud monkeys. It had been a useful skill, back when she needed to sift the potential enemies from among her devotees.

Now, constrained within a mortal shell, only a fragment of her former skill remained, but Illyria could still sense something. The Michael sword was bleeding inside - a constant slow trickle of pain and grief that flared briefly whenever he took his eyes off the stage.

All right what do you want?
Have to make a decision.

But there was something else lurking beneath his misery, a flavor that was older and darker and headier than anything humans had ever produced. It felt faintly familiar. Momentarily forgetting herself, Illyria seized the reins as the Burkle began to look away. She jerked the woman's head back to the right in order to observe the hunter for a half-second longer.

Stop that, came the peeved thought of the Burkle. We made a deal. You gave your word.

I lied. She had not intended to lie. When Illyria had first made the compromise, three days of behaving in exchanged for a week in control with only the blond half-breed around to supervise her (as easily slipped of a leash as any that she could imagine), she had had every intention of keeping it. But now . . .

Illyria. This is my favorite song. You can check the Winchesters out at intermission.

As if she would ever stoop so low as to leer at a human for no purposes other than entertainment! Something has changed in the older one, she thought back.

Of course he has. Faith died.

Was that all they thought of? These humans and their obsession with romance and connection and themselves. Did Winifred Burkle really believe that she, Illyria, would require education in these matters? It had been she, and not the Burkle, who observed as grief destroyed the one called Wesley, after all.

But then how can you know
Who you are till you know
What you want, which I don't

Illyria kept her snort of irritation to herself. Yes, the Michael sword was a surly mess. She did not need arcane skill to divine that. It was obvious even to the Burkle's eyes. But there was something more.

Wait, no thinking it through
Things don't have to collide
I know what my decision is
Which is not to decide.

The Old One reluctantly subsided into her usual corner, lapsing into the meditative state that she occupied whenever she grew bored of Winifred's mortal affairs. Just before she became completely ensconced in her own thoughts, she was struck by two things at roughly the same time.

First, recognition crashed over her like a rain of cold water. She knew now what that familiar component of the mystery flavor lurking around the Michael sword had been. It was many things, and few of them good, but mixed in was Her. She who was from the beginning and She who would be forever. Somehow, She had a part to play in the darkness that continued to grow over the mortal's head.

The second thing was less impressive, but far more amusing. As the soprano's song finally ended, the Michael sword began to applaud with the rest of the audience. For a moment, his grief lifted, and in its place Illyria felt a second echo of things lost. The Winchester was now marked by three of those who were thought to be no more. An archangel, Her, and – ah, of course. The Slayer had not gone far away after all.

Smirking to herself, Illyria faded into the oblivion of her reflections. The humans and half-breeds were willful fools who did not see. Very well. She alone would be prepared when the oncoming storm descended.

And I've learned something, too.
Something I never knew
On the steps of the palace!

In her self-imposed prison, the Old One laughed. Cold and desolate, it rang through the silence of her thoughts. Fools.

9:30 p.m.

"This isn't the end?" Dean complained as the Narrator announced intermission and the house lights flooded the room once again. Two seats down from Becka, he stood up from his seat and shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting. Even with his characteristic scruffy appearance softened by the FBI suit, he loomed uncomfortably large, and Becka raised a hand to her eyes to soften the glare of the electrice light overhead as she tilted her head to look up at him.

Seemingly unaware of his audience, the hunter continued to grumble, "How much more is there of this thing?" He began listing key plot points off on his fingers. "Cinderella's got her man, the baker dude has his baby, the kid stole the goose - everyone's got their happy ending."

"That's the point," Andrew pointed out helpfully, leaning out past Spike to join in the conversation. "The story doesn't end when everyone gets what they want. That's why we have another Act."

A vein thrummed against the skin of Dean's forehead. "Mother of - " The hunter sprang further away from his chair and into the aisle. "I'm going to get a beer. You want anything, Sam?"

The younger Winchester glanced up at his brother. "Nah. I'm good."

"Becka?"

"Also good." Releasing her fiancé's hand, the engineer clambered carefully over Sam's legs. James could take care of himself for ten minutes or so. Especially since Angel was there to keep an eye on Spike. "I'll come with you, though."

As they walked up the gently sloping floor towards the doors at the rear of the theater, the Slayer smoothed the sides of her green dress down against her tights. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage and then began to apologize. "Sorry for making this a surprise," she said softly, following in the hunter's wake as he carved a swathe through the chattering crowd. "Sam's worried, you know."

"He's got a funny way of showing it," Dean grumbled, but he slowed down until they could walk side by side, their elbows knocking against each other every few steps.

"Dean," she started again with more feeling.

"Beck." He stopped her. "When's the wedding?"

Reluctantly accepting defeat, the Slayer shrugged. She slipped her hand around his elbow and held on to the hunter's bicep. It was a weak form of retaliation, but it was the only one she had. "End of summer? I'm not sure. You and Sam should come, though."

They joined the line for concessions. To her surprise, Dean made no move to shrug her off. "Your parents are going to be there," he countered, frowning. "How're you gonna explain two drifters like us?"

Becka grinned. This was a question she had an easy answer for. "Let's put it like this," she drawled, her gray eyes glittering. "My dad still daydreams about those few weeks when your Impala was sitting pretty in our garage. As long as you bring your car, he'll love you."

"Huh." A few seconds passed in silence, and then, "Damn it," groused Dean, when they were two people away from the bar counter. He exhaled, loud, in frustration. "I forgot the flowers in the car."

"You brought Lily flowers?" Becka took her eyes off the drinks menu posted on the wall above the bartender's head to glance at the hunter.

Still scanning through the list of bars on tap, he did not notice her scrutiny. "Isn't that what you do at plays and things?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

Dean looked down at her, and a shadow flickered across his face. "Surprised?" The word was tinged with bitterness.

"No." Embarrassed, Becka shook her head at her own stupid reaction. "I shouldn't be – you and Sam, you're practically family."

The hunter said nothing, but his jaw tensed for a moment, and then he turned his eyes back towards the bar.

Fumbling now, the Slayer tightened her grip on his arm. Firm but not painful - that was the way to go. "There should be time to get the flowers before we all find Lily at the stage door," she said.

"Mmm." Dean moved the last step up to the bar. "Sure you don't want anything? My treat."

"I'm good," replied Becka softly.

As the man ordered his beer, she frowned at the carpet. No matter how many years passed, she had a feeling that she would never truly understand Dean Winchester. There were, perhaps, two people who could ever have made that claim. One of them was the instigator behind tonight's little soiree. And as for the other - well, the other was ashes, floating somewhere in the depths of San Francisco Bay.

11:00 p.m.

"Dean! Sam! Beck! Everyone else!"

Angel watched from the sidelines as the blonde actress tackled first her roommate, then Sam, and finally Dean in a series of breathless, enthusiastic hugs. Now out of her gold ballgown, the Slayer had changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a heavy maroon sweater. Her pale skin was still somewhat orange from the stage makeup, and thick trails of black eyeliner extended out from the sides of her eyes, making her seem a little larger than life. The vampire smiled crookedly to himself. Lily had always been the more dramatic of Faith's girls.

As the actress stepped back from the older Winchester, the man cleared his throat.

"Got these for you," he said, bringing his arm out from around his back to reveal a bouquet of bright red carnations carefully wrapped in a layer of white butcher paper.

Lily rose up onto her tiptoes to press a scarlet kiss to the hunter's cheek. "Thank you." Dropping back onto her heels, she asked, "How'd you like the show?"

"You did good, Lil." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Almost had me liking Cinderella."

Grinning, the actress laughed. "Fantastic! Then my work here is done." She took a step backwards and surveyed the others. "Don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starving. Anybody else feel like Big Al's? They have pie," she added in a wheedling voice, directing this last to Dean.

She was met with a chorus of agreement and a sharp laugh from the man in question.

"Sure," said Dean. "I'll bring the car around."

As the others closed in around Lily, quick to assure her of her brilliance in the show, Angel followed the hunter away down the dark pavement toward the lights of the parking garage. They made it fifty feet past the rest of the group before the hunter spoke, "I know why you're here."

"Mmm," replied the vampire noncommittally. He fell into step beside Dean and casually slid his hands into his pockets. The cold couldn't do much harm to the undead, but that by no means made it pleasant.

Dean waited until they reached the entrance of the garage, and then he asked, "So what was the conclusion?"

"The conclusion?" Angel feigned ignorance.

"Don't play dumb," snapped the man, but it was said with more weariness than anger. In the harsh lights of the stairwell, the lines surrounding his eyes stood out in stark relief. "I know Beck and Lil called you all here to check up on me."

Angel decided not to waste time denying it. "They mean well. The Slayers."

"Yeah." Dean started charging up the concrete steps. "But this wasn't completely their idea, was it? I mean, this little cabal has Sam written all over it."

Rather than fanning the flames by replying, the vampire remained silent. He followed the hunter up to the fourth floor, careful to keep at least three stairs' worth of distance between them at all times.

When they finally reached the fourth landing, Dean glanced over his shoulder and said curtly, "So. What reason exactly did he give you all to get you to fly over here?"

"I think . . ." Angel hesitated, aware of the importance of word choice here. "I think he's worried about you . . . worried about how you're doing, how you're coping."

The hunter sucked his teeth and then tutted his tongue loudly against the roof of his mouth in a sound of derision. "And you? What do you think?"

"I'm not really the person to ask about this kind of thing," answered Angel.

"Oh yeah?" Dean slowed to a halt beside his gleaming black muscle car. "And why's that?"

The vampire looked down at his shoes for a brief moment. "Faith ever tell you about the time when I, uh, spent a couple decades living in alleys, eating rats out of a bad mixture of guilt and self-pity?"

Dean paused with his key in the door of the Impala. "No," he said slowly, regarding Angel with a mixture of confusion and amusement, "she never thought to mention that."

"Not exactly something I'm proud of. So you can see why I'm really not the most qualified to answer Sam's question."

"Huh." The hunter unlocked his car and pulled the door open. Watching the vampire from over the roof of the Chevy, he asked, "You seriously ate rats?"

Angel slid into the shotgun seat. "Mostly drank the blood - but yes."

"For decades?" He turned the key in the ignition.

The vampire buckled his seat belt. "Over twenty years."

Gently easing the Impala out of her parking spot, Dean wondered, "How'd they taste?"

"Actually . . ." Angel thought for a brief moment. "You know, actually not that bad."

February 14, 2016, Cleveland, Ohio, 1:30 a.m.

"Well, that was a fun experience," Sam said under his breath. He nodded towards the cash register where his brother was currently paying for everyone's dinners with a plastered-on smile and a fraudulent credit card.

"I'm sorry if we went overboard," Becka apologized. She watched her fiancé's shoulders slump as he lost a pointless argument with Dean about covering the bill.

"You know us Slayers," added Lily. "We tend to err on the dramatic side."

The hunter shook off their apologies. "It's fine. What . . . what did you think?"

"Honestly?" said Becka with another glance at James and Dean taking mints from beside the cash register and tossing them to Fred and Andrew. "I think he might be fine. Like Angel said, he's functioning okay, isn't he? And he acted completely reasonable tonight."

Lily pitched in, "He even brought me flowers."

"No," the hunter disagreed. "Something's wrong. I'm going to keep looking."

Elbows brushing, the two Slayers exchanged glances heavy with meaning, and then they slowly turned back to Sam. "Be careful," said the blonde firmly.

"I will," Sam swore, and then he moved away from them, walking purposefully towards his older brother, a smile pinned to his face.

Becka and Lily looked at each other once again and sighed in unison, knowing better. No, he really wouldn't.